Jezebel

I think my red V45 told me her name today. As she backfired on start up. This is a new behavior and indicates she's feeling worse than last week. She did get me to SME and back without incident, and some days she obviously feels better than others. but today she told me her name.

Jezebel. Red-haired bitch. Either this weekend on on the 4th I'm gonna tear into the carbs for a fourth attempt, plus install the DRP shims. Probably install an inline fuel filter while I'm at it.

If that doesn't fix her, I may cut my losses and dump her in the river. (Or, in biblical terms, feed her to wild dogs...)

First Ever SME

I attended my first ever SME (Sab-Mag Event) at Burr Oak State Park in Glouster, OH on 6/22 through 6/24. This is the same annual event I attempted to attend last year and ended up cooking my V30 on the way. (See Ravens Last Flight)

I managed to take a few pictures with my camera phone. I saw others snapping photos with far better cameras than mine, so I'm looking forward to those pictures.

Such as I have, I'll share with the group.

SME Photos

Wingless

Sold my GoldWing on eBay 1 year and 6000 miles later for exactly what I paid for it.

Cash in hand.

Nothing but an oil filter, oil, spark plugs and gasoline for a year's use.

Not a bad thing.

We're a V4-only family again.

Carberation

I think based on this review the problem I'm seeing with mine is a known problem with Magna carberation.

http://www.motorcycle.com/mo/mchonda/magna.html

I think I'll be rejetting my bike, whether or not I put custom exhaust on it.

Magnas, Hornets and Yamahas

Thanks to input from this group, and research I've done elsewhere, I've decided what I'm experiencing must be a particularly nasty variety of the "known" carberation issue with New Magnas... that is, lean surging at 4 to 5k on the tach.

Why some are cursed with it and others don't seem to notice is a puzzlement to me. I wonder if it's partly bike specific, and partly due to different riding styles. In the canyons you'd never notice surge because you'd be rolling on and off. You notice it on the highway. My buddy with his 96 first claimed his didn't do that. Then later, after a specific description of it, he reported, yes it does, but it was hardly noticeable.

Tampering with the pilot air screws won't do diddly poo, if I'm not mistaken. That would only affect the mix at idle.

On the other side of this discussion, I floated the "I need a fuel injected bike" by my wife and she didn't flinch. Been ogling the CB900F. I sat on a YZF1 and YZF6 at the Yamaha dealer on Thursday. I can't have just *one* bike. Gonna have room in the garage shortly when the Wing sells on eBay.

(grin)

Cycle Recycle

I broke the clutch lever on Black Betty on her "last hurrah", the trip to Hunstville. Knocked her over in the driveway before I even left.

I bought an aftermarket part on eBay that did not fit.

I pulled Black Betty out, rode her to Cycle Recycle. For me it's a 10 mile trip.

Took the broken lever off, walked into the store.

Guy sees me and sizes me up. What year Goldwing do you have, 1981 or 82. I don't think he saw me pull up but maybe he did. I parked across the street and out of sight.

Pulls the part off the shelf and hands it to me.

$7.80.

You gotta love it. Yeah, cheaper maybe at some online place, but I'd already tried once and got the wrong part, even though it was supposed to fit a 1982 GL1100I.

This place has thousands of parts for old bikes. I saw Maggie May's side cover there, I think.

http://crc2onlinecatalog.com/

Worth a stop if you're passing through Indiana.

Runs better on a cool morning

This has to be a clue.

My bike (94 Magna) surges more in 80 degree weather than in 50 degree weather.

Warmer air means ... leaner mix? Or what?

First Road Trip on the New Magna

100 miles each way from Indianapolis, IN to Eaton, OH and back probably doesn't qualify as a trip report in Maggotdom, but it is significant to me since it is the first ride out of state for the New Magna.

To sum up the trip: My back hurts!

I know this will be a blinding flash of the obvious to so many on the list. But the ergos on this bike are not suited for even a 100 mile trip, at least for *my* frame.

Feet are forward just enough to arc the back just enough to put pressure at the base of the spine. Not the tailbone, like I expected, but really the small of my back. For this reason, I think a better seat won't really help. It's not my butt that's sore, it's the small of my back.

I noticed the footpegs on the New Magna are forward even compared to the pegs on the V30. The V30 was more of a true standard seating position, and this same trip in 2006 on a V30 was not a source of back pain.

I slabbed I-70 from Indianapolis to exit 1 inside Ohio. US-35 south to Eaton.

For 20 minutes at a time, I hooked my heels on the passenger pegs and laid down on the tank, looking like a frog.

Carberators aside, I may be looking for another bike for better ergonomics.

Three is a crowd

I'm gonna get rid of the Wing now that I have the Magna up and running, more or less.

Surges/Fluctuates at 4000 rpm

The collective is no doubt as tired of hearing about my carb woes as I am weary of reporting them.

But, there is another chapter, and I beg your indulgence to my telling it. And hope that there is some collective wisdom to help me.

Carbs were removed and disassembled, bathed and cleaned, blasted out, and reassembled.

Now the bike doesn't run so freaking hot. It idles at 1000 rpm whether hot or cold. It doesn't surge at idle. It is a new bike! It actually gets me down the road.

But, I've noticed a definite surge at 4000 rpm. It begins to appear at about 3200 rpm, and goes away by 4200 rpm. It is strongest at 4000 rpm. With the clutch pulled in, and the throttle held in one spot, it will fluctuate from 4000 to 4300 rpm.

I've been feeling this as a lumpy power delivery in the 4000 rpm range. I thought I was nuts. Then I thought it was the chain. Then I finally figured out how to reproduce it while it was standing still.

As far as I can tell, the carbs are sync'ed and balanced. As far as I can tell, there is no vacuum leak.

It seems that the limited rpm range where this happens would be a jetting issue? Maybe?

I've heard one suggestion of upgrading the spark wires -- I've seen that in several places as frequently needed upgrade for these "new" magnas.

That will perhaps be my next try, unless there is something else you can think of for me to try...

Two Wheeled Madness by Sasquatch

There is something about riding a motorcycle that can transform a quiet middle-aged man into an ill-disciplined hooligan with the manners of an escaped convict. I know this to be true, because I'm one of them.

I have no idea why two wheels and a motor have that effect on me, but they do and like my waistline and my prostate, motorcycle madness seems to be growing with me as I age. Without doubt, part of the problem has to be attributed to the gear I wear when I ride. It's a sociological fact that the correct garb plays a major role in acting like a middle-aged buffoon on a loud motorcycle.

Everyday at work I am as mild mannered and inconspicuous as Clark Kent. I dress neatly, I'm well groomed and I make it a point not to discuss politics, religion or bodily functions of any kind with my co-workers. Five days a week from nine to five, I'm just your average office shmo in a polyester shirt and a cheap tie. But after work when I arrive home, my world, my attitude and my wardrobe all change radically. The tie comes off with the knot still intact when I walk through my front door, the white shirt gets dropped on the floor and the laced shoes are chucked to opposite corners of the room. Then the real duds come out; riding boots with round metal buckles big enough to use as a collar on a pit bull. Leather gloves with no fingers (which strangely enough cost more than the fingered variety) and jeans that are so ratty and threadbare they would be discarded by any self-respecting dumpster diver. And of course, the one item that all bikers treasure more than anything in the world, but their ride itself, the leather jacket. A good riding jacket is a vital piece of gear and there are certain qualities that are standard in such a garment. For example, the leather should be thick enough to stop shrapnel and the jacket itself ought to weigh more than a small hitchhiker. A minimum of two-dozen zippers are required, although only half of them need to be functional. Most important of all - a riding jacket must have so many pockets that you can lose your keys in one and not discover them again until three seasons later, by which time you've lost six more sets of keys. Enough items disappear inside my jacket to make David Copperfield envious and I regularly discover "lost" paraphernalia in the hidden pockets long after I've given up searching for them. Stuff like sunglasses, chocolate bars, old girlfriends... Boots, gloves, jacket; properly attired, I am geared up to nurture my alter ego --- Biker-Fogy.

In case you think being a Biker-Fogy is simply a matter of a grown man revelling in a pathetic display of immaturity and frivolity...you're absolutely right. Further, I thank my lucky moon that I am not too "mature" to enjoy such foolishness. As a matter of fact, I am hoping that in about 50 years I will be sound enough of mind and body (or at least body), to graduate to the rank of Biker-Geezer. I already have plans for my wheelchair-chopper that include a bored out monster V-twin engine with enough horsepower to shatter all existing land speed records for geriatric mobility devices. It's going to be one bad ass chair; fully equipped with extended wheelie bars and a purple flame custom paint job. Belted into a rig like that, I could maintain hooligan status well into my nineties.

As a card carrying Biker-Fogy, I thought it might be fun to hang out with others of the same ilk, so last summer I attended an affair called a Biker Rally. An average rally consists of a few thousand Biker-Fogies camping in a rain soaked field on the outskirts of nowhere, with their tents crammed close enough together to create a rural tenement housing project. The non-stop din from hopped up motorcycles is a bonus feature of any rally, as is the lingering odour of beer and the spontaneous "howling at the moon" tournaments. At least you don't have to worry about being awakened in the middle of the night by a 200 horsepower engine with straight thru pipes, revving at about a million RPM right next to your tent. It won't wake you up, because there is zero chance you will have fallen asleep in the first place. It's a whole weekend of staying awake all night, getting soaked by cold rain and listening to intoxicated out of control party maniacs. I can tell you without hesitation, it just doesn't get much better.

There are some very rough types who attend these rallies and it pays to be prudent with your choice of new friends. There was one biker I remember in particular; he had an unkempt beard, a whole gallery of risqué tattoos and a vocabulary colourful enough to make a vice cop blush. He was loud and menacing and the truth is, I was a bit intimidated by him. That is, until I looked a little closer and I realised that he was my accountant...and the guy with the "Born to Die" tattoo beside him, was my dentist.

I have earned my Biker-Fogy status through 30 years of riding one smoke-belching machine after another. I bought my first motorcycle the day I turned 16 and while I don't recall exactly how I extorted an official permission slip from my parents, the fact is they signed it. And then I learned to ride the old fashioned way -- by the seat of my pants, with a healthy dose of trial and error. I eventually learned to stay upright most of the time and I've survived riding a bike to an age where I no longer have to be concerned about dying young on a motorcycle. There are those however, who try to achieve Biker-Fogy status without paying their riding dues. These biker-come-lately's think you can just take a 3-hour class and start riding a snarling overpowered street cruiser right away. You can of course, but that's not the point. You can't learn to be a real Biker-Fogy from a how-to manual, or from a teacher with a clipboard. It only comes from riding til' your butt is numb, every year for a few decades.

Norman "The Nose" Petersmacker was one such wannabe and the year he turned 45, much to the dismay of his bride of 20 years, he decided to buy a motorcycle. I was considering selling my hog right about the same time and The Nose expressed an interest in purchasing it. We met in the parking lot of a mall the size of a Swiss village and I left the bike running so he could take her for a spin and see how she ran. Now I'll admit, I never asked Norm "The Nose" how much experience he had riding a motorcycle, so the first mistake was mine. But the next series of mistakes all belonged to him. Norm seemed comfortable enough sitting in the saddle and he located the clutch and the shift lever without any problem. I noticed he was revving the motor a little higher than necessary for just sitting in one place and I was about to mention that he might want to ease off on the throttle a bit. To my utter shock, The Nose goosed the gas hard and popped the clutch. The front wheel of the bike instantly lifted three feet off the ground and the rear tire smoked 20 feet of rubber as the motorcycle blasted across the parking lot. I was amazed to see Norm still hanging on for dear life a few seconds later, with the bike pulling a world-class wheelie that showed no sign of abating any time soon. The Nose might have known where the clutch and the shift lever were, but that must have been the full extent of his knowledge concerning the working parts of a motorbike. He certainly didn't seem to know where the brakes were. The bike continued accelerating at an alarming rate ever closer to the storefronts of the mall. All I could do was stand there and shake my head in disbelief. The motor was screaming in dissent somewhere beyond the redline in first gear and the front wheel seemed determined to remain aloft. The Nose still had a grip on the handlebars, but his feet never found the pegs and his legs dangled behind him, like an advertising banner. That was exactly the position he was in when the motorcycle sailed through the plate glass window of the "Anything For a Buck" store. In his favour, he never let go of the bike all the way through the store, taking with him a dozen or so display racks of stickers, potholders and scented candles. When I reached him, Norm was lying on his back staring at the ceiling, surrounded by a mountain of junk. I was relieved to see that he was still alive and looking down at him I noticed he was mouthing something, but I couldn't hear what it was. I leaned down next to him so he could whisper into my ear. His voice was so soft, it was all I could do to make out the three words he murmured to me. "I'll take it."

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