Too bad it's not as easy to delete Trump as it is to delete your Facebook page.
Monday, March 26, 2018
From the summer of 2017... there is much more to this story coming soon.
There remain the great questions of life: From where does consciousness come? Are we merely an illusion, the product of our own imagination? Is there but one reality? And how do we know... KNOW that our thoughts are congruent and one with that which is real?
Yet there was another question I pondered last week. An even greater question that has disturbed me in my days of aloneness. It first occurred to me several weeks ago in the garage... as I studied the pattern of oil droplets that have accumulated beneath the '98 Pathfinder.
There remain the great questions of life: From where does consciousness come? Are we merely an illusion, the product of our own imagination? Is there but one reality? And how do we know... KNOW that our thoughts are congruent and one with that which is real?
Yet there was another question I pondered last week. An even greater question that has disturbed me in my days of aloneness. It first occurred to me several weeks ago in the garage... as I studied the pattern of oil droplets that have accumulated beneath the '98 Pathfinder.
And so... after studying the flight of arrows, after laying my palm on
the shoulder blade of a goat, after the counsel of my Shaman, I
approached this great question with humble sincerity, avoiding not the
pain in my wallet---
Should I replace the front main bearing and camshaft seals myself, or should I take it to the mechanic? After days of fasting and partaking of the pipe (and a bottle of Vodka) the Universe provided unto me the clarity of the path forward: "David... you must go forth with your Craftsman tools, believe in yourself and your inner strength... take consult with the Youtube videos. Tear the front of that 6 cylinder engine apart, lay bare for all to see the leaking seals and the frayed timing belt. Yes David... do it yourself."
And so I answered the calling. I gave my blood and the skin of my knuckles and pronounced out loud the many phrases that begin with "F" (see footnote), and I bore witness to the neighborhood by means of my suffering and bleeding scratches that I--at last--I had no fear of this stinking pile of shit in my garage, nor the oil droplets spewing forth from its bowels.
Ah, but when does bravery become humiliation? Where in the spectrum of light turning to darkness does one give in and give up? Where in the curvature of time does one say: "I am defeated..." and when does one understand the videos on Youtube make it look easy... because, as one slowly realizes, one's own Pathfinder has air-conditioning and the one in the video does not?
The final blow: "This job should take only about 5 to 7 hours." Yeah. I read that somewhere on the sixth day. But there was nothing left to lose. I carried on, putting the parts back on, then taking them off because there were other parts that had to go on first. One thing I have over all those Youtube videos... they disassembled and reassembled but once. I did it three or four times.
And now, all is well. I am at peace with the Pathfinder, and I have a bond with my Craftsman tools that no torque-wrench could break. I love the Universe again, though I know it has not stopped laughing at my stupidity.
Footnote: Phrases I used that start with F:
"Filthy Pig"
"Flippin' piece of fecal matter"
"Fizzled piece of flank steak"
"Fowl smelling hunk of funk"
"Flying flunkout"
"Fixed fang rattlesnake"
Should I replace the front main bearing and camshaft seals myself, or should I take it to the mechanic? After days of fasting and partaking of the pipe (and a bottle of Vodka) the Universe provided unto me the clarity of the path forward: "David... you must go forth with your Craftsman tools, believe in yourself and your inner strength... take consult with the Youtube videos. Tear the front of that 6 cylinder engine apart, lay bare for all to see the leaking seals and the frayed timing belt. Yes David... do it yourself."
And so I answered the calling. I gave my blood and the skin of my knuckles and pronounced out loud the many phrases that begin with "F" (see footnote), and I bore witness to the neighborhood by means of my suffering and bleeding scratches that I--at last--I had no fear of this stinking pile of shit in my garage, nor the oil droplets spewing forth from its bowels.
Ah, but when does bravery become humiliation? Where in the spectrum of light turning to darkness does one give in and give up? Where in the curvature of time does one say: "I am defeated..." and when does one understand the videos on Youtube make it look easy... because, as one slowly realizes, one's own Pathfinder has air-conditioning and the one in the video does not?
The final blow: "This job should take only about 5 to 7 hours." Yeah. I read that somewhere on the sixth day. But there was nothing left to lose. I carried on, putting the parts back on, then taking them off because there were other parts that had to go on first. One thing I have over all those Youtube videos... they disassembled and reassembled but once. I did it three or four times.
And now, all is well. I am at peace with the Pathfinder, and I have a bond with my Craftsman tools that no torque-wrench could break. I love the Universe again, though I know it has not stopped laughing at my stupidity.
Footnote: Phrases I used that start with F:
"Filthy Pig"
"Flippin' piece of fecal matter"
"Fizzled piece of flank steak"
"Fowl smelling hunk of funk"
"Flying flunkout"
"Fixed fang rattlesnake"
How I Spent My Summer
CHAPTER 1
I have many "little" projects to complete since retiring. I'm still working on #1 which I originally thought might take me a few hours, maybe a day at the most--get my motorcycle running after sitting idle for 3 years so I can sell it.
Yep, going on week 3 and it's still not done. 3 weeks ago, I thought maybe I would just need to put some fuel additive in the tank and take it for a ride to clean out the cob webs. That didn't work. After nearly an hour of trying to start it, I got it to run, but it was back-firing, actually blowing flames out the tail pipe, and it seemed to only be running on 3 of the 4 cylinders. Pharck. I couldn't get it to shift into first gear or even into neutral. "Change the oil and filter..." one web site said. Check.
With brand new synthetic oil and new filter, I got it into first gear and took it for a ride through the neighborhood, banging and back-firing, still blowing flames out the tail pipe, past the park where everyone stopped what they were doing to turn around and stare at me as I rode past them with the 4th of July shooting out the exhaust pipe. I could not ride it without the choke in the half-way position, and I had to rev it to about 5,000 rpms just to make it through a stop sign. As I limped home and rolled into the garage, I noticed number one exhaust pipe was glowing red. RED.
Maybe new plugs and wires would do it.
The guy at the dealer told me it's rare that a bike like mine needed new plugs, let alone new wires even after 70,000 miles, mine only has 15,000. But since I spent a half day getting the old plugs out, I might as well put new ones in. He told me more than likely I needed a good carburetor cleaning. Dear lord, please, not that! When it was still new in 2003, I put a custom carburetor "jet kit" in it to allow the 1000 cc engine to run at top performance. It took me two days to get the damned carburetor out, and modify it with new fuel jets, new needle valves and to surgically drill out the bypass holes with a jeweler's drill bit and hand vise.
OK, I thought... I have nothing but time on my hands. So I spent a half day disconnecting the hoses, accelerator-decelerator and choke cables, and after more green adjectives than I have ever put together in the same sentence, I got got the stupid thing out. Bought the large can of carb cleaner, sprayed the crap out of all 4 barrels of the carb, trying to focus on each of the 5 or 6 little tiny holes per barrel. That ought to do it methinks. Another half day putting the thing back together, running the brand new battery dead and recharging it, I got it to start again. Still noisy, "oh well" I thought... at least I am getting even with the neighbors for keeping me up all night on the 4th of July and sending my poor dog into PTSD again with their sky mortars. Took it for another ride, turning heads as I approached anyone from 1/4 mile away--I could see the fear in their eyes as I rolled past them at 25 mph with the engine revved to 5,000 rpm. Double pharck.
After pouting about my lack of success for another two days, I decide to take out the carburetor again and just clean the crap out of it! I bought another LARGE can of carb cleaner and set out to work. This time I completely disassembled the thing. I neatly laid out all the 60 or so teeny-tiny parts including O-rings that nearly require a microscope to see on a large towel and spent another day poking hair-sized wires through every jet and orifice I could find, blowing carb cleaner through them one by one, holding them up to the sky to see if I could see light. I was so careful and thorough this time, I really felt like I was doing a surgical procedure, keeping everything clean and sterile. And there were several little holes that were clogged. It felt really good being so meticulous... couldn't wait until the next morning to put it all back together and fire it up again. I just knew it would run so smooth it would be like the day I bought it... only better.
I got started early, more cussing, more little hoses and clamps, and the damned throttle cables... what a nightmare. But it was finally all put back together and I wanted to fire it up. Turned the key on, put it in neutral, pressed the start button and let it turn over for about 5 seconds. Nothing.
Holy shit.
OMG.
NO NO NO...!!!
There was one little part I didn't put back on before I hit the start button. It was the automatic chain tensioner that keeps the cam chain tight to prevent the chain from skipping a tooth or two on the cam sprockets. STOP! I rushed to re-install the chain tensioner... maybe nothing bad happened and it will turn over and start. Nope. I tried for a couple of hours trying to start it, finally jumping the battery from my car to keep the new bike battery from going dead. Back to the Internet and Youtube for more information. I found this:
"Whatever you do, do NOT crank the engine over without the chain tensioner in place. Do NOT. I found out the hard way" said one guy on the forum. Similar comments on all the other Websites that discussed engine rebuilds for my bike. I finally found a couple of sites that talked about how to re-install the cam shafts (two of them) that controlled the opening and closing of the 5 valves per cylinder... twenty valves in all. They all have to line up perfectly... fortunately there are timing marks on the cam shafts and the drive chain sprocket to make sure everything lines up perfectly. Unfortunately, you have to take off the top of the engine valve cover to get to them.
Last night I removed the cover. Before I could do that, I had to drain the oil and radiator fluid, which means I'm going to spend another $100 or so just for new fluids. I'm about to spend the rest of today fighting the positioning of those cams, the sprockets and the chain that drives them, and making sure everything lines up perfectly with the number 1 cylinder at top-dead-center on the compression stroke.
I'm not asking anyone to pray for me. Maybe after spending more money, tracking down new gaskets so I can put the thing all back together--and afterward finding out it still won't start. Maybe then I will ask. I'm now going into my 4th week of retirement, still working on #1 project which wasn't supposed to take more than a few hours.
My wife tells me when I get it running well enough to sell it, then I can start on the little 50 cc Vespa which hasn't turned over since the last millennium did.
Why am I writing all this bad news down? Therapy. I'm hoping that getting my feelings out in written form will keep me from buying that rocket-propelled grenade launcher and lining it up on my Yamaha aluminum cylinder block.
Here's the 'too-long-didn't-read' version:
Don't work on your own bike--pay the bike mechanic the $10,000 dollar fee to overhaul it for you. It will be cheaper in the long run, plus, you may still have some skin on your knuckles and four more weeks to you life span. You may even remain on good terms with your neighbors who have called their children home to prevent them from hearing the strange string of never-before-linked-up adjectives coming from your garage.
CHAPTER 2
After struggling with the two cam shafts, getting them lined up with cylinder 1 at top-dead-center I started to put the cam cover back on. I know you won't believe this, but it comes off much easier than it goes back on. Duh. There are 3 rubber gaskets that have to fit perfectly over the various openings in the cover, and for some reason, they don't want to stay in place on the cover when you turn it upside down. After a few more colorful words, the thing slid over the protrusions and settled into place. I was getting excited now... just a few more hoses to hook up, put the spark plug cables back on and snap them into place and I could fire it up.
I put another 4 quarts of oil in and almost as much radiator fluid... almost there. Automatic chain tensioner was in place... I double checked. Why do I even think that I'm almost done? I don't know anymore. I pulled the choke back, turned the key on and pressed on the start button. It sputtered at first, then it started. YES!!! After about just 60 seconds I released the choke and it just purred like a happy cat. Except.
Except I thought I heard a clacking sound. Nah. That's just the way it sounds when I don't have my helmet on. Yeah, that must be it. I hopped on, pulled out of the garage and onto the street. Still running smooth... except for that little clacking sound. "Just ride the damned thing... " thinks me... oh yes, now I remember the feel of this bad bike... so much power I have to concentrate and not twist the throttle too much. Such a fine touch. So much power. Now I was up to 30 mph, no backfires, no flames coming out the exhaust, just smoothness. I didn't go more than a few blocks when I turned around and started heading back home. The clacking was louder. I stopped and revved the engine a little bit, and then a screeching noise came from under my butt. A terrible screeching noise. Not like a loose fan belt. No. This screeching sounded evil and sinister. Like Satan hizself trying to cast himself out.
I turn it off. Let it sit for a minute and then fire it back up. The clacking was louder... and so was Satan. I tried as best I could to coast it back home. I pull into the garage and the screeching sound returned, louder than before... and there was white smoke coming out of the oil cap. I turn it off and start to wonder what I did wrong. Nothing... everything went back together, there were no bolts or screws left over like usual.
It was time to have some Tequila. And another after that. I was sore from squatting all day, my hands and finger nails were black. More skinned knuckles. A voice in my head says "Sell it for scrap. This is going to kill you." Then another voice said: "Better yet--open up the gas cap and shove a hand towel inside, pour a little more gas all over the seat, then push it out into the street, light the hand towel and give it a good shove. See how far it will get before it tips over and bursts into flames. Maybe no one will notice." Maybe it's time to increase my dosage again... the voices are back.
After a depressing night, I wake up and thought about the bike. Then I thought about the Tequila. The bike. Tequila. The rocket propelled grenade launcher. Probably can't get my hands on one. After the fantasies die down, I head to the garage and begin taking off hoses and wires. Pull the cam cover off the top of the engine. "What's that?" the voice asks me. I was sure I bought the oil that does NOT come with little particles of aluminum shavings. So where did the little flecks of metal come from? I turn the crankshaft with my biggest socket driver. The little sprockets that turn the cam shafts came from behind the engine casing and I notice that two of the four bolts that hold them on were almost falling out of their threads. I had only tightened two of the four bolts, the other two had been spinning around, gouging out a perfect circular trench in the aluminum cam shaft casing.
Yeah, that's right, I began a long mantra of the "F" word. You know that word that return missionaries use when they are completely frustrated and no other word known to man will express that frustration? Sure, you know it alright:
"FLIP!!!"
"FLIP, FLIP, FLIP-ing thing!!! Stupid piece of flipping garbage!"
I tightened all four bolts this time. I spent the rest of today squirting oil down the casing, squirting it every place I could get it and shooting compressed air down to the open access cover along with what seemed to be all the refined aluminum shavings that would fit into the Bingham Canyon Mine.
Just a couple of hours ago, I got it all back together and took Michele for a ride. It runs smooth. It sounds good, well tuned. Maybe I should keep... no. Don't even think about that.
I haven't started drinking yet, my arms are too sore to lift the Tequila bottle. Here's hoping it's over, that I can sell it after a couple more oil changes to make sure the engine is clean and there's no more aluminum in places where it ought not to be.
After struggling with the two cam shafts, getting them lined up with cylinder 1 at top-dead-center I started to put the cam cover back on. I know you won't believe this, but it comes off much easier than it goes back on. Duh. There are 3 rubber gaskets that have to fit perfectly over the various openings in the cover, and for some reason, they don't want to stay in place on the cover when you turn it upside down. After a few more colorful words, the thing slid over the protrusions and settled into place. I was getting excited now... just a few more hoses to hook up, put the spark plug cables back on and snap them into place and I could fire it up.
I put another 4 quarts of oil in and almost as much radiator fluid... almost there. Automatic chain tensioner was in place... I double checked. Why do I even think that I'm almost done? I don't know anymore. I pulled the choke back, turned the key on and pressed on the start button. It sputtered at first, then it started. YES!!! After about just 60 seconds I released the choke and it just purred like a happy cat. Except.
Except I thought I heard a clacking sound. Nah. That's just the way it sounds when I don't have my helmet on. Yeah, that must be it. I hopped on, pulled out of the garage and onto the street. Still running smooth... except for that little clacking sound. "Just ride the damned thing... " thinks me... oh yes, now I remember the feel of this bad bike... so much power I have to concentrate and not twist the throttle too much. Such a fine touch. So much power. Now I was up to 30 mph, no backfires, no flames coming out the exhaust, just smoothness. I didn't go more than a few blocks when I turned around and started heading back home. The clacking was louder. I stopped and revved the engine a little bit, and then a screeching noise came from under my butt. A terrible screeching noise. Not like a loose fan belt. No. This screeching sounded evil and sinister. Like Satan hizself trying to cast himself out.
I turn it off. Let it sit for a minute and then fire it back up. The clacking was louder... and so was Satan. I tried as best I could to coast it back home. I pull into the garage and the screeching sound returned, louder than before... and there was white smoke coming out of the oil cap. I turn it off and start to wonder what I did wrong. Nothing... everything went back together, there were no bolts or screws left over like usual.
It was time to have some Tequila. And another after that. I was sore from squatting all day, my hands and finger nails were black. More skinned knuckles. A voice in my head says "Sell it for scrap. This is going to kill you." Then another voice said: "Better yet--open up the gas cap and shove a hand towel inside, pour a little more gas all over the seat, then push it out into the street, light the hand towel and give it a good shove. See how far it will get before it tips over and bursts into flames. Maybe no one will notice." Maybe it's time to increase my dosage again... the voices are back.
After a depressing night, I wake up and thought about the bike. Then I thought about the Tequila. The bike. Tequila. The rocket propelled grenade launcher. Probably can't get my hands on one. After the fantasies die down, I head to the garage and begin taking off hoses and wires. Pull the cam cover off the top of the engine. "What's that?" the voice asks me. I was sure I bought the oil that does NOT come with little particles of aluminum shavings. So where did the little flecks of metal come from? I turn the crankshaft with my biggest socket driver. The little sprockets that turn the cam shafts came from behind the engine casing and I notice that two of the four bolts that hold them on were almost falling out of their threads. I had only tightened two of the four bolts, the other two had been spinning around, gouging out a perfect circular trench in the aluminum cam shaft casing.
Yeah, that's right, I began a long mantra of the "F" word. You know that word that return missionaries use when they are completely frustrated and no other word known to man will express that frustration? Sure, you know it alright:
"FLIP!!!"
"FLIP, FLIP, FLIP-ing thing!!! Stupid piece of flipping garbage!"
I tightened all four bolts this time. I spent the rest of today squirting oil down the casing, squirting it every place I could get it and shooting compressed air down to the open access cover along with what seemed to be all the refined aluminum shavings that would fit into the Bingham Canyon Mine.
Just a couple of hours ago, I got it all back together and took Michele for a ride. It runs smooth. It sounds good, well tuned. Maybe I should keep... no. Don't even think about that.
I haven't started drinking yet, my arms are too sore to lift the Tequila bottle. Here's hoping it's over, that I can sell it after a couple more oil changes to make sure the engine is clean and there's no more aluminum in places where it ought not to be.
CHAPTER 3
The engine is running well. I synchronized the 4 carburetors with a new 100.00 dollar tool. I bought one several years, but over time and moving it seems the mercury in the four pressure columns is gone. Lord, I wonder where it went. So far, no one who's been in my garage has come down with "Mad Hatters" disease so maybe it's OK. The US has since banned the use of mercury in these tune-up tools.
The carb sync smoothed out the vibration, it idles much better. I took it for another ride yesterday and found another problem. Of course. The clutch slips when I get up to 60 mph and open the throttle all the way. The engine revs, and normally it would feel like what happens to astronauts when Houston Command says, "Go with throttle up!" Not my bike. It just makes a lot of noise and doesn't go anywhere.
This is sad because a lot of these bikes don't need new clutch plates until 70,000 miles. Not my bike, oh no... the clutch is slipping at 15,000 miles. It couldn't have anything to do with the many times I have taken it from 0 to 130 accessing freeway on-ramps. Or dropped it down three gears to pass a car on the freeway. Yeah, I know I don't have to go around a car or truck going 60 mph and take the bike up to 100 or 110 to pass. I just like to. I can't seem to help it either... my IQ goes way down when I'm on the thing... one more reason I need to sell it.
Like the time I had to make the off ramp before a dump truck hauling loose debris got there first. I didn't want to follow him around the clover leaf. I down shifted and went around him at 110 when I heard a siren behind me. Yep. A Utah Highway Patrol motorcycle cop had been following me for about a mile. Problem was, I couldn't make out from my rear view mirror that it was a UHP bike and not just another Harley. I pulled over immediately, turned the bike off and started to take my helmet off.
The Trooper yells, "What the hell are you doing? Didn't you see me in your rear view mirrors?" Hmmm, should I tell him that I DID see him, I just didn't see that he was a cop? Better not say that. "Sorry, yes, I saw you." I always try to go with the more stupid answer. "Well then what the hell? Just slow down! SLOW DOWN!" And off he went. No ticket, not even a written warning.
I was so unnerved by the situation that I couldn't remember the kickstand has to be up before the bike will start. "What the FLIP... now WHAT?" sez me to no one there, traffic whizzing by, and worst of all, the dump truck made the off ramp long before I did. I was sure he was at the land-fill by now telling folks about some old dude on a bullet bike that got pulled over trying to pass him.
The bike finally started when I put the kickstand up. I crawled off the freeway licking my wounded pride. And wondering if I could have out run the cop. My IQ began going down again. All was well.
Yeah, I need to replace the clutch so I can have confidence that I can always pass a slow moving car at 130 mph if I need to--of course I would now check the rear view before making such a move.
And yes, I plan on doing the clutch myself.
The engine is running well. I synchronized the 4 carburetors with a new 100.00 dollar tool. I bought one several years, but over time and moving it seems the mercury in the four pressure columns is gone. Lord, I wonder where it went. So far, no one who's been in my garage has come down with "Mad Hatters" disease so maybe it's OK. The US has since banned the use of mercury in these tune-up tools.
The carb sync smoothed out the vibration, it idles much better. I took it for another ride yesterday and found another problem. Of course. The clutch slips when I get up to 60 mph and open the throttle all the way. The engine revs, and normally it would feel like what happens to astronauts when Houston Command says, "Go with throttle up!" Not my bike. It just makes a lot of noise and doesn't go anywhere.
This is sad because a lot of these bikes don't need new clutch plates until 70,000 miles. Not my bike, oh no... the clutch is slipping at 15,000 miles. It couldn't have anything to do with the many times I have taken it from 0 to 130 accessing freeway on-ramps. Or dropped it down three gears to pass a car on the freeway. Yeah, I know I don't have to go around a car or truck going 60 mph and take the bike up to 100 or 110 to pass. I just like to. I can't seem to help it either... my IQ goes way down when I'm on the thing... one more reason I need to sell it.
Like the time I had to make the off ramp before a dump truck hauling loose debris got there first. I didn't want to follow him around the clover leaf. I down shifted and went around him at 110 when I heard a siren behind me. Yep. A Utah Highway Patrol motorcycle cop had been following me for about a mile. Problem was, I couldn't make out from my rear view mirror that it was a UHP bike and not just another Harley. I pulled over immediately, turned the bike off and started to take my helmet off.
The Trooper yells, "What the hell are you doing? Didn't you see me in your rear view mirrors?" Hmmm, should I tell him that I DID see him, I just didn't see that he was a cop? Better not say that. "Sorry, yes, I saw you." I always try to go with the more stupid answer. "Well then what the hell? Just slow down! SLOW DOWN!" And off he went. No ticket, not even a written warning.
I was so unnerved by the situation that I couldn't remember the kickstand has to be up before the bike will start. "What the FLIP... now WHAT?" sez me to no one there, traffic whizzing by, and worst of all, the dump truck made the off ramp long before I did. I was sure he was at the land-fill by now telling folks about some old dude on a bullet bike that got pulled over trying to pass him.
The bike finally started when I put the kickstand up. I crawled off the freeway licking my wounded pride. And wondering if I could have out run the cop. My IQ began going down again. All was well.
Yeah, I need to replace the clutch so I can have confidence that I can always pass a slow moving car at 130 mph if I need to--of course I would now check the rear view before making such a move.
And yes, I plan on doing the clutch myself.
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