From ibmwrNoSpam@NoSpamworld.std.com Thu Jun 19 17:50:28 1997 Date: Thu, 19 Jun 1997 16:11:18 -0400 From: Flash - DoD #412 To: bmwmcNoSpam@NoSpamworld.std.com Subject: BMW: Dad Day Ride (part 1 of 2) Reply-To: Flash - DoD #412 Dad's Day Weekend (or Why I Am So Sore) by David Braun copyright 1997 This past weekend was rather busy for me. On Thursday, when I went to ride home from work, my '81 R80G/S was making a loud, nasty noise. My other '81 R80G/S is awaiting its 80,000 mile checkup, has a leaky rear main seal, and just generally isn't running very well. So, I rode the nasty-sounding one to work again on Friday. I figured it might be the cam chain, but didn't really sound like a cam chain sort of noise. I had to go by the BMW dealer to pickup a rear main seal for the other bike anyway, so I allowed as how they could give it a listen and let me know what THEY thought about it. Turns out that the rear main seal was on backorder, due in Tuesday. And their "practiced ears" said, with a smirk, "Cam chain... and by the sound of it you'll need sprockets, too." Based on my years of experience and 129,000 miles on my R80G/S's, I figured they were probably wrong about the sprockets, since the thing started making the noise all of a sudden, not gradually. Some of my fellow Denizens of Doom had scheduled a "Red Eye Ride" for 05:dark on Sunday morning and I wanted to ride this bike on that ride. When I arrived home, I spun spanners spasmodically until the cam chain itself was bare to the world. And lo and behold... there was nothing wrong with it. The tensioner was a little tired, so I decided to replace that. But spinning the motor with the nekkid chain all hanging out proved that the source of the sound was from further back. I popped out the rubber timing plug and stuck a two foot piece of rubber hose in there. With the open end in my ear, I spun the motor to the great realization that HERE was the problem. Although... since all systems operated correctly, I had no idea what the problem actually was, only where it was. Again I disappeared in a cartoon-like flurry of flying wrenches. THIS time, however, when I had the transmission out and laying on the floor, I could wiggle the flywheel and see/hear what was making the racket. Within moments, I had the offending part out and examined it in the light. There is a big ring gear riveted to a central spider. The clutch bolts to the central spider and all the ring does is give the gear on the starter something to spin. The rivets had gotten tired after only 49,000 miles and were letting the ring gear slop around and rattle against the inside of what would be the bell housing if this was a car, which it ain't. It was getting toward late, so I called it a night at 9:00 PM. Bright and early, fueled by cappuccino, I removed the flywheel from a spare engine sitting in my garage. While searching my boxes of b.s. for some special tool or another, I came across a new rear main seal, which I figured I ought to install since the old one was leaking a little bit anyhow. That part of the job got stymied because there is an o-ring that is supposed to keep the crank from leaking oil through the flywheel-bolt holes. Said o-ring was damaged. As the BMW shop doesn't open until 10, I set about putting the front of the motor back together. I replaced the cam chain tensioner and put the timing chest back on. When I was futzing around with the alternator, I noticed that one of the brushes was not too long for this world and decided to replace it with a used spare I had. Unfortunately, my soldering iron does not get hot enough to do that job, so I put that off 'til later, too. By then it was heading toward ten A.M. and we had a 10:30 departure time to get to Denver to see an IMAX on Special Effects. I washed up and skeedaddled to the Fort Collins (CO) BMW/Ducati dealer. (Who, incidentally, has picked up Moto Guzzi as well. This guy has his priorities right.) Ron Miller's Unimog was in the parking lot. But I didn't see Ron. I bought the o-ring and paid the man his SIX DOLLARS and hustled home, arriving at 10:32. "Bigfoot" (our Montero which earned its name when Princess Bud Thang used it to crush a Ford Escort) was gone. PBT had taken it for gas. She pulled up about five minutes later and we all hustled in. I suddenly realized that I didn't know how to get to where we were going. We were going to the IMAX and then to the mall. We usually do the opposite. Since this mission was becoming time-critical, I thought it expedient to procure a map before we left. I ran back into the house and while turning the corner in the kitchen, my shoe hit one of the water spots I had sprinkled on the floor from when I washed my hands moments before. I believe that I attained a full horizontal attitude at an altitude well above my nominal waist level. My momentum carried me into the kitchen table which absorbed some of the energy and I crashed to the floor on my right side. Aw shit. Taking stock, I decided that even though my wrist, elbow, hip, and shin were all letting me know they existed, nothing was bent or broken enough to consider anything other than jumping up and retrieving the map from the garage and returning to the truck. We made it to the IMAX theater seventy miles away and were seated a solid three minutes before the lights dimmed. After the show, we went to the mall. Princess Bud Thang and Mary did their thing while Elvis Bud, Jr. and I did ours. An hour and a half later, we met, made our way to the truck, and left for home. As we approached Fort Fun, it was apparent that the crappy weather as of late would continue. Two exits before ours, we hit the rain. Arriving home, it was still raining. Although, it WAS beginning to let up. Figuring that I can't really install the flywheel in my crowded garage (five running motorcycles, a sidecar, one parts bike, and two big piles of boxes of books) and I can't install the flywheel outside in the rain, I elected to jump in the truck and go to work with the alternators. The BIG soldering iron at work did the job of swapping brushes quite handily. When I arrived back at the ranch, the sun was out and the concrete drive was already dry. It was five o'clock and Princess Bud Thang had cooked us up a big pot of spaghetti. Yum yumm... At 5:05 I hit the garage again. At 8:00 as the Sun was dropping below the foothills, turning those mountains all purple and majestic, I started her up and rode to get some gas. Then I swung by Jeff Deeney's house a half mile away and the meeting point for our ride in the morning and let him know that all systems were GO. The alarm rudely awakened me at 4:20. I showered and then dressed in several layers to prepare for the unknown conditions above 12,000 feet. You just never know up there. After sucking down some espresso and preparing a thermos of cappuccino for Princess Bud Thang so that she would not awaken coffee-less, I exited the house. Short-shifting the bike, I made my way to Deeney's. A moment after I arrived, Victor showed up on his Honda VT650 Hawk. While Jeff wrestled his Yamaha XT600 out of the garage, Victor and I discussed the weather "up there." At that point, I realized that I'd left a pack in my garage containing my sweater. I zipped home, retrieved it, and was still back at Jeff's before Chris MacBeth showed up on his BMW K100. Despite his dirt-riding-injured leg, Jeff managed to kickstart his bike and we were off. At some point, about halfway up the vacant Big Thompson Canyon, I thought to myself, "THIS is motorcycle heaven." Thirty-five miles or so later we stopped on the roadside as we entered Estes Park, above 10,000' to don some extra clothing, change gloves and that sort of thing. Jeff had been lagging a bit and caught up with us there. He said before we started that the fact he had blown out his knee in Moab a few weeks back meant he would be taking it easy. He led us to the Fall River Entrance of Rocky Mountain National Park. As it was well before anyone's idea of a reasonable hour, the entrance station was unpersoned and we skipped on through without the necessity of coughing up the six bucks (or whatever they raised it to this year) each. Jeff continued to lead through the first set of switchbacks. Suddenly he slowed. From my position at the back of the pack, I finally realized that he was herding a few elk up the road on his Yamaha XT "Elkherder" 600. Shortly after that he pulled over and Chris went into the lead. The pace picked up. As we approached the high, clear, portion of Trail Ridge Road, the highest through-road on the North American continent, we came up behind some "traffic" whom we normally would have dispatched without a backward glance. Except this time, the car was a truck sporting a gumball machine on top... it was a park ranger. He was doing 40 in the posted 30, so we dutifully fell in behind him. Jeff soon reappeared in my mirror. At the first set of rest facilities, the ranger stopped and we did not. A mile or so later, we rounded a bend and Chris slowed considerably. I could not see what was going on until Chris and Victor vectored about and then I realized that there was a ten yard long sheet of ice on the road. Making matters worse, the position and the angle of the sun put a bad glare right in our eyes. We crossed it without incident, however. The restaurant/gift shoppe parking lot at the 12,210' summit was empty and we cruised on by without so much as slowing down. On the downhill side, the places where melt water had run across the road yesterday and frozen last night became more frequent. In one particularly long section, the ice from last night was covered with a film of water from this morning. Chris crossed without any problem. Victor crossed without any difficulty. I started across the water-covered ice field realizing too late that I had forgotten to pull in the clutch. The trick to crossing ice on a motorcycle is not to change ANYTHING. Unfortunately, my rear wheel began to slow down on the trailing throttle. As it slowed, it broke traction. I put my feet down. The whole thing happened in slow motion in real time. The time-dilation phenomenon common at motorcycle incidents had no need to present itself. The back end of the bike went slowly to the left. I attempted to correct, hoping against hope that we would make it to dry land in some sort of shape to recover properly. Of course I over-corrected, swinging the back end of the bike back around to the right... too far, WAY too far. So far that we got almost completely sideways before I could no longer hold the bike off the ground. Down we went on the left side. As we continued our pirouette, the bike was uphill of me and we continued our glacial slide down the road. As the road had some crown to it, we also had an edge-directed vector to our motion. Trail Ridge Road, near the summit, lacks guardrails, walls, and in fact, any "protection" at all. The drop is not sheer, but it is rather steep. Sliding slowly along on my back, head first, with my feet in the air, I thought to myself, "Well, I can feel my spine protector protecting my spine, or more realistically, I can feel the plastic sliding across the bumps in the ice through the Goretex of my Aerostich riding suit. Uh oh... we don't seem to be slowing down much. I wonder if we will run out of ice before we run out of edge or vice versa. I wonder if we have enough speed to tumble if we hit the edge..." And then we were finished sliding. BMW R-bikes have these cylinders sticking out on each side. As such, they have two possible equilibrium positions which can be occupied when they come to rest on their sides. One position has the jug on the ground along with the two tires. The other position is much uglier, and that is the one my bike was in, with the handlebar and luggage rack on the ground along with the jug. Aw shit. I struggled to my feet on the slick surface after the slant-board sit-up necessitated by the fact that my head was downhill of the rest of my body. I grabbed the grab rail used for putting the bike on its centerstand in better times and the handlebar and tried to lever it back to the "better" of the two "on its side" positions. In my helmet, to myself, I was quietly shouting to the bike, "Get up. Get UP!" Chris appeared and gave me a hand. As soon as its "feet" were back on the ground, I spun it on its jug so it was facing across the road. Chris remarked that this was a nice feature. Then the two of us levered her back on her feet. I have no clear recollection of traversing the last three or four feet of the wet ice. As soon as we were back on dry pavement, I put her on her centerstand and took a look. The left-hand mirror was all turned around, but not broken. I don't tighten my mirrors very tightly for just this reason; the same as I don't torque the control bosses down on the bars. Other than that, it didn't look to have any other damage. We continued on. I didn't get very far before the mirror rotated around again. I pulled over. When Jeff stopped, I pointed to the floppy mirror and waved him on, saying, "Go ahead, I'll catch up." A minute or two later, I had given the nut a quarter turn, replaced the 13mm wrench in my tool kit under the seat and was on my way. A mile or three down the road, the others had pulled over at a rest facility. We utilized the opportunity to carve "DoD" in the wall of snow several feet over our heads and snap a photo. I took off first from this brief stop and was hell bent for breakfast. We wound our way down and out of the park and across twenty-five miles or so of "greater" Grand Lake and up to the Wagon Wheel Restaurant at the intersection of US Highways 34 and 40. When I pulled off my BMW System I helmet in the parking lot, half my faceshield was hanging off from an errant screw. We decided that this repair would best be effected over breakfast and went inside. It turned out that the nut which retains the stud to which the face shield mounts had come loose. My observation, "THERE'S the problem... there is a nut loose in my helmet!" was met with gales of laughter. I believe it was Victor who filed the comment, "Are you suggesting that this is a NEW state of affairs?" Geez, after almost ten years I really WAS going to HAVE to replace my helmet. Jeff offered me the use of duct tape. And when I declined, he said, "It isn't REALLY a repair unless you use duct tape." I fixed it before breakfast was served using my SOG pliers and a butter knife. [TO BE CONTINUED... SEE PART 2] Check out my web page for motorcycle adventure Tales... =========================================================================== "A radar detector is a tax loophole that you have to buy." - D. Fry David A. Braun - FlashNoSpam@NoSpamDeathStar.org - DoD # 412 www.deathstar.org/~flash Bike Manuscript Works, LLC, Ft. Collins, CO 80527-1643 =========================================================================== From ibmwrNoSpam@NoSpamworld.std.com Fri Jun 20 01:52:11 1997 Date: Thu, 19 Jun 1997 16:13:01 -0400 From: Flash - DoD #412 To: bmwmcNoSpam@NoSpamworld.std.com Subject: BMW: Dad Day Ride (part 2 of 2) Reply-To: Flash - DoD #412 Dad's Day Weekend (or Why I Am So Sore) by David Braun copyright 1997 [THIS IS PART 2 OF 2] We discussed my slow motion get-off. This reminded me to deliver a copy of my book to Chris, which he had requested several weeks earlier, along with the comment that I might have sat on it a bit. Deeney joked that "Flash fell down and when Chris went over to help him up, he asked him if he wanted to buy a copy of _Gathering Speed_." You can't beat the $3.95 breakfast special at the Wagon Wheel... two eggs, toast, hash browns, bacon AND sausage. Over breakfast we discussed The Plan for the continuation of our ride. After Willow Creek Pass, Victor and Chris would take the highway to Gould, get gas, and meet up with Jeff and I in Gould where the dirt road comes out. Jeff and I, on our dual purpose bikes, would take a dirt shortcut over Calamity Pass and through the ghost town of Teller City. Jeff told me that he had taken his minivan over Calamity Pass last summer, so the street tire on the rear of my bike shouldn't be a problem. As usual, Willow Creek (on US125) was a high-speed paradise with its hundred mile an hour sweepers. Toward the bottom of the Pacific Watershed, Jeff and I turned off the pavement. The sign just up the dirt road a bit indicated that Gould was about twenty miles away with Teller City just about in the middle. Jeff's an accomplished dirt rider and I'm a dirt donk. He led. I followed. For some reason the lyrics of an old C.W. McCall song sprang to mind, something about "spewing pine cones, rocks and boulders." I backed off a bit. We found Teller City right where its former inhabitants had left it. It's not like ghost towns you see in the movies. For one thing, it is in a pine forest. For another, it was all log cabins, not those western-style store-fronts with the big facades like in a Clint Eastwood cowboy flick. Most of the log cabins have two standing walls and two tumbled down ones. We peered down into the stone-line well. They don't make 'em like that anymore. Leaving Teller City brought some more challenging road surfaces. Jeff wicked it up a notch and I was doing a pretty good job keeping up when suddenly I ran over a baseball sized rock with my front tire in a rather rough section. As I tried to save the front end, the rear end dropped into a small gully and over we went, again on the left side. The bike was on top of me, requiring me to use my free right foot to push against the bike to free my trapped left leg. Once free, I took about a quarter second to take stock of my physical condition... no harm done. On this full-traction surface, it was simple to right the bike and remount. I accelerated up the hill and noticed two things... the mirror was repeating it's flopping dance and my radar detector mount had done a half-dismount. Aw shit. Again. A short while later I caught up to Jeff who had just turned around to come back looking for me. I gave him a thumbs-up sign and he continued toward Gould. At a cattle gate, he stopped and I told him that I had to re-tighten my mirror again and could I borrow some of that duct tape he mentioned earlier for my radar detector mount. While I was fixing these items, Jeff said he had almost come back after me and asked, "Did you have trouble with that uphill section." I replied, "YES!" And we let it go at that. The rest of the ride to the highway in Gould was uneventful. At the highway, I realized that we had not come out where I thought we would (at the Gould-to-Rand cutoff). Jeff said that Victor said that he knew where the road came out. I figured there was likely a miscommunication going on. Since Jeff was likely to be short on gas and we were presently on the Fort Collins side of Gould, I said I'd go down and check to see if Chris and Victor were at the other road. Four miles west, there they were, where I thought they might be. I pulled up, turned around, pointed back up the road the way I had come and took off. They followed. Slowing as I approached where Jeff was waiting, I observed that he was starting his bike. So, I slipped on by, figuring Victor or Chris would verify that Jeff was with us. Ted's Place is sixty-two miles from Cameron Pass which is about fifteen or so miles from Gould. I had waved Victor and Chris past me on the uphill side, Ten or fifteen miles on the downhill side of the pass, I began to wonder if Jeff had gotten started all right. I slowed. I rode along slowly for a few miles. Finally, I stopped and turned around to go back. Within a mile or so, there he was. I turned and continued on down Poudre Canyon, one of only twenty-five scenic highways on the federal list. Sometime later, I saw a BMW coming up the canyon. It was an R100GS and by the safety vest appeared in my moment's glance to be Ron Miller. I waved. He waved back even though he had no idea who I was. By now, it was well after ten a.m. and the canyon was beginning to be a challenge due to traffic. "Canyon Corks" or Rutabega wagons provided us rolling roadblocks to overcome. Jeff faded in my mirrors and Chris and Victor were no where in sight. I was having a grand old time. About twenty miles from Ted's Place at the base of the canyon, I spied Victor and Chris waiting on the shoulder. As I pulled in, Victor pulled out. I took off after him, checking my mirror to see Chris still waiting on the shoulder. Victor and I ride well together. We generally think alike concerning passing opportunities. The power and delivery of his eight year old 650 v-twin Hawk with Two Brother's mods is roughly comparable to my sixteen year old 800cc pushrod twin. I am jealous of his rear tire which is fatter than my head. But I do a good job of keeping up on my skinny 4.25x18. This day, we got stuck behind a Goldwing dragging a trailer behind two more Goldwings behind a truck and a car. It was ten miles before we got around them. Finally we were again free. Victor put the spurs to his horse and we cruised the last few miles of the canyon at a spirited pace. Very near the bottom, a mile or so before the cattle gate, Victor executed a perfectly legal pass on a van. Due to my distance, I had the opportunity to watch the driver of the van's reaction... a good three-count later, he swerved all over the road. Some folks just don't understand the necessity of paying attention while driving. At Ted's Place, the Conoco station at the foot of Poudre Canyon, while I was gassing up, Chris pulled up. He reported that Jeff likely got stuck in some traffic. A few minutes later, Jeff pulled up along with Ron Miller. We had a short palaver and then I left for home. Into the garage before 11:30, 250 miles in six and a half hours. Not a bad morning ride. Looking over the bike, I noticed that there was a BB-sized hole in the glass of the headlight. Some clear packing tape took care of that. But the main seal replacement and unbutton/rebutton of the timing chest both seemed to holding oil just fine. (The rest of the day was spent opening Dad's Day goodies, shooting rockets, seeing a play, and eating lasagne and brownies.) As my Dilbert calendar says for Sunday, June 15th, 1997: "There's some gusto out there with our names on it." Check out my web page for motorcycle adventure Tales... =========================================================================== "A radar detector is a tax loophole that you have to buy." - D. Fry David A. Braun - FlashNoSpam@NoSpamDeathStar.org - DoD # 412 www.deathstar.org/~flash Bike Manuscript Works, LLC, Ft. Collins, CO 80527-1643 ===========================================================================