garyahouse
newbs need the forum
This past weekend I did a favor for my only niece. This is NOT ME> it's a picture from the internet of what this thing looks like.
My story: My niece Heather's a great girl. She comes from a rough home and moved to Fla. several years ago after graduating from college to strike out on her own. She lives in Tampa on her own and is doing well. About a year ago, her mother (my sister in law) died an untimely death. It was a difficult time for her. Her mother had just purchased a 2002 Yammie 650 V-twin cruiser. Everything she owned was willed to her children, the bike going to Heather. Though her father (my brother in law) promised her that he'd ride or tow the bike to Tampa for her, after a year of waiting, nothing happened. When I asked her about it, her reply: "You know my dad..." What a sad commentary about a father. A man should never make a promise that he doesn't intend to keep. What's happened to men in America? Don't EVEN get me started on that one. Anyway, as we were talking about her dilemma about a month ago, I told her she could have it shipped for about 500 or so. She commented that she didn't even have a motorcycle license or know how to ride one, and that all of this was a lot of money for her right now.
I told her the story of my daughter Kathleen and how she took a motorcycle training course, available to anyone in Fla for 175.00 or so... and how that she got her license and we bought her a 73 CB350 four Honda. I told her how Kathleen loved it sooooo much. By the way, brand new development tonight: Kathleen taught her fiancé to ride recently, and now he's making a deal to purchase Kathleen's roomate's 81 Honda CM 400. How cool is that? In another year when Brandon becomes a doctor, maybe he can make house calls on his motorcycle. Remember the old TV show, Marcus Welby MD and young doctor Kiley and his motorcycle? I digress.
So back to my story. Heather said she couldn't afford it right now. But I could see the excitement in her eyes. She really wanted to be able to own and ride her mother's bike. So I couldn't resist. I told her I had an idea. "If you can fly me to Detroit, I can drive the bike back here for you. The gas will probably only be about 100 bucks. I can stay at my cousin Steve's place in Knoxville, so there won't be any cost for a hotel. It's easy to get your license, I'll help you through the process. I could do this as soon as the Memorial Day weekend." With that, she agreed. She took the classes, got her license, and bought me a ticket to Detroit.
On Saturday, I spent the day in and out of airports. After a brief stay with my mother-in-law and brother-in-law, Sunday morning I loaded up the 650 and headed out. One hour into the trip, I found out the good news and the bad. I was happy to see that the little Yammie could indeed do 80 and then some. That was good news. The vibration was manageable. The seating position however, was not. Here's where my happy beginning begins to turn sour. With my feet forward on the floorboards, rather than under me, all my weight was on my but. The biggest problem however, was the seat itself. It's built like a hammock. It's like a bucket. Your butt is pretty much forced into the pocket with very little room to move. But the biggest problem is the way you have to sit on the back of your but, on the tailbone. Funny how ya don't notice it when ya first sit in the saddle. Having never ridden a cruiser for more than a mile or two, I had no idea what level of pain that seating position could generate. By three hours into the trip, I was in agony. Words fail me here. Every bump, every tar strip, and it only got worse as the day wore on. i-75 can be a very bumpy ride in the northern states. By the way, I was able to make 135 miles until I hit reserve so I ended up stopping 12 times for gas from Detroit to Tampa.
But it gets worse.
By the time I reached to Tennessee border, the six inch strip of white skin exposed between my pants and my shortie white socks was sunburned, which I found out later that night. It's still killing me 3 days later. I won't make that mistake again. When I finally got off the bike after about 10 hours in the saddle, I refused to sit anywhere for about 2 hours at my cousin's house. I don't recall ever having that much pain from riding.
Next morning, I was on my way at 6:45. The seat actually felt pretty comfortable. "Hey," I thought, "Maybe I'm getting used to this thing." Nothing could be further from the truth. About the only thing I could be thankful for was that Georgia and Florida roads are extremely smooth. So all day long, I was making good time, tooling along at 75-80 (or as much as the speed limits would allow). Couldn't believe the number of people I saw pulled over getting speeding tickets on Memorial Day. Wasn't it nice that the boys in uniform wanted to help everybody celebrate the holiday? I was able to keep my sanity most of the day due to three factors. First my iPod was working fine. Wish I could say as much for my Chatterbox and my cell phone. Blutooth was NOT cooperating very well. I had some decent long socks on, so that cured the sunburn problem. And finally, I found that by counting down the miles before I had to stop for gas, I could pace myself to endure the pain created from the battle my tailbone was waging against that excuse for a seat. I was making pretty good time. I remember thinking to myself, 4 more hours. I can do this. Somehow I can take this for a few more hours.
But that was not to be the case.
With 90 miles showing on the odometer since my last fill up, the bike started sputtering. I reached down and flipped it to reserve. Uh-oh. Still sputtering.
Think: on is down, up is reserve.
Double check?
Yeah I've got it right.
But why was the bike sputtering?
Seems like it's going to run out of gas any second now. Of course, I'm right in the middle of nowhere. I pictured myself pushing that 550 lb. beast in this heat for miles... However, it kept running at about 50 for about 5 miles until I came to a gas station. Seemed like it was running on one cylinder. A bunch of questions were running through my mind. It couldn't be out of gas. It must be a fouled plug? I had a couple in the toolkit. Maybe this will be quick and easy. I pulled both plugs at the gas station. It was indeed not out gas. Both plugs were seriously clean and.... WHITE. Wouldn't something like a weak coil cause one plug to be black if it wasn't firing? It WAS firing... at slower speeds. When I pulled into the station, the bike ran normal, until I gave it some throttle. Both plugs looked the same... like they'd just been put in new. I'm thinking: burning lean. Must be a clogged filter or petcock? The bike sat with a near empty tank in a garage for a year. Now what? I filled it with premium to cool off the burn, remembering from high school auto-shop class that premium doesn't burn as hot as regular. So I took a chance and headed for home. I prayed that I made the right decision. I was about 100 miles north of the Florida border, and maybe 300 miles from home. I discovered that if I pulled the choke out about half way, the engine ran on two cylinders up to about 55-
300 miles at 55?
"I can do this," I told myself.
My hand got extremely sore and tired from holding that spring loaded choke. However, it did take my mind off my sore but. I'm not talking just... sore. I need a new word here. Stabbing, brutal pain. It was awful. The tailbone doesn't play well with others, it seems. At just before 9 pm, my exhausted and sore carcass rolled into my driveway; I pried myself off that miserable beast, put both my hands in the air and did my best end zone dance. However, the but had other plans.
Home sweet home. I went to bed at 9:30 and slept like a baby.
Interesting thought. I must have asked 15 different people to pray for me before I left. As much moaning and groaning as I've done here, I am indeed thankful that I made it home safe, in one piece, and on time. I'm thinking that my happy (but sore) ending was not because of MY skills or just dumb luck. Anyway, the alarm went off at 5 am the very next morning, and I was NOT late for work. By the way, I have never been more thankful for the quality, power, and design of my FJR as I was today. What a difference. I guess ya gotta ride something else to get a fresh dose of the reality that there's nothing like that beautiful blue steed that sits in my garage each night.
Gary
sore-sider #44
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