Shovelhead progress!

   After a few weeks of fucking off and not working on the shovelhead, I finally got back to it. Jamey and I figured out the proper spacing for the rear fender, I cut out some rubber for the frame mounts, and robbed some spacers and other shit for the other mounting points. Wayne and I bent a sissy bar last week and George and I finished it up this week. All out of stainless made for a few extra issues and George bailed me out of a major jam by being so kind as to bring his fuckin tig to the shop. I think I owe him a favor for that. Thanks George! What are you wearing?
   Anyhow, we got the sissy bar pretty squared away. I had ordered some threaded bungs from bung king, those guys are fuckin awesome, and George is a wizard on the tig. This makes for a spectacular finished product.
•End transmission•

Sunday ride!

   This past weekend, Mr. Jamey Thorpe assembled a small group of guys, including myself. He then devised a plan to ride to s.f. to meet our buddy Dave Kafton. Sunday came and we executed this plan with godlike precision. Kind of.
   The Stockton detachment left from Jamey's to meet up with George and Willie in Manteca. We hop on the freeway and I notice a funky noise...my clutch lever is flopping around, no tension on it whatsoever..apparently I didn't tighten my adjusting nut after dialing in my clutch the night before. I guess last minute checks while stoned isn't a good idea. We pull off the freeway and I quick fix, readjusting with a big guess. Perfect. Or, close enough. Back on the road.
   We meet up with George and Willie and hit the road. Over the altamont, gas stop in Castro valley, through Hayward, San Mateo bridge. Shit nigga, we're there. Good weather, a shit ton of bikes, food and beer.
   Dave should be arriving at the Dudley Perkins hd dealer anytime now. This is the last stop of the cannonball run, a cross country endurance race on pre 1930 motorcycles. Fuckin rad!
    We hung out and ate/drank and bullshitted for a bit, all of the racers rolled in after a month of ass-punishing riding and Dave ended up finishing in the top ten. Also Fuckin rad. We greeted him, fucked off some more and headed home.
   Smooth sailing all the way home except for Pat's off ramp hijinks. Those stopped cars come up quick sometimes.. No serious breakdowns, no dickheads cutting us off, awesome ride. Our group was small. Small but mighty. If a good time was our primary objective, mission: accomplished.
•End transmission•

Billetproof 2012: part three.

Part three: happy endings.
   Hotter than shit and ready for relief, Jamey says, "let's get the fuck outta here." Strangely, none of our sweat laden crew are opposed to this idea. Delta loop, engage! Turn on the gas, prime kick, roars to life.
   We headed back up the road, hit the toll booth and we're on our way. The Antioch bridge once again  offered a beautiful sight from the peak. The tippy top, if you will. Myself and the boys zipped right along with Tony, Ashley, and Lyndel giving chase in the '59. Visions of air conditioning and cold beers danced vividly in our heads. Shift gears, turn here, almost there!
   We approach our first stop, Fosters big horn, in rio vista. Park the bikes and make our way inside the bar. This bar is unlike any other I've been to. If you love animals, dead animals specifically, you will love Fosters. Or if maybe you're a decapitation connoisseur, you will love Fosters. Just about every animal you can think of has its head on the wall of this bar. From the moose to the platypus, to the elephant and the dik-dik. There is a fuckload of animal remains. Awesome. Finish our beers, kick the bikes, rubber to road.
   One last stop on the agenda and we take another short yet scenic jaunt a little further down the loop. We end up at Al the Wop's in Locke. A very cool place on a small little stretch that is now sort of a ghost town. Cool wooden floors and old historic buildings. The bathroom even had a chalkboard, where the words "Peppermint Patty" were inscribed. Sort of a tradition. Pat gets mad, but I know he likes the attention. We head outside after a bit of bullshitting and decide to head for home. Strap on the helmet, jam her in first, homeward bound.
   We blasted down the road like a pack of rabid donkeys and found our way to I-5. Hit the on ramp and away we went, cruising together for the first 15 seconds or so as our group dissipated and people split off and went their separate ways. Jamey, Pat and Jack sped onward as if one or all of them had to shit. Really bad. I hung back with Timmo and Tone Loc for a bit and decided to see a little more of what my Sporty could do. I was not disappointed. Hug the tank, twist the throttle, grit my teeth.
   Everyone made it home with no major problems. Except Jamey, apparently he didn't like his clutch pedal and decided to jettison that fucker on I-5 somewheres. The pedal's whereabouts are still unknown. All in all, it was an awesome day, a really good group of friends, the road was kind to us, and everyone had a good time. Thanks to all of the homeboys who made the trip. Hopefully next year is just as awesome.
•End transmission•

Billetproof 2012: part two.

Part two: perseverance.
   The day wears on. The God forsaken sun staring down menacingly from high above, punishing foreheads, backs of necks, and my will to walk around in this hell. This hell of sweltering heat, sweat, and beer breath.
   Around noon. Time to start the barbecue. I'm pretty sure the Tri tips would cook just sitting in the sun. Nonetheless, we fire it up and on goes the meat. After all, a nigga gotsta eat. While we waited for shit to cook, we passed the time with shit talking, gay jokes, and grab ass. As per usual. I'm pretty good at all three.
   After sampling a few appetizers from the grill, Dave, Chris, and myself decided that sitting and sweating our asses off was semi retarded. So, we went in search of shade, and low and behold, we found some! Picnic benches. In the shade. Awesome. We took shelter for a while and honed our people watching skills.
   Ready to abandon our oasis and brave the heat again, we made our way through the rows of badass cars and found a few guys selling chopper parts. None of which we bought. Fun to look however. Head back to the truck, eat me some tri tip, make more lame jokes. Check.
   Back at base camp, we huddled in the shadows of the vehicles, as that was the only source of shade.  We drank a bit more, dehydration is the real killer in these survival type situations. Hung out with Marty,  Timmo and the boys, then rumors of us leaving soon started floating around. Time for one last pass around the show.
   Saying our goodbyes, Chris and I got to witness Brian Berry from the dead end cruisers do a very nice standing burnout on his shovelhead. Up until he was stopped by event staff and a pudgy little policeman. Whatever.
   Let's hit the road. Its still pretty early, I think the delta loop is in our immediate future. Anyone feel like a cruise down 160?
To be continued..
•End transmission•

Billetproof 2012: part one.

Part one: beginnings.
   The 6am alarm sounded, rattling me awake and pissing me off. Last night's vices still lingered in my bloodstream, not keeping me stoned, just keeping me lethargic. Take a shit, get dressed, get my bike out. Almost time to meet up at Jamey's.
   On his way to my abode is Chris Taylor, and some other dude, who would later pussy out and end up going home before we even get to the JTO compound. Whatever. Meet with Jamey, hit the freeway, we're there.
   As soon as we touch down at the shop we start the small list of last minute b.s. and I scramble to help whoever might need it. Roughly an hour passes, Patrice's risers are changed, Tony's timing is set, and beers are put to the ice. Let's hit the Fuckin trail! We pick up our buddy Dave on the way out of town, and its rubber to road.
   We hopped and skipped our asses off of our seats the whole way, blasting down the harrowing shit trail formally known as highway 12. Eventually the bumpy roads gave way to smooth sailing and beautiful views, including the awesome sight from atop the Antioch bridge. Marty swerved in the pickup, Tony scraped in the '59, we all made it.
   Arriving at the show I was pleased to learn that a buddy of Jamey's was running the front gate and got us in for free, sparing us the pain of the 30 dollar entry fee. Split through the crowd, park the bikes, beer me.
To be continued....
•End transmission•

The ol' shakedown!

So, after a month of downtime and a week of just putting around town, it was time for a little cruise. Just to see if anything would break or rattle off..
A simple little 28mi round trip to shopnight and back. The ironhead ran great and FUCK it felt good to finally ride! I'm up for a few more last minute checks this week and I think I'm ready for billetproof. Always a good time hanging out with the homeboys!
•End transmission•

What the fuck?

So yeah, me and a buddy were cruising back from the bike shop when we spotted THIS chud! He was getting down the road like a boss on his Subaru powered trike! Marvel at the fine craftsmanship, from the shag carpet lined king and queen seat, to the custom built wheelie bar contraption. And no badass Subaru trike chopper would be complete without a set of Maltese cross mirrors. What the fuck happened?
•End transmission•

Sadness: The ratchet plate chronicles.

So, upon returning from our trek to born free 4, I noticed some noise coming from the primary on the ironhead. I was reluctant to investigate the cause of this on account of me being a lazy fucker, and pulling the primary being a pain in the ass. Long story short, I pulled the primary, clutch hub, etc., and found my kicker components to be the culprit. No problem. Install a new kit and call it good, right? Wrong, nigga. After a complete kit was slapped on, the kick pedal pushed straight through...the kicker gear and ratchet plate weren't making contact..everything is brand new, how could this be? After a lot of cussing, head scratching, and friend asking, I decided to measure the teeth on the old ratchet plate and discovered that they are about 1/16" taller than those on the brand new plate. (fuck you drag specialties.) Anyhoo...put the old plate back on and the fucker works fine. No more noise either. This fiasco took about a month and FINALLY, I was able to ride again. Here are a few pics from here and there, some shit to lighten the mood. Enjoy.
•End transmission•