4fraziers.com

Archive for October, 2009

I’ve never owned more than one motorcycle at a time. In fact, the total number of bikes I’ve owned in the nearly half-century I’ve walked this planet is two. And the gap between those years of ownership is greater than both put together.

Motorcycle ownership has always been a luxury for me…therefore relatively unachievable beyond my original Yamaha XS1100 (which I got used for a very good price and no-interest financing) and my current Triumph Rocket III which Robin made possible via her extraordinary financial management skills and desire to help me conquer my smoking habit.

As much joy as I get out of riding, I’ve never been able to come up with a pragmatic reason for spending loads of money on one. Owning a motorcycle is sort of like owning your own roller coaster. It’s fast, fun, and sometimes terrifying, but it isn’t a necessity for survival and it doesn’t really pay for itself…especially when you aren’t satisfied with anything less than a power cruiser that will pass everything but a gas station. I can’t even claim I’m making up for the price of mine with fuel savings.

Yet, I wonder…is one enough?

It would be so nice if Robin could ride along on a trip to the Talimena Drive or Big Bend. Maybe even a three-wheeled wicked contraption like the Can Am Spyder for her so she could carry all the things classy gals like to bring along when they travel.

The ultimate vacation. Me and my girl riding the countryside and connected to nature in a way you just can’t achieve with four wheels.

I have buddies who have three or more bikes. Some have a cruiser, a sport bike, and an off-road type. One has an undetermined number of between three and seven Ducati road burners…depending on whether you require all of them to be assembled and in running condition.

I keep blasting through the curves on mine and every time the foot boards scrape I think, “How much fun would it be to take this curve on a Speed Triple leaning another 20 degrees?”. After bartering my cigarettes for BB, I don’t have a bad drinking habit or any other vice left worth trading for a sport bike (don’t get me wrong, I have vices, just none left worth trading). So I just thank my lucky stars that I have the Rocket III and can power through the curves with significantly more agility than any V-Twin cruiser and less than any Ducati.

But the dream that replaced the one of owning a motorcycle…almost any motorcycle, is now one of owning another motorcycle, first for Robin so she can share the awesome feeling of freedom with me that comes from twisting the throttle on an open road; second so I can lean a little more when nothing less than knee-dragging will provide the contact high I crave. I guess that equates to two additional bikes, ultimately.

In a way I’m truly thankful and satisfied just to have one bike again.

In another way I just crave more satisfaction. One is plenty, and totally unacceptable.

The weather is simply outstanding. For the last few days it’s been mostly sunny with fluffy, bright white clouds drifting lazily across the sky.

The temperature has ranged between 65 and 72 degrees Fahrenheit on any given day. The pavement, thanks to the previous few weeks of constant downpours, has been washed clean and traction is optimal. This past weekend was one of the finest meteorological stages ever set for getting out and cruising on two wheels.

I spent most of it lying on my back staring at the ceiling, and none of it riding. The nature and root cause analysis of my back injury is fodder for a funny story (for those of you who are not feeling my pain) to be told at a later date.

Yesterday I crawled out of bed, spent an hour and a half instead of my usual 30 minutes getting ready for work, and limped in excruciating pain to the Dodge Magnum R/T for the drive to the office, tortured by the wonderful weather and the fact that I have a gorgeous 2300cc monster of a motorcycle being neglected in my garage.

I’ve been pining for years to own another bike, and I always told myself anything that was dependable, had two wheels, and would reach 100 mph would do.

Somehow I ended up with the ultimate power cruiser, and with only one solid road trip under my belt so far I’m missing the best riding weather you could ever hope for in the Texas prairies and lakes region due to a badly injured trapeze muscle in my back.

Might as well write a review of the Triumph Rocket III since I can’t ride.

Back in May of this year (2009), Robin and the federal government both made announcements regarding cigarettes. The feds announced that they were once again hiking taxes on cancer sticks, and Robin announced that that was the last straw. She told me that smoking had become so expensive, we would be able to afford a motorcycle if we both gave it up. One condition: I had to have six months smoke-free under my belt before I could purchase a bike.

That was 28 weeks and 2 days ago, and that’s how long I’ve been smoke free.

If Robin had stuck to her conditions, I would be buying a bike in just under 15 days from now. Fortunately for me, Robin gave in to my pleading when I stumbled upon a great deal at EuroSport Cycle in Fort Worth.

But let me back up and explain how I ended up looking at British bikes in the first place (queue weird cyclical music and special visual of a spinning spiral wheel to let the viewer know we are travelling back in time):

The day Robin and the feds made their announcements I began scouring the web sites of Harely-Davidson, Victory, and Yamaha.

Harley-Davidson because it simply would be unpatriotic not to consider the most iconic American motorcycle brand of all time, especially when searching for a cruising bike.

Victory because they are new kids on the American producer block and have some really unique bikes of reputed outstanding quality. The five year factory warranty is astonishing.

Yamaha because the ancient Japanese piano company produced both my first loves when it comes to two-wheeled mechanical road-burners: My father’s RD350 two-stroke twin and my own four cylinder XS1100. The RD350 seemed like a giant powerhouse back when I and my brothers first learned to ride; today it appears almost comically tiny compared to the bikes I’ve grown accustomed to. The speed and torque of the little machine were always impressive for its size.

My old Yamaha XS1100 probably lit the fuse of doom for my first marriage (I purchased and hauled her home from California without consulting my wife at a time when we could barely afford formula and diapers), but the mutually destructive relationship I had with the that bike (we tried to dismantle each other multiple times) and the ease with which the front wheel would levitate off the pavement like a 747 three-quarters down the runway will always have a special place in my heart.

In my quest for test rides I contacted Rick Fairless’ Strokers of Dallas; a Harley, Victory, and custom chopper shop. I let Robin know I had scheduled a test ride on a Victory Eight Ball cruiser for later that week.

Robin was discussing my search for a motorcycle with a good friend, co-worker, and former boss of ours the following day, a fellow named Tom.

Tom is fond of spaghetti rockets.

When I say “fond of spaghetti rockets”, I mean Tom has multiple operable Ducatis parked in his garage. I believe Tom also has multiple Ducatis stored in pieces and parts in his garage as well. Tom’s idea of a relaxing Sunday morning ride is dragging one knee or the other in a perfect arc for a few hundred yards around a 45 mph posted farm to market road curve at 160+ mph somewhere in the vicinity of Justin, Texas. This I have seen with my own two eyes while I lumbered along hopelessly on a rented low-clearance Harley Fat Boy with its foot pegs unexpectedly scraping the pavement in the slightest lean.

I digress. Robin was trying to remember what brand of motorcycle I had told her I was going to test ride. When she told Tom the brand name had something to do with being a winner he naturally asked “Triumph?” since Ducati fanatics will always assume motorcycle quizzes must start with Europeon brands. Of course Robin said, “Yes, Triumph!”

“Well,” said Tom, “Tell Tim to go see Tony at EuroSPort Cycle in Fort Worth if he wants to look at Triumphs. And tell him to let Tony know I sent him.”

That afternoon Robin relayed the information to me, but by that time she had somehow reverted to the correct brand name of Victory.

I have heard of plenty of Harley-Davidson/Triumph dealerships, so I assumed it wouldn’t be too awful strange for a Europeon shop to also carry Victorys. I went to the Eurosport Cycle web site and started browsing.

I fond no Victorys there, but what I did find I initially thought must be a hoax.

All these years I had assumed Triumph was still barely hanging on producing a few Bonnies each year with a limited set of paint schemes and accessories. I had no idea they’d gone utterly insane and built the largest muscle cruiser ever made.

The pictures of the Rocket III were simply too large for life. I did more research and found a viral marketing video about the manufacture of the Rocket III, which only reinforced my suspicion that the beast didn’t really exist.

I emailed Tom and told him I wanted to test ride the thing….fully expecting him to laugh and tell me I’d fallen for a clever myth. Instead, Tom told me the following Saturday Eurosport was having a big demo day and I could ride over to Fort Worth with him to try one out.

Upon arrival that Saturday I stepped out of Tom’s pick-up carrying a helmet he’d loaned me. I made my way to the line under the pavilion and signed up to test ride the Triumph Rocket III. A group had just left, so over the next 45 minutes I browsed the rest of the bikes the shop had for sale…Ducatis, Benellis, Moto Guzzi, Aprilias, and of course a full range of Triumphs including super sport bikes and the latest incarnations of the Bonneville lineage, the America and Speedmaster.

Finally the time for my demo ride arrived. As I swung a leg over the black Rocket III demo bike my hands were trembling and my heart was pounding. The sheer audacity of the machine was intimidating. I had only weeks earlier ridden a motorcycle again (that rented Harley Fat Boy) after a ten year hiatus. Here I was about to ride a motorcycle hosting the largest mass production bike engine on earth. I just knew I would end up dumping it.

I barely had time to get a grip on my nerves before we were off, a band of two dozen bikes of various styles and displacements, me near the back of the group terrified to twist the throttle. The Rocket III stayed upright easily, with minimum tail braking and clutch pressure as I negotiated the slow-speed turns out of the lot and into the street.

In the first few hundred yards I was convinced that for its size the Rocket III was finely balanced. It complied easily with my every desire via the handlebars and throttle.

After the first turn I gained a little confidence and opened the throttle a bit more experimentally as I shifted into second gear. The bike launched instantly forward as if released from a catapult, and I felt that it could easily stretch my arms to twice their length if I gave the throttle more than a quarter-turn. The massive triple produced so much tangible power I was sure it was leaving some sort of physical torque residue on the pavement behind me like the trailing ectoplasm from a passing poltergeist.

My brain submerged itself in a sea of fear and I eased off the throttle, hoping simultaneously for the test ride to be over and to never end.

Arriving back at the dealership, I only had a vague animalistic memory of riding the Triumph Rocket III. But the impression that stayed with me, and grew over the next few hours to overwhelm everything else, was the brute strength of the machine. The Rocket III was the bike I had to have.

Over the next few weeks I searched diligently for a used Rocket III. I spent most of my lunch breaks haunting the Triumph dealership in Lewisville and various other used bike shops in and around the Las Colinas area where I work. It became a weekly routine for me to call Robin (my hot minister of finance) and request concurrence to make a low-ball offer on some used Rocket I would come across in these treasure hunts.

Every time the dealers would refuse flat out. I discovered that there just weren’t a lot of these machines available, and resale value was not far behind new retail. The dealers simply refused to counter offer.

I kept trying, knowing that if I could strike the right deal Robin would let me purchase one early because of the savings.

Some days I would make the drive to EuroSport Cycle in Fort Worth just to torture myself with the impossible dream of buying a brand new Rocket III. I would marvel at the turbo-charged used R3 that was parked in front of the dealership and ponder the response Tom had given when I told him I couldn’t imagine why anyone would be compelled to add turbo to a Triumph Rocket. “Well,” Tom replied, “you just don’t have the right imagination.”

Typical Ducati owner response. It’s all about the “go fast” to those guys.

On one of those seemingly hopeless journeys I walked into the showroom to behold a large green sign taped to the windscreen of a new 2008 Rocket III Classic. It was a sale tag that I had a hard time believing. After speaking with Tony for a bit to ensure I’d done my due diligence in the grand American tradition of haggling over the price of a big ticket purchase, I called Robin to inform her that I had discovered the best deal we were ever likely to find on a new Triumph Rocket III…a R3 Classic, no less, which included a couple thousand bucks worth of accessories. I illustrated to her my fear that at any second someone would likely walk in and buy this bike right out from under me. I told her how the same bike would likely cost millions of dollars if we waited until November to purchase one. This was the deal of a lifetime, but we had to act now.

Robin knew I was exaggerating, but she also knew I really was onto a pretty good deal.

I was utterly shocked when she told me to go for it. By 6 PM on July 17, 2009 I was the proud owner of a Triumph Rocket III Classic and dancing like Homer Simpson over a new doughnut flavor in anticipation of taking delivery. I spent a sleepless night imagining myself blasting down the highway on that stellar machine.

The following evening Robin and I showed up at the dealership to sign the final paperwork and I rode my new bike home for the first time. I was no longer nervous about the size or power, having read various owners forums and reviews, as well as morbidly studying every bike crash I could find on Youtube to refresh my memory about the stupid mistakes you can make on two wheels along with the devastating consequences.

As I traveled home I knew I had made the right decision. The trip there was peppered with the jealous stares and drooling of car and pick-up drivers who cruised along the highway beside me. I basked in the warm glow of their envy. With it’s sheer mass and the added sparkle of chrome exhaust pipe covers, a huge chrome bear claw over the intake, and the unique triple silencer configuration, the bike was a pure head-turner.

Over the next several weeks I had to get used to being held up for impromptu interviews about it when I was mounting or dismounting. I was approached by strangers who said they used to own a Triumph, people who said they’d never seen a Triumph, and people who thought my bike was some custom built machine. These conversations almost always included an estimate from the inquirer about the price of the machine that was double the reality.

The Triumph Rocket III came straight out of the box with a 100% satisfaction score on looks, performance, and handling. The realms of disappointment were the lack of sound (she’s way too quiet when she should be growling like a gargling Titan) and a minor failure in quality I discovered as I was adjusting the mirror one day on my ride to work. It mirror came off in my hand, leading to my discovery that the stock mirrors not only look like mouse ears and seem to not fit the bike’s style; they are made of cheap chrome plated plastic.

A set of Kurakyn eclipse mirrors resolved that issue, and eventually a set of performance pipes will give my precious the throaty growl she should have had from the start.

The only other issue arose from my familiarity with the lean angle of every other motorcycle on the planet while on a kickstand. The Rocket III doesn’t lean much when it’s on its kickstand, I discovered to my dismay one afternoon as I was washing my bike in the driveway. As I leaned against it to dry off the side panel on the opposite side I managed to push her right off the stand. I had time only to curse my own stupidity for not having it in gear as the beast rolled forward a few feet and fell onto it’s side. Again, that is fodder for yet another story that will be much funnier in the telling than it was in reality.

Damage was minor, and I’m still loving every moment I get to spend scraping the foot boards in the curves or just blasting straight down the slab on this British asphalt inhaler.

Recently Triumph announced the Rocket line’s new 2010 Rocket III Roadster with more focus on sport configuration including elimination of the forward control position. The Roadster is set to be the only available option in the Rocket III model line up other than the Triumph Rocket III Touring henceforth. It will be available in two colors: Black or blacker. Gloss or matte.

The Rocket III standard and classic are now out of production, which means resale value on my baby should be well maintained for at least the near future. There are still some new 2008 and 2009 models left if you want one.

Better hurry, though. I’m sure someone is on their way to Tony’s to buy yours right out from under you.

Shortly after I procured my first used motorcycle back in 1988, I managed to pull a wonderful tank-slapper that left it with numerous cosmetic deficiencies I never fixed. Just getting the bike back in safe running condition required I drop off several prized possessions at the local pawn shop.

Among the “unnecessary” functions that I chose not to repair was the electric start. I never found out whether a wire had simply come loose during my lost battle with gravity and velocity, or if there was some other more complex damage. I simply pulled the kick-start lever, a large chrome-plated peice of steel, out of it’s storage space clamped to the frame, installed it on the cog sticking out the side of the engine, and used it as a permanent start for my Yamaha XS1100 from then on.

The kickstarter on the 1979 XS1100 was never intended for permanent use. The primary evidence for this conclusion was the fact that there was no hinge to fold the peg out of the way once the bike was running.

Instead, you either got off the bike and removed the solid steel protrusion, stowing it back in it’s clamp alongside the frame, or you rode with it sticking out from the side of the engine if you were insane and had no care for the risk of shattering your shin in numerous places below the knee in the event of a crash.

I was insane and didn’t care if I risked shattering my leg in several places below the knee.

There was just something about standing up on that kick starter, pushing off the left hand peg, launching my full 185 lbs into the air and pushing down with my right foot on that kick-starter to spin that massive air-cooled four-cylinder up that was incredibly satisfying.

Even if I’d had the spare money to get the electric start working again, I probably would have left the kick-starter arm on the machine and used it.

There were multiple justifications for this beyond the feeling of power it imbued upon actually starting the bike.

For one thing, only those who had owned older electric start deprived Harley-Davidsons had the skill and knowledge to get the XS1100 running via kick-starting. Even folks who had sufficient body weight to get the kick-starter through it’s 180 degree arc still couldn’t do it with enough velocity to fire up the engine. You had to know that little trick of lifting your entire weight off the bike and smoothly bringing it all to bear on that hard steel peg sticking out. Managing that, if you then failed to follow through to the end of the arc, the kick-starter would return with enough force to leave a wonderful bruise on the bottom of your foot and throw you over the left side of the bike.

This equated to a great theft deterrent.

Secondly, it was a money-maker. Making bets with friends that they couldn’t get the monster cranked, or even deliver enough force to get the kick-start lever through it’s entire 180 degree arc, was an easy way to make ten bucks a pop at parties, especially with the big drunk guys who thought their 200+ lb frames could simply force the thing round despite the incredible compression the engine produced.

There was a conflicting romantic and macho sensation that went along with kicking that monster into life…especially if there were any gals watching. There just is no way you can successfully kick start a large motorcycle without looking as cool as Steve McQueen jumping a Nazi border fence on a Triumph.

Of course, an unsuccessful kick-start attempt would leave you feeling like someone had just smacked the sole of your foot with a ball-peen hammer and might even result in you tumbling elbows over noggin several feet from the left side of the bike.

The resulting feeling is likely akin to Steve McQeen lying tangled in razor wire looking sheepishly at his captors after his secondary attempt at jumping a Nazi border fence.

Nowadays, you can’t even find an emergency kick-starter on even small bikes. I guess the combination of cheaper production and one less seal to worry about is enough to make this old method extinct.

I’m sure there’s no way a kick-starter could be made to work on something as large as my current Triumph 2300cc behemoth, but I still miss the glorious feeling of giving a large bike a good swift kick at the beginning of a ride to let it know who is boss.

Here’s a reminder of what our forefathers believed when they placed their lives on the line for freedom and independence. This is another call for us to stand up and not sit idly by as evil men and women try to tear this great country apart.

Join us at The Patriotic Resistance and help stop the soft tyranny that has entrenched itself in our federal government.

It’s time to free our states from the shackle of federal taxation and entitlements. It’s time for those who have had the audacity to take your money by force in order to buy votes from other to be brought to justice. Step one is to drive the leftist and statists out of our legislative branches by voting them out. Not just democrat statists, but the many so-called “moderate” republicans who have proven themselves to be Marxists as well.

Listen to this guy’s speech carefully. Then join the cause.

You gotta hand it to Dale Hansen for giving Oprah an opportunity to apologize for introducing Dr. Phil to the world. The man has the guts to tell it like it is.

Dr. Phil is a quack with an unscrupulous past, and people like the new age liberal pantheist Winfrey should stand up and admit they made a grave misjudgement when they helped him gain a national following.

I wish more news people had the courage and forthrightness of Dale Hansen. Watch the little Obama worshipper try to weasel around the uncomfortable spot Dale puts her in:

This story is one of my earliest published writings, but at the time I knew nothing about keyword density, search engine optimization, or promoting my work via social networking. So I’m re-posting this oldie but goodie for all my fans (yes, both of you) who never saw this one:

“Explosions and Smoke and Fire, Oh My” or “I Don’t Need No Stinkin’ Electrician”

Procurement of a massive piece of machinery that I don’t really need is one of my favorite anti-depressant therapies.

Putting equipment in my two car garage that were designed for large industrial shops just warms the cockles of my heart. There’s nothing like having ten times the power and capacity you really need.

So a year ago I convinced Robin that I just had to have a larger compressor for my woodworking endeavors. The little Porter Cable pancake compressor we had was better suited to use as an aquarium pump. It could drive a brad nailer but trying to run an orbital sander on it was like trying to sell hamburgers in a steak storm.
After I threw a fit on the floor of the Lewisville Northern Tools store she finally relented and we hauled home a massive 80 gallon compressor.

Anxious to move the beast into the garage and get it hooked up, I made the ritual run to Home Depot and bought various supplies I figured I’d need: wire, conduit, outlet boxes, etc.

I skimmed through the compressor manual when I got home so I could answer affirmatively in anticipation of Robin asking “did you read the instructions?”

I vaguely remember seeing the phrase “hire a qualified electrician” somewhere in there…vaguely.

I’m not an electrician. You’ll come to believe that statement by the time you finish this article. If you are an electrician, you’ll laugh during this reading where others fail to see the humor. I’m happy my pain and suffering can bring a little more sunshine into the world.

I’ve wired 110 outlets before. The compressor required 220 power. Easy enough, I figured. 220 is double 110, right?

I ran four wires to my massive new pneumatic machine. Two hots, one neutral, and a ground. I found what appeared to be an obvious place for my connections via a knock-out on the box on top of the compressor motor. I punched it out, ran the Romex through the hole and pried off the box cover. I pulled the electrical tape off the ends of the wires and started to hook them up to the lobes on the little canister thingies inside the box.

Soon after that I limped over to the breaker box and switched the main off with one arm that was still responding to signals from my brain. “I’m fine!” I yelled to Robin when I heard her holler out the back door inquiring why all the electricity in the house just went off.

Returning to the compressor with a flashlight I hooked the two hot wires and ground up to the lobes on the canister in the box that obviously were intended for electrical connections. (If you are an electrician, I know you’re laughing now. Kiss my grits!).

Satisfied that I had everything securely connected, I went back to the breaker box and flipped on the main.
In the ensuing darkness, with my ears ringing from the shotgun-like BANG, I wondered at how a manufacturer could deliver such an inferior and explosive product. After a massive coughing fit and blowing the smoke out of the garage, I inspected the damage. The canister I had attached the loads to had burst and a slimy oil had run down the side of the compressor. A trickle of bizarre smoke was spilling out of the box and drifting along the floor like some demonic vaporous snake. I went to my computer to research electrical motors on the internet.

I soon discovered that the canister thingie was a capacitor. Capacitors store large amounts of energy to startup electrical motors in heavy-duty applications. Fearing that this was going to be expensive, I called Northern Tools and told them the capacitor on my motor had blown up due to some apparent defect. Yes, it was a lie, but I thought I was telling the truth at the time. The guy told me that capacitors were pretty inexpensive and I could just buy one from an electrical supply for a few bucks.

I checked around and found one locally for seven dollars. The next day I picked it up and started round two as soon as I got home after convincing Robin I really did know what I was doing and no, we didn’t need an electrician to wire this thing up.

I put the new capacitor in and wired it up exactly as I’d done before. This time I’d identified the exact breaker feeding the lines to the compressor and shut it off instead of the main. This made it very easy to conceal my activities from Robin, since she wouldn’t be notified via the lights going off in the house. I flipped the breaker for the compressor back on and all the lights went off in the house, along with another spectacular BANG and a flash of garage contained lightning. That same eerie smoke trickled lazily out of the box and pooled up on the garage floor.

Robin appeared in the garage, materializing out of the smoke like one of the horsemen of the apocalypse. Once again she expressed in vivid detail what she was going to do to me if I didn’t stop screwing around with the thing and hire an electrician. I told her I would, first thing in the morning.

The next day I called Northern Tools again and fessed up. The guy conferenced me in with his electrical tech so they could both laugh at me at the same time. After hearing the story the electrician told me I should have wired the electricity into the on/off switch instead of the startup capacitor and that I’d probably blown the centrifugal switch on the motor. He was really nice and finally agreed to send me a whole new motor at half price provided I promised to have it installed by a real electrician. A week later the new motor arrived and I installed it myself without the help of an electrician. I wore my hearing protectors and safety glasses this time when I flipped the breaker. The compressor has been running just fine ever since.

All in all, I figure I broke even. An electrician would’ve cost me at least as much as the 50 percent-off motor, and I wouldn’t have learned that capacitors make really incredible explosions and lightning flashes.

Not long ago we pointed out that CHL (Concealed Handgun License) holders could carry their concealed handguns at the State Fair of Texas as long as they showed their CHL to a law enforcement officer at the gate.

A growing number of participants report on the Texas CHL Forum and other sites that the folks running the State Fair are requiring a bit more than that.

To summarize one fellow’s story, he arrived at the gates and notified the gatekeeper who was “wanding” entrants to check for large masses of metal that he was a concealed handgun license holder. He was surprised when she responded by demanding his address, phone number, what kind of gun he had…

He, being a citizen of The United State of America, and the State of Texas, refused to provide the requested information and asked to speak with a Dallas Police officer, who was working security near the gate. The police officer politely and professionally told him it was the fair administration’s policy, not the policy of Dallas P.D. and not the law; the fair could refuse admittance if he did not provide the requested information.

The CHL holder decided that giving total strangers information about what type of gun he owned and the street address where it was kept was not worth a day at the fair and left.

So there you have it. Early on, when the State of Texas first passed laws establishing the concealed handgun license program, the privately owned and run State Fair’s administration tried to deny CHL holder’s entering the property while armed. When the Vogons at the Fair administrative offices were shown that it was illegal to deny CHL holders entry since the Fair is held on State owned property, they apparently cooked up a plan to harass CHL holders at the gates and cause them enough consternation to either not attend the fair or go back and leave their guns in their vehicles.

It likely took the Fair’s legal staff a day or so to figure out a way to skirt the spirit of the TEXAS STATE LAW that was passed to ensure that her citizens who had CHLs would not be denied the right to carry concealed on government property.

I hope that folks who cherish the second amendment and are smart enough to know that it was put in place as a protection of the people against government tyranny, not as a hunting right or primary defense against foreign intruders, will forego attending the State Fair of Texas until this stupidity is ended. I also hope that CHL holder will show up at the gates, identify themselves as CHL holders only to law enforcement officers and only after the beeper on the metal detector goes off, and then refuse to provide fair employees any personal information and leave in a very dignified but noticeable manner when asked to do so.

State law require a CHL holder to identify themselves as such ONLY to law enforcement officers, not to private citizens. Identifying yourself as a CHL holder to a non-law enforcement State Fair employee and letting them know you have a gun on your person is technically a violation, because at the point you pass that knowledge to them you are no longer carrying “concealed”…they know you have a gun.

It is a murky mess that can’t be sorted it easily, otherwise lawyers from one side or the other would already be arguing over it in court.

It frustrates me to no end that I have to pay the state for a little ID card that tells law enforcers they mustn’t throw me in jail for exercising my constitutional right to carry a gun.

I’ll be damned if I’m going to let some pip-squeak “security” worker employed by a California firm take down my personal information and what kind of gun I tote just to get into the TEXAS State Fair.

Where the hell are we? New Jersey?

For more details on the story that brought this to my attention visit A Disappointing State Fair Episode 10-1-09 at the Texas CHL Forum.

About an hour’s drive from Beirut, over two-hundred Harley Davidson riders checked into the InterContinental Mzaar Lebanon Mountain Resort and Spa recently. They were gathered for a motorcycle rally and tour sponsored by the local H.O.G. (Harley-Davidson Owner’s Group) chapter.
Yes, I said “Lebanon”, and yes, I also said, “About an hour’s drive from Beirut…”.

It is apparent that the fraternal order of Harley Davidson fans and the successful marketing machine of the marque reaches even the most unlikely places. I presume Lebanon has regained some of it’s old glory as a hot vacation destination for Europeans; I just didn’t realize it would extend to the biker crowd so soon…even the European biker crowd.

I also may be making a wrong assumption that these are vacationers for the most part. Perhaps most of them are native Harley owners. If that’s the case, even more kudos are due the solid American motorcycle brand for some incredible outreach. The investment of time and attention by Harley Davidson for it’s owner’s groups is highly commendable.

One of the things that I had looked forward to after purchasing a Triumph motorcycle back in July was admission into rather cool sounding R.A.T. (Rider’s Association of Triumph). Alas, after several weeks of trying to get into the R.A.T. website and getting a standard reply of “it must be your browser” from whoever Triumph has outsourced their IT business too, I have given up on ever uncovering the benefits of being a R.A.T. member. From what I see in forums and just by eavesdropping on conversations at bike shops, Harley-Davidson pours a lot of effort and funding into making sure the H.O.G. chapters across the globe are active, vibrant, and have plenty of cool things going on year-round. Triumph apparently just touts R.A.T. membership to new owners as a means of collecting email addresses for future spam opportunities.

It isn’t surprising that there are a bunch of Harley riders blazing trails through the beautiful mountains and seaside roads of Lebanon.

Now I’m wondering what the H.O.G. chapter in Baghdad, Iraq is up to this week?

And now for something completely different. I saw an advertisement during one of my frequent Facebook perusals for this motorcycle towing gizmo called “The Undertaker”. I don’t fancy the name at all, and I especially think it’s morbid to package the thing in a coffin shaped crate, but I guess the company feels it fits with the latests squid fads for pasting skull decals all over your tank and side panels.

Despite the fake goth marketing choices, it looks like a pretty nifty gadget that would save the average guy the expense and storage considerations for your typical single bike trailer.

I’m wondering if there are any drawbacks to this thing…like gearbox issues from dragging your bike for hundreds of miles on the back wheel in neutral, or problems with the thing flipping out of the whole rig during a hard turn.

I’d love to hear from someone who actually own and uses one of these.

P.S. And the answer (at least for my Triumph Rocket III) is:

The Rocket owners handbook says: “Do not tow the motorcycle. The transmission is pressure-lubricated only when the engine is running. Inadequate lubrication may cause damage or seizure of the transmission…”

as pointed out by one of my buddies on the R3 owners’ forums.

My brother Mike sent this today…and it’s nearly the perfect joke since it includes subjects like the left wing media, motorcycling, military service, and the biker attitude of “taking care of business”. The only thing missing is something about the second amendment! So, without further adieu (or credit to the unknown author):

A Harley biker is riding by the zoo in Washington , DC when he sees a little girl leaning into the lion’s cage. Suddenly, the lion grabs her by the cuff of her jacket and tries to pull her inside to slaughter her, under the eyes of her screaming parents.

The biker jumps off his Harley, runs to the cage and hits the lion square on the nose with a powerful punch.

Whimpering from the pain the lion jumps back letting go of the girl, and the biker brings her to her terrified parents, who thank him endlessly. A reporter has watched the whole event.

The reporter addressing the Harley rider says, ‘Sir, this was the most gallant and brave thing I’ve seen a man do in my whole life.’

The Harley rider replies, ‘Why, it was nothing, really, the lion was behind bars. I just saw this little kid in danger and acted as I felt right.’

The reporter says, ‘Well, I’ll make sure this won’t go unnoticed. I’m a journalist, you know, and tomorrow’s paper will have this story on the front page… So, what do you do for a living and what political affiliation do you have?’

The biker replies, ‘I’m a U.S. Marine and a Republican.’ The journalist leaves.

The following morning the biker buys the paper to see if it indeed brings news of his actions, and reads, on the front page:

“U.S. MARINE ASSAULTS AFRICAN IMMIGRANT AND STEALS HIS LUNCH”

Whether it’s the rock band Boston producing their own progressive rock version or a church choir sticking to the traditional harmony, I always tend to tear up when I hear our national anthem, even on the radio. This version, performed A Capella at a Texas Tech University BasketBall opening ceremony by a group of pre-teens, will take your breath away.

If you found this article because you are attempting to install the Kohler k-8030 or k-8031 rain tile panel, let me first admonish you that despite appearances, suicide is not a reasonable alternative to installing this kit.

The parts are complex, the instructions are lousy, and when you search the internet for the Kohler rain tile products it is common to see professional plumbing forum threads with statements like “I walked away…told the home owner they’d have to find someone else…” and “…I was clean and sober 20 years before I tried to install Kohler rain tiles”.

Have hope. I did it, and I’m not a professional plumber. Matter of fact, I’m not even an amateur plumber.

The first step is to build the water feed manifold using the steel jig that comes with the rain tile kit. If you’re not an expert at sweating copper pipe, don’t even try to do this part by soldiering. You’ll discover you have to do a little creative joint purchasing, too (but not the 70′s type of creative joint purchasing, you need a clear head for this); there are a couple of fittings shown in the drawing that simply do not exist.

I know, I checked every Home Depot, Lowes, and professional plumbing supply in the Dallas/Fort Worth Metroplex and no one had ever seen a 1/2 inch copper tee fitting as shown in the drawing. I substituted enough parts to make an evenly distributed manifold, just take the drawing with you and someone at the plumbing supply store will help you figure out what connections to buy.

Either take the jig/template to a pro and pay them to build it, or do what I did: Hand the jig and parts to your brother with a few tubes of that new-fangled copper pipe epoxy and have him build it while you pretend to do other work, like the rough-in . The epoxy holds great (we pressure-tested the daylights out of it) and it’s the only way an inexperienced plumber is going to get all those connections fitted together without leaks.

Once you’ve got your manifold built, make sure you’ve done the rough-in a precisely as possible for the rain tile panel installation. If you’re not doing rough-in because you plan to install the Kohler rain tile panel in a pre-existing shower, then get your money back and go buy a large rain effect shower head instead, you have no hope of the rain tile panel fitting properly without tearing the ceiling out and starting with fresh framing (remember, suicide is a permanent solution to a temporary problem).

The dimensions on the instructions don’t give you much room for error, and they are right. This crazy thing has to fit within some very tight tolerances.

Buy three different sizes of 1/2 inch brass NPT nipples. Four each 1 inch, 1-1/2 inch, and 2 inch. Even if you did the rough-in to perfect dimension, you still are going to have a variable thrown in from the thickness of the ceiling tile and thin-set mortar. You must resign yourself to trial and error…this is no place for a type A personality, and admitting that this cannot go perfectly at any point from here on out is the first step to recovery.

Eyeball the nipple lengths and check the measurements in the instructions, then choose whichever of the three lengths you think will match up best for your installation. Don’t put Teflon tape or thread compound on the nipples yet. You have less than a one-in-a-million chance of this going perfectly. I did the math.

Screw the nipples into the manifold you (or your brother) built, then place the chromed plastic panel over them. It should fit tight enough over the nipples to just hang there.

Now, unwrap one of the four shower tiles. You’ll need a tiny Allen wrench for the little set screws on one edge of the chrome plate. Twist those screws in (clockwise) to release the chrome face plate. Yes, I said in. This thing is crazy, but they made them so that as the set screws are twisted in they clear the edge of the plate. I guess it saves you the possibility of screwing them too far and and dropping them…in which case they would be lost forever since they are practically microscopic.

Carefully peel the grey silicon membrane off and set it aside with the chrome plate. Under it you will see two hollow brass screws. They don’t look like screws, but find a larger Allen wrench that fits them and twist counter-clockwise. Once they’re out the black plastic body will separate from the brass water-way unit.

Take the Phillips head screw out that holds the brass unit together and pull out the half that screws onto the nipple. Use a ratchet and the supplied socket adapter to tighten the brass unit and the nipple into the manifold.

If it screws tightly up against the plastic cup in the panel, start over with the next length up nipples.

Once all four are secured insert each of the second halves of the brass housings (pay close attention to the notch on the edge and ensure it lines up with the double tab in the plastic housing on each) and secure them snugly with the screws; after you’ve hunted everywhere in the work area, your workbench, and the floor because you can’t remember where you set them but finally found them on your desk by your computer where you recently discovered that according to proplumb203 on the pipe and fitting forum no one has ever successfully installed Kohler rain tile.

If the panel pulls up snugly against the ceiling just enough to slightly compress the black foamy gasket, congratulations, you can take it all apart and repeat the process after you’ve applied Teflon tape or thread sealing compound to both ends of all the nipples.

Next, reattach each of the black plastic plates, then carefully press the edges of each of the gray silicon membranes back in place. Lastly, attach the chrome plates by hooking the edge without any holes over the edge of the black plastic plate and turning the tiny Allen screws OUT to secure them. Watch carefully and make sure to stop turning sure the set screws once they are flush with the surface of the edge of the chrome plate.

The installation should be complete and all four tiles should be able to be adjusted independently with a very light touch.

Below is a video I shot while making the shower pan template back when this shower was freshly demo’d down to bare concrete and studs, just to give you an idea of how far it’s come.

I really can’t say it any better than this video. Just hoping I can get my hands on a set of those pipes and that they’ll bolt on my R3 Classic…

The stunt rider is pretty darn good, too, but you don’t have to ride like that to attract attention on a Rocket III. The bike does that all by itself.

I didn’t think it would be too big a deal…pull out some bolts, stick the bars on, and put the bolts back in, right? Well, yeah, except for stabilizing the bike in an upright position, making sure it wouldn’t fall over, and being careful not to cross-thread or over-torque anything. Piece of cake.

The fiasco last weekend has turned me into a belt AND suspenders type of guy. Robin walked out to the driveway this evening and just started hooting like a hyena at the way I had BB (pet name for my bike) all hung up with a strap from the shop crane, the front wheel pinned in a trailer stand mounted on a full sheet of 3/4 inch cabinet grade plywood, and a 4 ton floor jack shoved under the engine with a slab of high dollar cherry hardwood in between.

I was taking no chances.

Evidently Triumph is taking no chances with the redesigned front engine dresser bars I was installing, either. The things are massive. Once they were bolted on (sounds easy, and it was, but it was also VERY scary) they were astonishingly rigid. I must admit I was a little leery before I opened the box, having read how the first version of factory dresser bars Triumph sold for the Rocket III was flimsy and disappointing to many owners via the forums.

The installation became a bit intimidating when I realized what the instructions meant by removing the front engine bolt. It is a massive hex head bolt that goes through the right side of the frame, through the entire engine, and out the left side of the frame. It pins the engine into the frame.

So, the instructions said to use a jack to lift the engine a little to put just enough pressure on the engine to free up the bolt where you can slide it out.

They said nothing about what to do should something slip in the process and the hole going through the engine becomes misaligned with the holes in the frame. I suppose that’s why the label on the box said, “…to be fitted by trained mechanic.”

So I was sweating bullets as I removed that bolt and gingerly positioned the bars. I finger tightened the four new slightly longer bottom bolts that came with the kit replacing the ones that had previously held the front of the foot board bars. The bottom brackets of the crash bars fit right on top of the front foot board bars. Every time the bike moved a little as it hung there, partially suspended by the handles bars and pinned by the front tire I said a little prayer under my breath that the frame and engine wouldn’t move separate ways.

It was time to put that monster front engine bolt back in. I shoved it in from the left side, and it stopped dead about a quarter inch into the engine. No amount of twisting and pushing would make it go any further. Finally, I gave the jack handle a half-foot pump and tried again. This time the bolt slid straight through like an ice pick through whipped cream.

Putting the nut on the other side was a bit frustrating…there wasn’t much room for fingers in the recess and I couldn’t get a socket over it because of the clutch cable and radiator shroud. After much patient and ginger twisting and fumbling I finally got it threaded on and was able to get a socket and extension on it. With Robin holding that side firm (she’d had to do the same when I took it out) I tightened the bolt and nut, then dug out the old torque wrench and carefully tightened all five bolts to specs listed in the instructions.

I can’t wait to put a set of highway pegs on those bars…but that’s another $160.00 down the road. Like they say, buying a motorcycle is nothing more than a down-payment on accessories.

For folks planning to install dresser bars on their own Triumph R3, here’s a few pics that might be helpful.

Left side upper bolt (front engine bolt) part of the dresser bar:

Right side upper:

Lower bolts over foot board bar:

Tomorrow when the sun is out and after I’ve wiped off all the fingerprints and grease smudges I’ll get a photo posted of the whole bike with the new bars on.

This blog is subtitled “Motorcycles, Guns, and Freedom”.

So it may sound a little hypocritical that I’m calling for a cessation of all mobile phone use while driving a motor vehicle. In the last several days I’ve had to take drastic evasive action numerous times to avoid being hit by vehicles piloted by drivers with mobile phones adhered to their heads.

But before you start preaching to me about how we shouldn’t enact more laws restricting people’s freedoms, let me clarify: I’m not asking for a legal ban on mobile phone use while driving. I’m asking for a “defense to prosecution”.

Instead of making it illegal to talk on a phone while driving, let’s make it LEGAL for you or I to extract the phone wielding driver of the vehicle out of their car via the vent window (remember those?) and administer a good thrashing right there on the side of the road after the crash.

I’m asking for more freedom, not less. Wouldn’t this world be a safer place if we all had the freedom to just slap the stupid right out of people who can’t talk and drive at the same time?