Finally. The cap openeth and the stench of vaporized gas wafted forth. I, however, can't take credit for completing this puzzle. I attempted every chemical solution that I safely know how to perform in order to coax the lock into releasing. I called the local locksmith and he refused to examine the lock as soon as I informed him that it was a part of a motorcycle gas cap. In the end, I dropped the bike at the local dealership who called the locksmith who picked the tumblers of the stuck lock and exclaimed, "Who squirted all this stuff in here?"
Wednesday, July 8, 2009
My last alchemical attempt to free the lock on the Ninja's gas cap has not been successful. An old friend suggested that I douse the lock with PB Blaster in the hope that the powerful solvent would allow the lock to be broken free. Even following repeated application and time to soak, the lock would not budge.
I'll have to remove the lock, possibly by drilling it, and force the teeth holding the cap to the tank to retract. This will destroy the cap which will require replacement, a scenario that I'd hoped to avoid due to the expense of purchasing a new assembly. Once again, I'll be consulting an old hand prior to any major surgical procedures.
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
Yesterday marked the four-year anniversary of my motorcycle crash. The accident changed my life in some very fundamental ways, such as how well I can walk, but the incident also pushed me to examine my attitude regarding motorcycling and the type of riding in which I truly wanted to engage. Read the full tale here. When my Harley was destroyed, it opened the door to new dimensions of motorcycling I'd previously not considered. Those interests evolved into sport-touring and renewed participation in motorcycle camping.
Over the past few days, however, I found myself reflecting back on my old American V-twin. I realized that I miss that troublesome machine, which has probably attributed to my browsing the local HD dealership and gazing longingly at the curves of all those chromed horses. Sometimes I close my eyes and still hear the lope of that 1200 engine, a stumbling gait at low idle, a steady roar at 2500 rpm through 3/4 inch drag pipes. The affinity between rider and motorcycle approaches the spiritual. Ride any machine long enough and it makes a mark upon the rider that passes through the flesh, tattooing the soul. Long after that machine passes out of the rider's life, the memory of it calls back to him across time, like a name shouted in the wind.