Wheels, Pt 3 - Flogging my Yamaha 80 to Death

My Yamaha 80 was a pretty low maintenance bike, but I worked on it all the time, partly to learn, partly to keep it at peak performance, and partly for the sheer joy of it. During the summer in Atlanta, I also discovered more limits. For instance, 80 inch pounds of torque was what the book called for on the head bolts. I didn't really know how much that was, but I found out how much too much over 80 was when one of the head bolts snapped on a lunch break at work.

Mac, the supervisor, let me take the afternoon off to go to the Yamaha shop again. Miraculously, they had a bolt / nut washer combination in stock, and a head gasket, which I needed by the time I got there. I will never forget the ping! sounds that came from the base of my poor bike's cylinder head as I rode the 15 miles (over 20 counting wrong turns on unfamiliar highways). I cringed every time I heard one. The more throttle, the more pings. And by the time I arrived back at work they were almost constant. One of the mechanics I assisted helped me estimate 7 foot pounds as I put it back together. I'd been waay over. A quick ride to make sure it was OK, and back to work I went, out two hours wages plus the cost of the parts and gas and oil.

I found where the carburetor hid, where the air path was, and applied silicone sealant to make sure it was as waterproof as possible. Many was the time I rode in water up over the engine, steam bubbling away from the head and exhaust.

As the year wore on, the bike would occasionally splutter and die in the rain. After a few minutes of drying out it would start and run fine again. Years later I heard of deteriorating spark plug wires or caps causing this, but at the time I had no clue.

I don't recall how much oil it burned, but the gas tank held 1.9 gallons, and I got anywhere from 50MPG to close to 100, depending on how I rode it. Top speed was 50, though Yamaha claimed 55 (I had several people clock me). It would beat anything around off the line up to about 30, was still quick to 35, OK to 40, worked to hit 45, and only went 50 if I laid down on the tank.

Gas was cheap; I vividly recall the first time I spent $1 to fill up with 1.8 gallons.

Mr. Hale's neighborhood in Atlanta was the perfect place to learn to ride. It had wide, windy roads with short straight sections; it was very low traffic; the huge houses were set back from the road amidst trees so the sound didn't bother anyone. I read a lot and rode a lot. I honed my craft.

Later, back in Augusta, I would spend all the time I could on the dirt roads near the river, learning to accelerate and brake on slippery sand and mud, how to slide on purpose while accelerating or slowing, how to work berms, how to handle bumps, holes, and washboards, how to ride through almost anything. This came in handy both on the street (especially in rain or gravel) and in the woods.

I loved riding in the woods! There were several places within a few miles of my house to ride. To this day I have no idea who owned these areas, but there were trails used by hikers, bicyclists and motorcyclists, and no signs. I learned how to deal with long, steep hills (going down terrified me, but if you go up, you have to go down!). I dropped the bike crossing a stream and spent 15 minutes fighting to get it out.

I got between railroad tracks and followed them for a mile before deciding to get off, and getting stuck with a wheel on each side of the track. I finally managed to get it free about one minute before a train showed up. (Yes, this is recurring theme.)

I got my first ticket on this bike. A motorcycle cop pulled me over on King St in Augusta for going 45 in a 35 zone, up a 20 degree hill. He claimed he had been following me for at least a mile; if so, he was so far back there's no way he could have known how fast I was going. I explained to the judge that there was no way this bike could have been going 45 up that hill (40 would have been a legit ticket). He stared in disbelief. "It's a motorcycle, isn't it? You were probably going faster than that!" The cop just stood there and leered. I later found out he was the police chief's son, and most of the judges just went along with whatever tickets he wrote.

I learned to jump with it, first on small ramps in my back yard, later between the yard at Langford Junior High and the elementary school next door. There was a short, steep hill between Langford's football field and the other school's playground, varying from two to eight feet and 30 degrees to 75 degrees. I would race across the football field and hit the hill, going anywhere from 5 to 15 or 20 feet in the air. Once I came down front wheel first, and went about 10 feet on that wheel, wobbling the whole way, just missing a large, concrete block. Again, a lesson learned the scary but easy way.

I played around with stoppies (a term I would not hear for years). I wasn't that great at them, but they were fun.

My friends and I had always spent lots of time walking and riding bicycles together, even after we had our licenses. Now Martin O'Rourke and I sometimes went places on this bike and his ten speed, swapping who rode what. One day we were practicing jumps in my back yard. He decided to see what would happen if he started from a dead stop at the bottom of the low ramp (three feet long, 8 inches high). He gave it the gas, and ended up chasing the bike, wheelied over a bit backwards, until he finally managed to turn the throttle back to off. The bike stopped fast, the tail light caught him in the crotch, and they both fell over, Martin in pain, the bike buzzing happily. I fell over, too, laughing too hard to do more, even though I knew how much that had to hurt.

Joe Beck decided he wanted top learn to ride. Joe was a close friend, but he wasn't super coordinated. He was also afraid of the bike, which he didn't realize until he took off across my yard on it, white knuckled, white eyed, frozen in terror. He ran into bushes and a tree, finally being knocked down. He had bloody knuckles; the bike had a broken clutch handle mount. Again.

I gave several friends, including Fran Martin, their first motorcycle rides. I was a little nervous taking Fran to a football game on the bike because her boyfriend was the biggest guy on the team. But he was apparently cool with it. I gave my girlfriend, Becky, a brief ride, but she had hated bikes since a close friend had died on one.

As college approached, I got nervous that everyone would laugh at a college guy on an 80cc bike. My Dad assured me this was not the case, but I refused to listen. By then the bike had 4m000 mile son it, many of them high RPM dirt miles. It smoked, ran poorly, had a horribly bent rim from riding home with a nail in the tire, and the rear tire was almost bald. I sold my baby for $125 (helmet included), and took only my ten speed to college.

Two of the coolest guys in my dorm shared a 50cc bike.

This Ain't My First Rodeo

Tonight my wife asked me to do something unusual. Very personal. Something intimate. I happily agreed to do it. I'm going to be bold and tell you about it. But first, let's go back to my hippie days, to explain why I was willing.

I had dropped out of college (and life in general as most of you know it) for a couple of quarters. But I still lived in a dorm and used the university's labs and computers. A couple of friends and I had found ways into various buildings to use terminals that were sitting idle nights and weekends. We programmed, learned, played games and chatted. I learned as much about software on my own as I did in some of my classes.

One of the EE building's glass doors was never locked properly. The bolt at the top would engage, but not fully, and the bottom bolt wouldn't engage at all. A good hard yank would flex the door and it would open.

It was a comfortable, if gray, Sunday afternoon about four o'clock. The only person around was a little, old lady walking her dog. I yanked on the door. It flexed as usual... but didn't open. I yanked again. No dice.

"Miles, maybe you shouldn't..."

"No problem." I yanked a lot harder. The door flexed. The glass got angry. "You won't like me when I'm angry."

The glass shattered. It was right. I didn't like it angry.

A large piece of glass, about 3/8" thick and more than a foot square was falling straight toward my left foot. My arm spazzed and ran interference. The glass deflected, leaving a ragged, two and a half inch gash in my arm. It (the glass) shattered gloriously and beautifully in the dull light, showering my bare toes with shards. Somehow they remained unscathed. But bright red drops fell from my arm.

As silence followed in the wake of the glass explosions, an old woman's voice shrieked a sing song, up and down pattern. "You broke the glay-ass! You broke the glay-ass!"

"Yes, ma'am, I know." I held out my bleeding arm. "We're going to the doctor, OK?"

"You broke the glay-ass! You broke the glay-ass!" Her small, beautifully coiffed poodle began barking a furious counterpoint. It was a rather nice polyrhythm but I wasn't properly appreciative at the time.

I shrugged and we began the two or three block trek toward the infirmary, me trying to stop the bleeding, one friend helpfully reminding me they told me not to yank on the door, another talking about the crazy old lady, the third joining in her refrain (possibly quoting the dog as well, but I don't recall). As we turned the corner a block away, the woman was still rooted to her spot, stuck in an infinite loop. Thankfully the sound fading with distance and obstacles.

While I had my old, student ID, I didn't have a currently stamped fee card for some reason I'm sure was unrelated to the fact I wasn't actually in school that quarter. At the infirmary the nurse at the desk explained that they couldn't help me without that card. But another nurse overrode her and let me see the doctor.

He had a lovely, cultured, London accent; he was "doing an across the pond residency exchange". I got two stitches, a roll of gauze, and a pressure bandage. He didn't press for details; I got the impression from things he said he might have some escapades in his past. In any event, he told me to come back after 10 days (or something like that) so he could check the stitches.

I was meticulous about cleaning the wound and applying antibiotic. I went through plenty of gauze and wrapped my arm in the pressure bandage to keep the seam immobile. It healed up nicely. When I went back, only the nurse who'd been overridden was on duty. She refused (properly, which I recognized even then) to let me see the doctor. But the same doctor was on duty, and he overheard. He called from the other room.

"What seems to be the problem?"

"It's the boy who cut his arm. He still doesn't have his fee card. I told him he has to produce one or leave."

"Oh, quite right! We can't have that. But it's too bad, because I'd love to have seen how it healed. But he needs to go to [the local charity hospital]. Or if it looks really good, I'd have told him he could always just take the sutures out himself. If I could see him. But of course, without a fee card, I can't."

I thanked the (somewhat irritated) nurse, said I understood she was just doing her job, and left. As I walked past a window, the doctor waved and smiled.

Back at the dorm, we pooled our resources. We had no hemostats. The only sharp knife we could find was my Bowie knife-- a bit large and unwieldy for the task. We had no scissors. We had needle nose pliers. We had fingernail clippers.

Since the wound was on my forearm, I couldn't wield both pliers and the clippers. My friends, it turned out, were a bit too squeamish to help. If you've ever looked at properly done sutures (these were beautiful) they're small and tight. There's not a lot to work with, and they're snug against the skin. At the same time, they do flex when you push against them... including down into the skin.

It took a half hour, working one handed with only a pair of nail clippers, but I finally got those sutures out! Without tearing the nicely knit skin. Without any new cuts. A little alcohol, a little antibiotic, a little gauze and a pressure bandage, and I was home free. Thank you, British doctor!

...

Fast forward to this evening. My wife had six sutures in her arm. (Her cuts did not involved breaking and entering. She exercised her constitutional right to have a highly trained doctor slice her open and sew her up.)

This time we had tweezers and small, sharp scissors. Only a couple of the sutures offered any real resistance, and I had them all out in well under ten minutes.

I'm still not a pro; I don't get paid for suture removal. (I did get a kiss, but I get those even when I'm not pulling unnatural substances from her epidermis). I'm not even ready for Synchronized Suture Removal at the Olympic games in two weeks. But I do feel all medical and stuff. And I am pretty sure if you need thread cut and pulled from your epidermis that I can accept payment in small quantities of chocolate without triggering a "tax event".

So, for all your suture removal needs, contact me. For the right endorsements-- or sponsorship to the Olympics-- I'll even waive the chocolate.