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.
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