This spring has been spotty when it comes to riding the motorcycle. A exceptionally warm March, muddy April and a rainy May made getting out an act of magic. Bikerman committed to putting a new carburetor on the 84 Low Ride in hopes of upgrading performance in low gears around town and maxed out speed on highways. The delays always seemed to overlap the best riding weather. Finally, after some shorties here and there to test run the bike and to build up some ride-ready tone, we hit a perfect weekend for Memorial Day 2012. I was peaked for this one and bikerman neglected his full schedule of work to indulge me.
At 7pm, bikerman showed up to get the bike fitted for a longrun, and he meant a Long Run, at least by our standards. Being the Memorial Day weekend, being that his son is in the Army now, we took the flag for a ride. A brand new 3x5 foot, silk striped with embroidered stars, made-in-America beautiful flag.
Next morning was brisk and bright, so we loaded the throw-over saddle bags making the lean looking Low Ride give its best impression of a touring bike. Between the unyielding flag pole and the fully stuffed bags stradling the bike, my pillion seat was a hard reach for my gimpy leg and wobbly balance. Several failed attempts later, he opted to let me mount first. Comical it was for me to slip onto his lower saddle and skinny up to my petite pillion seat. The saddle bags shaped my leg in only one precise angle to the pegs, where each foot would be tightly anchored by the heel of my moto boots. It was a snug fit, but comfortable. With a tap on his shoulder and my 'good to go' nod, he craned his head back so I could kiss his cheek. "Watch out for them cagers...", my good luck blessing as we rolled out the drive onto the traveled lane.
Up south we were headed, over the Notch and the quickest way to I 89 south. the mission one was to head for Baboosic Lake NH and help my folks put their long dock and boats in for the summer season. Making good time on the highway, the bike was running tight with his legs stretched to the hiway pegs as the pipes purred that trade mark Harley rhythm. I don't always have my camera ready for the notable scenes and so I missed the shots for our flag's admirers. The SUV filled with family and fun gleefully waving as they passed us on the lane was amusing as the Mom was hanging out the window. We would exit in Bethel VT and cruise down rte14 into N. Hartford observing the recovery of last year's storm Irene in various stages of progress. Some homes were installing new foundations, others finishing with new siding and windows, while still others were wrapped in no trespassing tape. This badly damaged, river side community was making an impressive come back, but still, the evidence lingered in the massive piles of flood ravaged trees and silt. Firewood for some, I suppose but the caked muck was daunting.
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| brite white smoke from a tank of bad fuel |
Not ten minutes into the ride, the gleaming bike began to cough and sputter a tinney sounding rattle at high revs. He'd back off the throttle and it would purr a ways. With each passing mile marker, the sound would come back, persist longer and get louder. I could hear it all too well with my open-face lid, not so easily for him in his full face helmet. Some 30 minutes later he pulled off of I 89 in NH staggering the steel horse onto a secondary road. The noise would become so piercing, I'd cover my ears as it drowned out the melodic loud pipes of his vintage Harley. When even he could not ignore it, we pulled into a remote general store parking lot. It was hot out, I was hotter. When he tried to shut down the bike, it dieseled, coughed and bellowed thick white smoke. His best guess was that the recent tank of fuel was fouling his bike. Ethanol in our fuels is the norm today; usually there is no real performance issue. But this time it was a very annoying problem, indeed. Ethanol attracts water and if there was any water in the station's underground fuel tank, it would cling to the evil-E; put this diluted petrol in an engine and it would weaken the combustion.We'd have to run it till the tank was ready for a re-fuel. That would take the rest of the day and spoil the beautiful ride through south western NH. While he was nonplussed by the bike's complaining, I was silently frustrated. He had spent a pile of money on his beloved Low Ride this spring; a new larger carburetor, refitting all the seals in the crank case and transmission, all flawlessly engineered by a talented mechanic who restricted his wrenching to vintage Harleys. Until this tank of gas, the bike was running better than ever. Now this lame stretch of miles was cramping our style and giving me a headache. As we finally rolled into my parent's home on Baboosic Lake, he explained why the bike was ailing and he reassured me, new gas at the higher octane would cure the gagging machine and my gloomy spirit. Besides, it was time to park it, visit with family, put in the docs and feast on lobster as we overnighted at this cool and green and shady retreat. All's well that ends well on day one... more to come next post. luv, peace, love ~ ell- "When I can't handle events, I let them handle themselves."
- Henry Ford
