A Honda Wander

Ah, to pretend to be Marquez...

I finally found KW Honda today!  It's hidden around back of the big Honda car dealer peddling bland people movers.  If you head around back you find Repsol themed race bikes and jewel like VFRs.

On a much needed lunch break from Skills Ontario provincial championships with thousands of boisterous teenagers watching a few hundred wonderfully talented ones, I got some head space wandering through the Hondas.

The bike I longed for as a teenager was the VFR750, so I was hoping to find its spiritual successor at the Honda dealer, and I wasn't disappointed.  

The white VFR800 they had on the floor was breathtaking.  The paint has a subtle pearl iridescence that gives it fantastic depth.  Every detail of the machine has a finished quality to it that I've found lacking in a lot of other bikes; it's a bike worthy of desire.

Stealth fighter cool front end on the VFR800...

 













They had a number of older Hondas as well, including this astonishing 1970s CBX with a massive air cooled six in it!

If I had thirteen grand to throw around a VFR would be in the garage right quick.  Sitting on it, my legs are about as folded as the Concours, I'm leaned forward more but it's a substantial bike, I don't feel like a circus bear on it.

Yamaha PW80

After doing a partial dismantling of my son's new (to us) '04 Yamaha PW80, I put it back together again and learned a valuable lesson in dirt bike ownership:  always turn off the fuel tap.  Other than carb pressure and gravity, there is nothing else stopping your garage from smelling like gas and a puddle forming.

The second dismantling came when it wouldn't start after the flood.  The spark plug was always dodgy, so I've gotten a pair of new ones (no problem finding them at Canadian Tire).

Good advice, straight from Yamaha

A tiny amount of Googling found me the Yamaha shop/operating manual, that covers everything from not carrying dogs on the bike with you to how to tear down the engine.

This is such a simple machine that it's a great way to get a handle on the basic motorbike system.  If you want to get handy with bike maintenance, start with a dirt bike (I started with a Concours...).

The next strip down has been more comprehensive, though to remove the tank, fairings and seat takes all of seven bolts.  The air filter was pretty bad with chunks of mud in the air box.  It's a shame that people treat a bike like that then just chuck in storage.  Why not clean it first?  In any case it's clean now.

The metal shop at school
sorted out the broken muffler.

I've got a busy hands afternoon after work checking the new plugs for spark (it's definitely getting gas) and putting it back together again knowing that I've taken it right down to the engine.  With how it took off last weekend (I impromtu wheelied down the driveway thinking it would barely be able to move me on it), I'm looking forward to seeing how spunky it is with a complete tune up.

With a new plug in it has strong spark - the carb is stinking of gas and it still won't start.  Time to pull the carburetor and sort it out before giving it another go.  Leaving it open overnight doesn't appear to have done it any favours.

The unhappy carburator

A Yamaha PW80 down to the mechanicals

I've got to get my mits on a me-sized dirt bike so we can go into the woods together up at the inlaw's cottage.  That DR600 Dakar is still for sale, I wonder if he'd take a grand for it.  It's a bit more than a mid-sized dirt bike, but it would do the business and also eventually adventure bike for me too.


It'd make a good Swiss army knife bike.

Motorcycle Mojo: Tim's Birthday Edition

My great aunt and Granddad across the page from a Triumph,
I think they'd approve!

It's been a good month for publishing.  Glenn at Motorcycle Mojo ran two pieces I'd submitted.


In the Remember When section I'd sent in the family photos I'd discovered while back home in Norfolk, England in 2013.

It was a real joy to see Grand-dad and a great Aunt I'd never met in pages that I knew were being seen across Canada.

Our Vancouver Island adventure got many pages!

I was then astonished to see that Glenn had also run the article I handed in last year on our ride on Vancouver Island.  Seeing my byline right behind Lawrence Hacking's was a real rush!

There is no greater satisfaction for an English major than seeing your writing published.  I've managed it academically, but this was my first go at motorcycle media and it was no less satisfying.

The Motorcycle Mojo piece reads well (and I'm a tough critic with myself).  After seeing myself in print I think I might be addicted.  I'm so glad I brought the camera and aimed to write this up from the beginning, it's like reliving the trip over again, and my son Max is over the moon!

I've already pitched another piece to Glenn.

If you've thought of writing out a motorbike experience but didn't, give it a go!  Glenn is a considerate editor and the joy of seeing your words publicized is powerful!

Vancouver Island?!?!?  How can you not want to read that?!?

Brand Loyalty & Bilingualism

Brand loyalty seems to affect motorcyclists more than most.  Even when they don't work, motorcycle riders are partial to their rides in a way that owners of other modes of transport aren't.  With that in mind I just completely ignored my Kawasaki only motorcycle history to this point and just picked up a bike for my son: a Yamaha PW80.  I guess we're now officially bilingual.

It needs a cleanup and some TLC, but the bike is straight and solid.  Once I've got it sorted we'll be practising circles on the dead end road out front of our place.

They were asking $800, but rather than start there I asked what they were asking.  Since the Mom had put it up for sale and she wasn't talking to me, it was suddenly $700.  I suggested $600, they went with $675.  For a seldom used, nicely stored 2004 Yamaha PW80, I think I came out ahead.  I could sell it tomorrow for a couple of hundred more than I got it.

I'm still looking for something off-road for me to head out on with Max.  If I had a mint to throw at it I'd go pick up a late model DRZ-400 or a KLX-250, but I don't.  I'm hoping for a an older enduro bike, but sub 500cc; they don't come up often.  This is going to be a primarily off-road machine, so lugging a 600+cc 'adventure' bike on the trails isn't a thrilling prospect.  A big enough for me but light off-road machine is the goal.

I'm going to take Max out to the Junior Red Riders course early this summer, then I'm going to make as many trips to Bobcageon as I can manage to get us some time on two wheels together.

Getting into the PW80 was an easy prospect.  The seat pops off with a couple of nuts under the fender and the tank with a couple of bolts.  I'm not sure if two stroke oil can go off so I left it as is, but I emptied the gas tank and put in new gas (the former owner guessed the gas was at least a couple of years old).

I got it started and running smoothly and took it for a run around the circle we live on.  It took off like a scalded rabbit!  I could barely hang on.  The only issue is a broken exhaust.  I'm hoping our metal shop genius at school can sort it out tomorrow.  With a tight exhaust we'll be off to the trails!

Brand loyalty did play a part in this.  Another bike we went to go see was a Baja 90cc dirt bike.  It looked pretty cobbled together and the fact that it was a Chinese bike gave me the willies.  I might not be a Kawasaki or nothing guy, but I know better than to buy a dodgy, Chinese knockoff.

Ancaster And Back Again

Elora to Ancaster and back again... about 160kms

Another weekend another good ride, this time to Ancaster and back for an edcamp.  One again the Concours impressed with its ability to cover miles with ease.

It was about 6°C when I left at 7:30 in the morning, and up in the high teens when I came back mid-afternoon.  Both ways was comfortable though behind the fairings, and the new jacket is light-years beyond the old one in terms of both warming and cooling.

I had a moment riding when I was flying through the air on the back of the bike realizing that there is nothing about doing this that I don't enjoy.  It was a windy day, the roads post Canadian winter look like a war zone and it was cold, but even with all that I was still stringing perfect moments together as I flew down the road.  I had a moment before the big trip last week when I was wondering if I'm not taking too many risks riding with my son.  What finally put me right was realizing that driving a car can end you as well, but we do that much more often and usually while paying less attention.  I looked back one time as we were winding our way through Beaver Valley and saw Max with his arms out and eyes closed flying through the air behind me.  I would have hated myself if I'd have never given him that experience.  Riding might be dangerous, but competence and attention can go a long way in mitigating those risks, and the rewards are impossible to find in any other mode of transport.

The more I ride the Concours the better the engine seems to get. On the way home I stuck the phone behind the windshield and got the video below where you can hear the Concour's happy noise.  

Sulphur Springs Road - a better way in is on Mineral Springs Road, the top of Sulphur Springs is rough!

Mineral Springs Road on the way back, it's still Ontario bumpy, but it ain't dirt and it is twisty!

Back up in Centre Wellington, the Concours takes a break where I took the first road pic of my former bike

I always thought that the Ninja was a delight to rev, but the throaty howl of the Concours in full song is hard not to fall in love with:

Flight of the Concours

... with musical accompaniment by Takeshi Terauchi & The Bunnies!

A Stolen Weekend

About 340 kms over two days...

You know you're cutting it close when you're on your first two wheel road trip of the year and you ride into flurries.  Sunday was supposed to be fantastic, high teens Celsius and sunny, but we headed out on Saturday morning and found ourselves riding into a whiteout.

A bandit hat and some
chemical hand warmers from
Shelburne Home Hardware
saved the day!

We'd pulled into Shelburne after forty minutes on the bike frozen stiff.  Staggering in to Tim Hortons we both sat down and waited for our fingers to work so we could take off our helmets.  Half an hour later, after warming ourselves up on tea and grilled cheese, we crossed the road to the Home Hardware and got the last balaclava and some chemical hand warmers.  We hit the road and rode right into that whiteout, but at least we had warm hands.

As the snow swirled Max tucked in behind me and I tucked in behind the windshield.  The wind had been strong all morning but now with snow it was out to get us.  If accumulation began I was going to pull over, but as quickly as it appeared it blew off again, leaving us with frozen steel skies.  Ah, the joys of riding in Canada.

The plan was to head from the flat and boring grid of roads around us to where the pavement gets interesting.  The Niagara Escarpment is about forty five minutes away, so the plan was to get onto it in Horning's Mills and then wind our way up to Collingwood on Georgian Bay where we had a room booked at the Georgian Manor.

There are twisty roads in Southern Ontario!  River Road out of Horning's Mills is such a one.

Riding through the valley meant being out of the biting wind, but cutting back across the escarpment put us up on a ridge where the wind blasted us sideways.  It was with relief that we wound down next to Noisy River and into Creemore where we had poutine for lunch at The Old Mill House Pub right across the street from the Creemore Brewery.

Connie making Bavarian friends in Creemore.  KMW!

By the time we came out after lunch the sun had appeared and the temperature was up to a much more bearable eight degrees (we're Canadian, 8°C is bearable).  We dropped in to the brewery (they do tours!) and wandered up the main street before getting back on the bike and heading north again.

This was our first trip on my new machine.  I'd sold the dependable, newer/first bike Ninja and purchased a 1994 Kawasaki Concours I'd found in a field.  Over the winter I'd taken it apart and put it back together again.  It had just passed safety the week before our trip.  Riding to Collingwood was my first chance to really get to know this much bigger but surprisingly athletic bike.  That it could manage the two of us with panniers and topbox full with no problems only underlined the fact that this bike is the best eight hundred bucks I've ever spent.

We continued to weave across the escarpment finally cresting Blue Mountain and rolling down into Collingwood at about 4pm.  The Georgian Manor Resort is one of those places that looked like it was really popular in the 1980s.  It has a past its prime kind of ex-Hollywood starlet feel to it.  What I do know is that Max and I had the pool and hot tub to ourselves, and boy did we need it.

We'd bagged the room for a hundred bucks for the night and used the heck out of it.  After a swim and a lay down we went for take out and then came back and had a picnic on the big bed.  We went for a late swim and then passed out early.  Our Sunday ride was beckoning and now that we'd warmed ourselves up and eaten some hot food we were ready for a good sleep.


The next morning we bailed on the free continental breakfast at the Manor after a friend facebooked saying they might hard sell us on a time-share.  That never happened (they were fantastic at the desk getting us in early and getting us out quickly on Sunday) but then we were on the road by 8am on Sunday morning.  We headed over to the Sunset Grill on Blue Mountain and had a fantastic and surprisingly affordable hot breakfast.



Astonishingly the runs were still open and skiers were squeezing a last day out of a long, cold winter.  Max and I stood there with our helmets and biking jackets watching people ski on the very wet snow.

After the resort we headed up and over the (Ontario sized) Blue Mountain...

The roads were empty and bone dry.  It was already warmer at 10am than it had been the day before.  The Concours was running like a Swiss watch and we were warm and loose in the saddle.  The back side of Blue Mountain is covered in apple orchards which led us to Thornbury, the home of one of the best cideries in Ontario.  We passed the cidery and stopped to check out the fish ladder and mill before having a long, slow coffee at Ashanti.

Ever noticed how everyone wants to stop and have a chat when you're on a motorbike?  I'd already had an unrealistic amount of support from the clerk at Shelburne Home Hardware, the waitress in Creemore and the hotel concierge in Collingwood.  People seem to respond to your vulnerability by wanting to connect with you.  While sitting at the coffee shop a local photographer who was leading a group on a photographic tour of the town stopped to talk bikes (he didn't have his out yet).  Another fellow told me about his 86 year old uncle who still rides his BMW everywhere.  A number of people assumed my big Kawi was a BMW on this trip.  I'm not sure if that's a bad thing or not.

After our coffee break we rode down to the still frozen harbour in Thornbury and spent a few minutes watching the fisherman fish and the boat owners doing maintenance, all while ice broke off from the shore and floated out into the bay.

We then saddled up and took a winding, scenic ride down through Beaver Valley to Flesherton.  After another stop to stretch we jumped on the Connie and thundered south across the never ending farm fields toward home.

The Concours was flawless.  It fired up immediately and ran perfectly.  I'm astonished at how well it handles when I'm out on it alone, but even more astonishing is how well it handles with full panniers and top box and my son on the back.  The suspension is light years beyond the hard ride of the Ninja, and the big motor swallows miles with ease.  Sometimes, if you get off the gas suddenly you can get a bit of a belch out of the motor.  Not a backfire, but a nice pop out of the exhaust.  The bike toodles along around 3500rpm at 100km/hr and leaps down the road if you twist the throttle.

Heading out this early in the season meant we got home and there wasn't a single bug splat anywhere.  That won't be the case on future trips.  Canada goes from snow season to bug season pretty quickly, but in between we stole a weekend and got to know and love the new bike.

Greasy Hands Preachers

I got a copy of The Greasy Hands Preachers through Vimeo the other day.  I enjoyed Long Live The Kings, though the hipster meter got pegged a couple of times, TGHP was similar.

The Greasy Hands Preachers interviews builders in the current custom motorcycle scene under the pretext of emphasizing the value of skilled manual labour.  The movie is nicely shot (though sometimes gratuitously hand held and pull zoomed).  By using off-the-cuff interviews you get glimpses into the deeper motivations of these custom builders, most of whom have more in common with sculptures than mechanics.

I've spent most of my life in an orbit back to valuing my smart hands.  In my late teens I was apprenticing as a millwright and struggling with the idea that I was undervaluing my mind.  The thought of decades of repetitive, menial work drove me to eventually quit and go to university where I could finally prove to myself that I'm smarter than people told me I was.

But smart hands don't like inactivity.  The intimate act of dismantling, understanding and healing a machine stays with you, and your hands itch to make things work again.  Cars had devolved from a special interest to a utilitarian necessity for me.  Working on them was menial rather than scratching an infatuation.  It wasn't until I started riding a couple of years ago that I found a machine that fostered a sufficiently intimate relationship to warrant infatuation.  The ability to express my smart hands on a motorbike and heal the machine is half the thrill of riding.

The Greasy Hands Preachers are preaching to the converted with me.  The

arc from white to blue collar work experienced by several of the people in the film is one familiar to me.  But rather than pierce the veil and coherently express the underlying urges behind the resurging DIY ethos, GHP only hints at it.  I think this is a result of their unscripted interview approach.  Asking an artist to spontaneously and coherently express their process is unlikely to produce a clear view of what they do.  Expecting them to be able to do so while on camera isn't going to lead the viewer to a deep, nuanced understanding of how a mechanical artist values their hands.

Were it me, I would have started with the interviews and then had a scripted followup that clarified and deepened the narrative.  I can't help but think GHP is an opportunity lost.

If you want to look right into the heart of the DIY resurgence pick up Shopclass As Soulcraft and discover an intelligent explanation of the value of skilled labour.  I was hoping that Greasy Hands Preachers would approach Crawford's brilliant little book in terms of realizing the value of hands-on work, but instead it's a pretty, sometimes banal film that hints at deeper ideas.

Would I recommend The Greasy Hands Preachers?  Certainly.  It's a beautifully filmed opportunity to consider an important part of being human.  If you read Shopclass As Soulcraft first (as I'm guessing the makers of GHP didn't) you'd be ready to create your own meaning, which is probably better than being spoon fed anyway.