Apparitions

 

 

I sit in front of the Doppler radar sometimes for hours, the green and yellow high-def images burn through my retina and cast shadows on the back of my mind like the burnt and grisly phantoms of Bikini Atoll. I see visions at these times. Once I saw a demon sitting astride matched Land Cruisers puffing loose cigars……The smoke and sulphur curled lazily upward, like the ethereal drift of Dick Cheney’s shotgun muzzle, and breathing heavily but fresh, like pre-wrapped salad.

Can't a Brother get a Break?

Painted the frame "Dark Machine Gray" 'cause I liked the name, fully aware that a black frame would have been the safe bet, 'cause black is beautiful. Mudflap and Sputnik have no complaints, but I think it looks like shit with a black tank. However, with the motor mounted and lock-tighted it ain't coming back out of the frame 'til at least next winter. I'll try painting the tins the same color, and hope for the best. Coming so close to completion and riding season is coming soon........I think.

Blockhead

Coolest Evo ever?

Très

Shiloh's thoughts slip across the sky like a flight of migratory birds in a delivery truck. When spring beckons, with bird calls and the greening banks of babbling brooks, a young girl's fancy soon turns to corn starch and Nyquil 'neath the warmth of satin sheets in the darkened recesses of apartment number three.

For Sale

Nice older off-road bike

One owner (RIP)
Engine's strong, but transmission shot

Beautiful bike, everyone who sees it says, "Holy Crap!"
Gas tank may have slight leak

 

 

 

 

 

Call BR-549

 

 

 

 

Don't Try This at Home

A brief treatise on this wild roller coaster ride we call life. (And why is there a Pringles can mounted on his handlebars?)

The intrepid rider is sized up and strapped in for the long pull upward through the dark tunnel. Nine cogs on each gear click loudly and echo off the blood-moistened walls ‘til he breaks through into the light and is sent plummeting between electrically charged steel rails on decomposing cross ties of dubious character. Time and space collide into a singular, spinning cyclone of swirling colors, like a box of Fruit Loops in a cosmic food processor.

As he nears the bottom, time slows and the cross ties become soggy with moss and wood rot. Needles pierce his liver and spleen and rust creeps into his joints. The steel rail serpents rise up and spray their electric venom, laced with toxic reproof and barbiturates, causing stomach-cramps and blindness. He slumps over the tank and topples to the ground, coming to rest on the dirty carnival floor amongst discarded cotton candy and empty boxes of circus peanuts.

Uniformed officers and stretcher bearers arrive, their skin scraped pink with the jagged lids of pickle jars, to haul him away on a flat bed ambulance. He’s cited for improper eye protection, loud pipes and failure to use turn signals. After a summary trial, he’s sent to the State Mental Hospital where he spends sixty days in a windowless room, lying on a piss-drenched mattress, staring at the claw marks etched into the plaster walls. Wondering where it all went wrong.

I Love the Smell of Kerosene in the Morning

Fourteen lonely little Fahrenheits last night, (-10 Celsius) with a howling wind and snow flurries was brutal proof that the long Midwest winter is upon us. The tiny shoots of spring, with all their short-lived promise, lay brown and shriveled on the cold hard ground of discontent. Summer’s wine is nothing more than a slushy, oozing pool and the delicate songbirds have all fled south in a mad exodus.

But winter has its bright spots. I burnt the dust off the shop heaters and sipped some Jim Beam while mating the 1200 with the nekkid, oxidizing frame, the whiskey and kerosene fumes created a warm internal glow as I cussed and stripped threads under the watchful eyes of Shopcat the Eighth.

Should be able to pick up a rear wheel this week. Need to fab a top motor mount, coil mount and a plate for some switches. I still need handlebars, controls and a headlight. I’m still not sure if I’ll have someone do some flames on the tank, or just rattle can the sheet metal myself.

I have all winter……….

Cluttered

Winter is coming and it's about time to start putting this shit together.

Firetruck?

Don't know what this is, but anything with chains, rust and axes is cool shit.

Let's Roll!

After saving my nickels and dimes, and a thorough exhaustive search, I finally found a unit small enough to be pulled comfortably. A compact and mobile domicile, lightweight and nimble, yet with all the creature comforts to meet my humble needs. Now, when Winter’s gnarled, arthritic fingers throttle me with its long-suffering frigid tedium, I’ve an escape pod. I shall travel to strange and exotic places such as Bowling Green, Memphis and Jacksonville, an itinerant ambassador, spreading Hope, Joy and holding tank effluence all across the Southeastern United States.

And, any skeptics who think my ride inadequately powered for this type of service, I say you are vastly underestimating its capabilities. For it is not a “Weak Glide” or an “Average Glide” or even a “Pretty Damn Good Glide,” it is after all, a SUPER Glide!

Love Beads

I can make sparks and stick metal together, but I’m no welder. My welds, performed with a hardware store wire-feed MIG, is like an old East German hooker. Hairy armpits and ugly, and may need some covering up with Soviet-era pancake makeup, but they get the job done.

The gentleman pictured is an old redneck hippy I’ve known since the days we spent smoking surreptitious joints in the high school parking lot, between mind-numbing indoctrination sessions in the Jerkwater Central Public School System. Here he’s puzzling out some electrical demons plaguing his ‘70 Honda 750 four (never did get it figured out.) He is a rum-drinking eater of fish heads and spends his weekends scraping the scales off of mud carp with the edge of hubcaps and riding quads at a retired meth lab in the scenic southern hills of our great state.

On top of all these accomplishments, he’s also a fine welder of titanium bicycle frames and top secret government aircraft parts. I finally got all the pieces tacked on to the river rat rigid and brought it to this wild man for some proper, tender loving TIG beads.

Hats Off to this Guy

Not so much to the trusting fellows 'neath his flying scoot.

Studs

Ice racing!


You have to hand it to a bunch of guys who race each other around frozen ponds with no brakes and angry stump grinders two inches under their seats.

BMXXX

Friends don't let friends build drunk.

But, maybe they should.

The Rags to Riches Adventures of Shaniqua of the Kalahari

Shaniqua grew up in a tiny village on the edge of the vast Kalahari desert. Life was primitive, yet simple. She spent her days gathering roots and pounding them into a starchy pulp which was then baked and served as a nutritious bread-like cake. Beetles and goat milk supplemented the diet of her simple nomadic family who faced little adversity beyond the harsh climate and an occasional squabble with neighboring tribesmen.

Shaniqua was unsatisfied however. She had heard whispers of a place far away where gleaming structures of steel and glass housed people who were whisked around in air-conditioned cars. The inhabitants of this mystical place spent their days counting their vast wealth and sucking the pimentos out of manzanilla olives.

Longing to acquire a ticket out of the African plains, Shaniqua soon found herself involved in the only profitable endeavor available on the Kalahari. To satisfy the hunger of millions of impotent Chinese men she was soon immersed in the lucrative trade of illegal rhinoceros horn. She was a midnight poacher who could down a rhino with poison darts fashioned from the bones of dehydrated hyenas, hack off the valuable horn while the unfortunate beast was in its death throes, and still make it back to the village in time for morning coffee.

With the proceeds from her nefarious activities Shaniqua was soon able to secure the means of her deliverance from a traveling Bedouin spice trader in the form of a fine Royal Enfield scrambler.

So, as father and little brother are left holding the family camel and wishing her a tearful adieu, Shaniqua motors off to a world where people spend their days in meaningless repetition. Walking in hard concrete circles with their heads bowed down to tiny lighted screens and totalitarian governments, gathering dog shit in Ziploc bags. A brand new life of strip malls, deadlines, reality TV, traffic jams, fast food and corn gluten.

Hope she finds something to cover her ample bosoms before she gets to Nairobi, the nights can be long and cold.

Color Me Green

As a former Military Policeman, I salute my brother soldier from a bygone era. When I served in the seventies, we were told we were all one color....GREEN!
As one can plainly see by the picture below I was a handsome, dashing, un-colored young soldier willing to defend my country from the forces of evil. I was the worst MP ever, the only guy I ever arrested was a drunk who jumped me while I was on gate duty. As my tour was drawing to a close, stationed in Louisiana and riding my Kawi around post with reckless abandon, my superiors tried to get me to re-enlist with the promise of Motorcycle Duty.
I was wise to them though. Yeah, there was a sweet old Panhead dripping oil in the motor pool, but "Motorcycle Duty" consisted of riding the Bike about two miles, parking it, and performing traffic control during the rush hours, then riding it back and parking it. When my tour was up I jumped on my Kaw and headed for California.

By the way, top speed on that Jeep was 45 mph. Not a real good pursuit vehicle.

Snatched Pebbles and Pulled Groins

In my younger days I could cradle a V-twin between my arms and place it inside a frame as a Shaolin Priest burns dragons and tigers into the flesh of his forearms in a ritual act of Kung Fu manhood.

But now, old enough to remember the bare-footed Chinaman who finally tamed the Wild West in the mid Seventies with vicious strikes and whirling leg sweeps, a bag of herbs and a wooden flute, my strength has diminished slightly. I now use a series of cables, pulleys and an old boat winch to hoist the V-twin into the much-maligned frame.

Looks like things should bolt-up pretty well.

The fact that a man, so filled with transcendental self-awareness and inner peace, should be found dead in a Motel 6 laundry room under a pile of dirty towels and pillow cases from autoerotic self -asphyxiation, causes Master Po and The Buddha to openly weep.

Framed

Soon I'll be bolting up the 1200 cc boat anchor to position the kickstand. The Kraft Tech frame is OK but all constructed with 1 1/4 inch tubing which makes it strong but heavy. Worse still, things like seat brackets to spring mounts won't fit, making for a lot of grinding. The fender brackets had to be cut down and repositioned. Mostly though I just drink beer and look at it, into the wee hours of my weekend evenings, while visions of clubmans and flat red rattle can tins dance in my drug-addled head. The frame is taking on a lovely burgundy hue and wouldn't it be a shame to powder coat over such beautiful, organic oxidation? I sprung for a PM rear caliper. Too much money and way too shiny, but looks pretty cool.

I also contemplate telling some customers to go to hell, and taking off on the Intergalactic Wart Hog to parts unknown.

Fifth Time's a Charm

Finally got some fender struts bent the way I wanted. I had an idea in mind, but the finished product never quite looked right to me. First attempts were with 1/2' stock, but it looked too heavy. 3/8 stock seemed to have the right "feel." I eventually got one to house a Biltwell tail light without looking too awkward.

At top is a picture in futility. The four scrapped attempts lined up like errant schoolboys awaiting expulsion.

This thing is scheduled for completion in 2024........maybe.

More Moto GP stuff.

One of the cool things about the GP is that all the infield of the track is occupied by tents and booths. All the major motorcycle manufacturers had tents. Got to see some new bikes which will come out in the fall.




An awesome retro Honda. air cooled 1100 four.




Ducati Supermotard. A friend of mine rides one.I want one of these so bad.




Sacrilege.

An electric race bike. Didn't see them run, but they look pretty cool.





Saw this in the Honda tent. It's a 250 and the MSRP is $4999.00 Pretty cool little bike for less than 5K.



Brucie fell hopelessly in love with this Yamaha Tenere. If he wasn't so cheap and was about eight inches taller, he'd have bought it.
With the Warn winch mounted on its tail this bike can pull school buses out of muddy ditches.