Post after post here involves tales of smart and skillful tricks, true expertise and amazing project rehabs. That's all fine and well, but what about sharing stories of ineptitude and retardation? Wouldn't that make you feel better about yourself, hearing about people dumber than you making decisions dumber than ones you've made? Well, I'm here to help. No need to thank me, no worries.
My '73 750 died on the way home from work today.
OK, I lie. I stopped at the courthouse after work to pay a ticket, then had a beer at an adjacent bar to recover from the shock of being divested of $120. Then I headed home. Fine.
The bike was accelerating erratically, and seemed underpowered. Idle speed dropped precipitously, until at last the bike died in traffic.
So, in a parking lot of a burger joint, I found myself:
-2.5 miles away from home.
-About 150 ft. lower in altitude than where home is.
-Out of AAA tows, due to my POS Volvo having used them all up some months previous.
I wasn't surprised by the bike dying, however. I recently replaced the coils with some off a '75, and half-assedly cleaned the tank, in addition to replacing the petcock. There's also an oil leak coming from the tach cable fitting on the header. I'm aware of the beautiful and awesome fragility of the machine I'm relying on to get me to work. That's why I love it, that's why I bought one, that's why I will push it home without complaint or further delay.
An hour and a half later, I finally reach home. No fewer than 5 people have offered to help me as I push my bike home, including 2 friends who happened to be passing by. I decline all offers. Its my bike, I will get it home somehow, I explain. I am covered with sweat, and for some reason I am wearing leather-soled cowboy boots. This makes things even more unfun. Full Gear vs. Fool's Gear, the voiceover in my brain repeats. Austin, TX is a damn friendly place, though. Five people offered help. Hard to beat that.
I'm home, and I begin the diagnosis. Off comes the gas tank, off comes the petcock. I'm convinced its a fuel line problem. Somewhere between the tank and firing chamber lies the problem. I start to drain the tank, and inspect all the lines. Nothing seems amiss. I bury myself in the Clymer manual for half an hour. The tank drains enough to remove the bottom of the petcock without great mess, and I inspect it. Weird, there's not as much rust as I thought. But there's some, so I remove it and clean the petcock filter as well. I spend another half hour reading the manual just to hunt for other clues and possible causes. I'm flummoxed. Its probably a carb issue, way too complex for me right now. Maybe some crap got drawn into the engine, and I'm screwed. Maybe my bike will sit for another 2 months. Again. Maybe I'm f#¢ked. God. Damn. It.
So I check on the gas tank. I remove the cannister I drained the bike tank into. Wow, that's weird. There's virtually no gas in the cannister. Almost as if no gas had drained from the gas tank. Huh. How 'bout that. I check the gas tank with a flashight and see the brass pipe rising from the petcock. Its above the gas in the tank. Huh.
I take my car to a Texaco and fill up the cannister. I replace the gas tank, mount the petcock and fill it up. I hit start. It runs. Just like it did before. Before I ran out of gas. Oh wait, I get it.
That's right. I ran out of f#¢king gas.
That's why I pushed my 520 lb. bike 2.5 miles home. And that's why I passed 2 filling stations, 3 mechanics and 5 offers of help on the way home. That's why I have 3 blisters on my foot. That's also how I know the odometer reads according to wheel travel.
And its also why I'm 6 beers into a twelver typing this. Good night and god bless.
See, don't you feel better? I know I do.
-A
