mounting the FZR400 tail

the front corners are shaped for the FZR, and need to be filed down to fit snugly against the FZ tank. i started by drawing lines with a colored pencil that followed the lines of the seat then filed/sanded to shape:

the forward mounting tabs needed to be made, and luckily the subframe already has two holes for the grommets, a typical hardware store item:

i made the tabs from some extra Delrin i had laying around, and epoxied them to the inside of the tail:

i thought about making my own solo cowl, or even making the entire tail myself, but the cost of materials is just too high, especially considering i can get a cowl from Airtech for $50 and a complete solo tail for $160. at least the cowl will allow the occasional passenger...

next: solo cowl, paint, tail light/plate hanger

FZ600S revisited...

the FZ is back on the stand after spending the last year crammed against the wall and covered with the VW's interior carpets. i had pretty much written off this project until last week when i had a burst of inspiration and decided to give it another go.

this is what it started out looking like, five years ago when i bought it. the subframe was butchered, the tires were shot, the tank/petcock leaked, the forks leaked, the rear shock was junk, the seat was 90% gaffer tape, etc. i rode it for a couple months until things got really bad and decided to tear it down and update the chassis with either late-model FZR or early-model R6 parts.

inspiration:

for now i'll probably have to settle for FZR wheels/brakes/forks, but eventually i'd like to use first-generation R6 running gear, especially the front end. the swingarm would need to be carefully machined in order to accept the larger axle of the R6 wheel, and its probably too narrow to fit the right rubber, anyway.

i'm also fitting an FZR400 tail instead of the standard plastics, which i always thought were too slab-sided and ugly. Airtech makes a nice FZR400 one-piece for race bikes that i think would look good, or maybe something for a TZ...

stock FZ vs. FZR400:

Airtech FZR400, TZ250:

behold the swarf monkey

I finally made it out onto the shop floor, running some machines. below are a few samples of the most recent chip-breaking agenda:

this is a practice piece for the radial arm drill press, just a series if holes, the largest of which was 1.375", an enormous bit. thats a quarter to the right for scale. The pilot hole for a bit of this size is still only around 0.25", as the web is no thicker than that across the point. If i remember right, the spindle speed was less than 200 RPM and a feed of around 0.008"/rev. When the cutting face hit the work a shitstorm of smoke and chips curled out from the flutes and the floor shook. pure horsepower, it was impressive. here's one of the chips, a nice copper-red color from the heat:

as a cutting tool is fed into a workpiece, under the right conditions (good rigidity and cutting tool geometry, proper spindle speed and feed rate, etc.) a uniform chip is produced by the shearing forces as the crystalline structure of the metal is continually compressed and sheared, forming peaks, over and over again. under power feed, those peaks can be seen on the chip form as serrations, resulting in a coil like this:

next: bigger chips, heavier cuts, and tapers...

november 8, 2007

flat tire crisis/saga Part 3

According to the sign outside town, Fredonia is home to over 1000 people. Apparently most of them live underground because as far as i could tell, the population was closer to 10. Fortunately for me, the town's gas station was run by a helpful (if grumpy) bloke named Tony and a retired good-old-boy named Paul. As soon as i pulled in i bought a Powerade & some Camels, then sat on their bench outside to gulp some electrolytes and figure out just what i was going to do about my little problem. In hindsight i realize i should have just called it a day and gotten a room at one of the motels in town right then. I actually started to walk down the road to one of them when i changed my mind because i figured it would be easier to work somewhere with a compressor, etc, than in the parking lot of a motel. Although true, i should have waited until the next day, but i suppose i wasn't ready to give up at that point, i wanted to beat it. That was pride, fucking with me. Once i rolled the bike around into the shade on the side of the station, Tony pulled out the air hose and grabbed a "high-end" milk crate from his truck for me to use. For some reason i thought i'd try lifting it again, as if i had more strength now that i was exhausted, and couldnt even budge it. Inside, Tony was visibly irritated when i asked for help, so Paul volunteered and followed me outside. Paul was probably in his late 50s, maybe early 60s, very large, and had a gentle, soft-spoken demeanor, well-trimmed white beard and (some) hair. He told me that he just hangs out at the station most of the day, just chatting up Tony and whoever comes by, occasionally driving the tow truck when a call comes in. Once we got the bastard up onto the crate and leaned against the wall, it wasnt high enough and the wheel still touched the ground, so we scrounged around for something to stick in there. After picking through the dumpsters and weeds we found a 2x4 and it was good enough:

At that point i was still fairly optimistic that i would be able to fix the thing and be on my way before too long; it was about 3:00, so i had almost 3 hours before i ran out of daylight. Removing the wheel without tipping over the bike was tricky, but the real struggle was working the tire off in my lap with a couple tire irons. I found a bucket that made things a little easier, but it still took all my strength and profanity to break the beads and expose the tube:

The tube had expelled all the sealant into the tire and mixed with all the dirt, forming a delicious goo that oozed all over my pants and boots, and into the dumpster it went. Getting the valve of the new tube thru the hole in the rim was next, its own special time of cursing and fumbling. But the hardest part was next: remounting the tire. Having never done it before (by hand) there was something of a learning curve, so i would guess around an hour or so was essentially wasted just dicking around with the irons, flipping them across the lot, hands slipping off the tire and into the sprocket or rotor, bent over the whole mess sweating all over the place, not getting anywhere. Paul came outside and saw me about to break my own face off from the strain and rolled up the door, then emerged with the bead goo, basically a very thick soap to help the rubber slide into the rim bed. I had been trying spit, but spit only lasts so long. Now things went together and the end was in sight. HA! WHO'S LAUGHIN' NOW, CLOWN?!" As i started to lift the wheel up to the bike, Paul offered a bit of advice, "you should air it up first", and i realized that he was absolutely right: if i had screwed it up, id have to take it all back apart again.
And i had. Big time. With the compressor hooked up, the air was escaping the tube faster than it could be forced in. My vein-popping struggle had pinched the tube not just once, but about a dozen times in little pairs along its inner surface. It was by then nearly sunset, my arms were trembling with exhaustion, dehydration, and possible tissue damage, i was covered in dirt, sweat, grease/slime & a little blood, and getting disoriented and confused from the lack of proper food & water and the exposure of the high desert. I could'nt muster optimism anymore. i had nowhere to sleep for the night, i was stuck in the parking lot of a gas station, delirious & hungry, and totally out of strength. The realization that i was going to have to do it all over again, when the first time was so difficult it had taken 2 hours, erased all hope and i dropped my head down between my knees. Paul was still standing there, and he too was speechless, and left me to myself. It was the lowest point in the whole trip, a depression threshold. There was nowhere to go, no one to call, nothing to do but swallow it whole. After a smoke or two i got to work on the bead again, removed the tube, and saw my handywork: totally destroyed. I had only one tube left, a 21" for the front tire, and it seemed my only option. Then i remembered the patch kit i had packed at the last minute. O providence...i pulled the original tube from the dumpster and sat down to perform what had to be the Greatest Patching Ever. As Slime continued to leak from the pencil-sized hole as i scraped away with the sandpaper, it was apparent that the surface was not going to be clean. Knowing that cleanliness was the key to a proper, permanent patch, i ignored it as i had little choice and finished the job. With the sun now below the horizon, no exterior lights behind the station, and Tony closing up the place, i only had a few minutes to remount the tire, install the wheel, and lift the bike off the crate.
For the second time that day, an inexplicable force of sheer willpower took over and i mounted that fucker in less than 2 minutes. Again, i cannot explain it as anything but a supernatural event. It was like my eyes rolled back into my head and a powerful spirit possessed my body, there's just no other explanation for such a feat of strength and determination. And i did it right, no leaks. In fact, i rode the rest of my trip on that patch and even now, parked in the garage, it holds. Just one of many small miracles that followed me around.
I jammed the wheel back in, half-assed the chain adjustment, and with Paul's help, lifted it off the crate so he could get home to his dinner with the wife. Now well after dark, i mounted the bags and got the hell out of there, headed for the motels. As luck would have it, 2 of the 3 motels were booked, and the only option was the fancy-pants Mormon Lodge, a $77-a-night "resort", but it was no matter. I would have paid whatever it cost just to rest. The clerk looked up at me and paused, asking "are you OK?" as soon as i walked in. I must have looked like a ghost. I mumbled "...got a flat tire 50 miles from civilization..." and took my key.
The final blow for the day came when i unzipped my bag and found 2 empty Pabst cans, yet unopened. All that vibration from "Murdock's Dust to Glory" had caused my fold-up lantern to pierce them and spray their contents all over my shit. Having been placed right on top, the beer had soaked everything and remained pooled in the bottom. Too tired to freak out or cry or anything, i just chuckled a little and unpacked, spreading everything out on the floor of the rather generously sized bathroom and left it there overnight under the heat lamp. That night i slept the sleep o the dead and didnt even rise until nearly 10.
While packing up i found an envelope given to me by my mom when i left town, with the instructions "do not open until Grand Canyon" written on it. I sat down on the bed, trying to guess what was inside, then opened it. Along with a somewhat awkward photo portrait of sis, mom, and grandma, was a letter. At a time when i felt alone and beyond the reach of protection, it was suddenly clear to me the nature and identity of the mysterious benevolent force that had been my escort...thanks mom.

flat tire crisis Part 2

flat tire crisis/saga Part 2

i prepared for many things before my trip: mechanical breakdowns, lost keys, lost ID, things that even seemed beyond probability. two things i didnt anticipate were natural disasters (more on that later) and century-old Mormon booby traps. the ominous sound from underneath was a 6-inch-long hand-forged framing nail that was probably 100 years old and it was stuck into my back tire right between the tread blocks:


after a moment taken to really soak in the reality of my situation my healthy reserves of optimism kicked in and i started preparing to replace my inner tube, actually relieved that it was early in the day, beautiful weather, and i was fully equipped to tackle the problem. ipod/ Bolt Thrower, leftover Pabst, complete tool kit, no problem. off came the bags, parked on the edge of the road, tool kit and spare tubes laid out...no center stand. without a center stand, the bike cannot be supported & the rear wheel removed in order to fix it...so its not going to be that easy, then.

often, dirt bikes get around this issue by just lifting it up onto some kind of simple platform, like a milk crate. there were no milk crates, of course, so i started to pile up rocks. big ones, and high enough to lift the rear end up while still being sort of level so it doesnt fall over. i made my pile, then tried to lift the bike up...it turns out the KLR weighs fuck-all hundreds of pounds and there was no way i was going to be able to lift it alone...so much for that idea...it was then that i was extremely glad that i brought Slime tube sealant, so in it went, and out came my handy CO2 inflator, pulled off the shelf at work. remember how bicycles can have one of two kinds of valves? a presta valve inflator head is useless on a schraeder valve...so if that wasnt going to be of any use, i was stuck using the mini hand pump i brought. still optimistic, i got to work on that little bastard only to watch the sealant just spray right out of the hole as fast as i could push the air in. well, Slime is meant to temporarily repair very small holes, like the kind you get mountain biking in the desert from goatheads and such, not 1/8" rough gashes. to try and help the fibers "clot" i stuck my finger over the hole and sure enough, the Slime started to work and the tube was holding air. i pumped for quite a while, but had forgotten a pressure guage so had no idea how long i needed to sit there and pump away to reach a decent pressure.

eventually my arm was sore and i decided i must be doing pretty good, the tire was looking full, and it was beaten, at least teporarily. i got back on and kept riding, although very carefully in case it deflated once in use. i creeped along for a few miles before noticing that it had gone flat again, so i hopped off and started pumping again, then set out again. this was a pattern that lasted something like 5 miles, stopping about every mile or so. after a while, at this sluggish pace, several hours had passed and there was only a few more hours of daylight left. i was out of water, in the middle of nowhere, and still 40-some miles from even a paved road much less a town. around then, the park ranger showed up and offered a hand, and his pressure gauge. turns out i was only getting about 5 PSI in the thing, so taking turns with the hand pump we were able to get it up near the 30 PSI i needed. with that, he took off, leaving me on my own for the rest of the way back to the highway. with the sun beginning to fall and so many miles still to go on my own without an extra arm for the pump (about 50), it was time to make some serious distance before my tire went flat again and i ran out of daylight...
i had never really ridden off road before. not REALLY. i tooled around on my XR a little, but too shy to really get down to it, especially around corners. jesus, i crashed the fucking thing going 40 in straight line. i had no idea what i was doing. until that moment. i hauled ass like no man should on an overloaded, worn-out-broken-down-flat-tire-havin' piece of shit back to the highway at 60-some MPH; catching air, drifting foot-out around the bends, tucked in on the straights, a rooster tail of dust, rocks, and sand swirling around and behind me. rocks were flying off my front tire and hitting my boots and shins, my arms strained to keep the bike going in a straighish line, the back tire was spinning up, it was a race against time and fear, and theres only one thing that kept me from eating shit...divine intervention. there is simply no other explanation. it was a fucking miracle that i was able to ride like Mouse McCoy himself and not come off. there were sand pits that were more like quicksand than dirt, washboarding for miles, and rocks like a field of marbles...maybe it was my little cricket friend, that days familiar/guardian angel, seen here perched on my tank bag while i was pumping sealant earlier in the day:

i managed to ride the remaining distance in about 45 minutes, a route that took 4 hours the day before, and once at the highway, i looked down and had just barely made it; it was flat again. having not the patience (or the strength) to get off and start pumping again, i just rode into town on it ,straight to the service station (another 5-10 miles), knowing i still had a long ways to go before i was going to be ready to carry on with my trip. i still needed to properly repair the flat and figure out where i was going to sleep that night, and i was totally exhausted, dehydrated, and hungry...

flashback: 2007 moto-tour

flat tire crisis/saga Part 1

My first morning at the Grand Canyon started off great. Barry & crew cooked up a delicious brakfast of eggs, bacon, potatoes, grilled veggies, coffee, & juice. The sky was crystal clear and it was already in the 70s by 10AM. i packed up my gear at a leisurely pace and set out to return to pavement and civilization. The only route was a very primitive, unmaintained road made up of mostly gravel with periods of big rocks, deep sand, severe washboarding, steep grades, blind cresting curves, and the occasional long straight inbetween hillsides. 60 miles of it. In fact, pieces of vehicles were scattered along the way like scraps of tire, broken plastic body parts, or entire license plates. None of this was any real concern to me, however, i was riding the ultimate 2-wheeled explorer, the king of all thumpers, the KLR650! The first 5 miles nearest the overlook are actually the worst, and can only be travelled at very low speed, 1st gear crawling, and this is where i took a few pictures of the rugged-ness. For the first 10 miles i was having possibly the best morning of my life; it was all worth it...the job, the stress, being broke, it was all worth it for what i was doing. I had a kind of complete satisfaction and contentment , pride, confidence, and clarity. It was exactly a week into my journey and things were going, on average, very well. I was taking pictures and video of my ride back to the highway when (unfortuneatly between videos) a very load WHACK WHACK WHACK from under the bike...

flashback: Grand Canyon tour 2007

since i cant go on a moto-tour this year i thought id repost a couple entries from when i had a myspace blog about my month-long Grand Canyon/Joshua Tree/Hwy. 1 trip from 2007...

tests of character dont get much more potent than getting a flat tire 50 miles from civilization in the middle of the desert and not having whats needed to fix it; or having to ride 12 hours through dehydration and exhaustion to escape a record-setting natural disaster; or being forced to refuel, eat a clif bar, change the oil in the Chevron parking lot at 10PM then ride thru the night after 11 hours in the saddle because theres nowhere to sleep for miles; or keep working on that tire bead even though your arms are trembling from the strain and the lack of food, water, and sleep, while sweat is dripping from your bent-over face and soaking your greasy, bloody knuckles; or trying to sleep thru the night when you've run out of shit to burn and its 10 below freezing, windy, and ice is forming on anything thats not on fire ... the list goes on and on, and some of them happened all at once or at least in the same day.
every day contained some combination of crisis, victory, revelation, and fear; every day contained an omen, an animal familiar, a hex, and a supernatural detour; coincidence, uncanny generosity from strangers, unsolicited life-story-monologues, and equal amounts of suspicion.
take "Bud" for example: 180 miles north of Vegas, on the banks of Adams-McGill Reservoir, a popular spot for local "sportsman" to camp (they all wanted to know what the fuck i was doing there as its prety much unmarked and only accessable by a 20 mile dirt road), full camo hunting frock, huge frame, giant red nose swollen with whiskey, and nearly mute in that good-ole-country-boy way. turns out Bud rode for Husqvarna in the late 70s, as well as KTM and a short stint with Husaberg, eventually becoming team mechanic and driver, then working in tandem with the head engineer from Sweden in the development of the next generation bike for the 80s. highly educated with a degree in mechanical engineering, Bud enjoyed great success as a professional racer and designer, then contracted lupus and was forced to retire, then caught his wife in bed with his best friend. He divorced & moved to rural Nevada to spend the rest of his life alone, fishing. Bud told me, "i wish i had 10 guys like you, i'd make a fortune." we sat around drinking coffee around his campfire, bullshitting and generally complaining about our ill society all morning. not what i expected, to say the least. Then theres the group of friends i met at Toroweap who offered to share their campsite since the rest of the grounds were full; kind of a camping double-date, there was Barry & Lindsey and Doug & Val, all from St. George, UT. as soon as i pulled up Barry offered a spot in their site, cold beer, dinner, campfire, breakfast, anything i needed. both couples were motorcyclists of the Harley variety and were welcoming almost beyond reason. that night we ate grilled chicken breast with steamed vegetables and pasta salad, then drank beer from the coolers til late. Barry & Lindsey were like Will & Renee's dopplegangers, it was surreal. the next morning we had scrambled eggs, hash browns, and bacon. i was treated like family just for showing up. they were one of the real highlights of my trip at a time when i was really missing the company of friends.
while the classic adage certainly rang true on a daily basis ( judging books, etc.) there was something else at work, too: there was (is) a signifigant difference between being a motorist and a cyclist when it comes to ones reception by the general public, especially in campgrounds. others have written about this phenomenon, and its really something to experience it first hand. ive road-tripped, camped, and toured in cars and never once did i have total strangers introduce themselves, offer me anything i needed, and wish me a safe journey like i was an old friend. unsolicited generosity and good will from strangers was a routine occurrence. In fact, i would have never made it without the help of people like Bud, Barry & Lindsey & Doug & Val, Paul, Lloyd, and a long list of others whose names i forgot to write down. good people...

412 on hold/back to school

the 412 project is on hold again while i get ready for school in the fall. the wheel spacers i want to try are still backordered but maybe i'll just make my own. classes start next month for the Machine Manufacturing Technology department, i'll be going for the associates degree thats designed as a 2 year program, but i think i'll take three so i'm not over worked...

i should be able to afford my new laptop in a couple weeks, a 13" macbook pro. Apple is offering a free ipod touch with any mac purchased for school, but you still have to pay for it then submit a rebate, so i'm saving up the extra $300...

rubbing issues

i suppose it was too much to ask that everything would go together without a catch...the new, lowered spring perch rubs on the stock tire about 75mm above the lip of the rim...considering that i was intending to run wider wheels & tires, it would appear i have a problem...so now its off to find a set of wheels with enough offset to clear the perch but not enough to cause the tires to rub on the bodywork instead. i'm hoping i can still use Baja-style steel wheels like these:

subframe assembly

i made a reinforcement plate for the strut mount out of the old ones by cutting off the dome and grinding the centers until they fit down on top of the strut towers, then sanded them smooth and painted them:

im surprised how good they turned out considering all i was using was a bulky 4" angle grinder and a file...

once installed they cleaned up the look quite a bit:

steering linkage & subframe... you can just see the NOS steering damper in red...

next: wheel bearings/hubs, sway bar, etc.