Where I work* ...

Sometimes it's good to be the hero.

So, Dr. D (the chiropractor) drops his Lexus off for some work and needs a ride to his office. No prob. I have Mrs. F's Explorer and I toss his laptop and bag in the back and take off with him. We're not 3 blocks from the shop on the Avenue and I see the guy in front of me slam on his brakes and swerve right. I tell the Doc to hold on and hit the brakes. What do I see walking down the middle of the double-yellow lines but a Cavalier King Charles Spaniel pup.

Now, there are trucks and cars and crazy soccer moms zipping up and down and I know he's gonna be killed so I throw the car sideways and put on my 4-ways. I jump out and run over to the little guy and he flops on his side and wags his tail. I scoop him up and run back to the car, the Doc screaming that somebody's gonna run into us (it's a curvy road and I'm parked in the middle, just past a curve). I hop in and toss the dog into Shayna's spot, throwing the car in gear and taking off.

"What are ya gonna do?" The Doc asks.

"I'm gonna drop you off and then bring him back. I'm sure I'll find some sad looking people wandering around near where we found him," I say, looking back to see the little guy already got comfortable and was sound asleep. I drive the Doc to his office and as I pull into the parking space the pup wakes up, hops onto the center console, and into my lap. I look at his collar for the first time and I see a rabies tag; a smile crosses my face as I see they use the same vet Shayna does. And then I see the next tag:

My name is:
Otis

My phone is:
(516) 676-XXXX

"Hi, Otis," I say as he licks my face.

"What's the number?" The Doc says as he whips out his cell.

I read it to him. He calls and leaves a voicemail saying that Otis was safe at the shop and giving the address. I thank him and head back, Otis on my lap, his chin resting on my arm as he looks out the window. It took about 10 minutes and as I come up the Avenue, I see a car pull into the lot and a woman and a little girl get out. They go over to Indian and Harry as I drive up and I knew they were Otis' family, his tail was beating it's way through my chest when he saw them.

Now, Indian and Harry knew nothing of this and I saw Harry shrug to the woman as I lowered the window. "Are ya looking for this?" I said as Otis stuck his head out the window.

You know, I'm a pretty tough guy, but I melted when I saw the little girl's face light up when she saw her pup. When she said "yay, Mister, you saved Otis," it made my year.

Even our idiot President dancing around like Boris Yeltsin on crack couldn't ruin my mood.

*Part of an ongoing, semi-regular series.

My friend said ...

One of the easiest ways to annoy me at work is to bring a car in and say "my friend said (whatever) is wrong with my car". I know I've bitched about this before but I'm too lazy to dig it up.

Case in point today, guy comes into the shop, says he needs an inspection but the 'check engine' light is on. His friend tells him it's the oxygen sensor. I asked him if his friend was a mechanic. He said no, but his friend has a 'code reader' and that's what it said the car needed. He "wasn't gonna pay for extra stuff he didn't need in order to get a sticker."

Now, it's my first instinct to tell a guy like this to get the fuck out and bother some other shop, but NY state law says I can't refuse to inspect a car. As regular readers know, I've had enough problems with the state in the last few months to push the issue.

I tell him "nothing personal, but being that I've been in the business for 35 years, maybe I should pull the codes and see for myself."

His reply: "I'm not paying extra for that."

"Fine," I say. I don't charge for scanning a computer but most shops do, at least $40, some $75. I go to the phone and call my parts guy and ask him what an oxygen sensor costs for the car. $110 each. I tell him to hold on and turn to the customer. "It's $110 for the part and $85 to install. You'll need 2 of 'em."

"So much? Why two?"

"Because the car has 2 of them and you don't want me to scan the computer. How do I know which one is bad?"

He looks at me and gets it that he's wasting my time. I tell the parts guy I'll call him back.

"How much to scan it?" He asks me.

"Nothing," and I plug the scanner in. Gives me back a 'system lean' code. "It's not either of the oxygen sensors," I tell him. I pop the hood, take out a can of brake kleen (alcohol based), and start the engine.

"How do you know? What are you doing?" He gets worried when I start spraying the shit all over the engine. Let's just say that, using this method, if a car has bad spark plug wires, you'll know it quick enough.

"I'm saving you $400," I say as the engine rpm goes up. I spray again and get the light to get a better look at what I'm spraying. As I thought, he had a shitty vacuum hose. I cut a piece from the roll, replace it, clear the code and tell him to drive the car for 2 hours and come back. He comes back, no 'check engine' light on, and he gets his inspection sticker. Cost: $10 for the hose, $37 for the inspection. I probably have a regular customer now.

Look, I realize a lot of people think mechanics are crooks. There are a lot of 'em out there, a lot of guys who don't know what they're doing, and there are a lot of guys who'll sell you what you insist on, even though you don't need it. I realize auto repairs are expensive and you don't want to spend more than you have to.

That said, walking into a shop and telling the mechanic what your buddy says is wrong with the car is not gonna get you on the mechanic's good side. You see, the good ones, like me, have as much schooling as a masters degree candidate and equating what your idiot friend knows with my expertise is downright insulting. Assuming I'm gonna rip you off, and making it known, is too. And, regardless of what your friend knows, if I wanted to rip you off, you wouldn't know it.

By all means, ask questions. Any mechanic worth a damn will answer any questions you want until you have a full understanding of what is wrong, what you'll need to fix it, and how much it will cost. There should be no surprises when you come to pick up your car. If you can say that about your mechanic, stick with him and don't break his balls. There's enough legitimate work out there to pay the bills without my having to rip anyone off.

Old sleds ain't just fer lookin' at...

Modern trials bikes weigh about forty pounds, you can't sit down on them, and they can turn around in a phone booth. See this if you don't believe me. Ride one of these old bikes into a phone booth, it's good-bye phone booth! This is fun to watch and also to listen to.

It's good to see some Early Iron gettin' all dirty and being used as originally intended instead of housed in a collection where all the owner worries about is concours points and value appreciation. Ridin' 'em's a lot more fun.

Mixed footage over two sections of the Manx classic weekend trial in 2006. Various old motorcycles (and riders, with some younger ones too), from 1940s bikes through to the 70s taking on the elements.

Thanks to The Manxman. Keep 'em comin'!

You are what you drive...

Good article in Newsweek:

From their Beetles to their boxy SUVs, Americans who grew up in the '60s and '70s defined themselves by what they drove.

Long article. Go read. Take the 30-question quiz, too. I got 63%, which was in the largest percentile.

More Station Wagons

Sometimes, Fixer inspires my ass with a very few words. See previous post.

The coolest station wagon ever built:



I picked a customized '57 to show, but all the Tri-Chevy Nomads were, like, way bitchin' dude! Many more at Chevy Nomad Association.

The coolest station wagon never built:



The '54/'56 Corvette Nomad. More at (Where else? Yeesh!) Barrett-Jackson and Corvette World.

And of course, the one they shoulda built but din't.:

The 2004 Chevy Nomad Concept Wagon. This appears to be from the same page that Mustang Bobby got the Edsel Bermuda.

I think they woulda sold like hotcakes if they'da put a honkin' little V6 in it, but they went with the retro HHR instead. The HHR's OK for an underpowered little sneezer on an existing econobox platform, but I think perhaps old panel truck styling might not have the same cachet as early 'Vettes do. I think they erred slightly by trying to counter the popularity of the PT Cruiser, which got there fustest with the mostest, so to speak. It's getting easier to understand why Toyota is breathin' down their neck.

Let the engineers build 'em, not the bean counters!

Station wagons?

I'm not a big fan of station wagons, though I know a couple guys who built some cool hotrods out of 'em. Mustang Bobby on the other hand ... I agree with him when he says the new 'crossovers' suck.

"A bike that could turn an abstinent Catholic schoolgirl into a nymphomaniac!"

LATimes. Video.

THE Ducati 1098 S is so slick, so fast, so Elite Model beautiful that saints with sinner inclinations should beware.

Ducati's new red-hot superbike is trouble.

For the single month the 1098 S has been available to media, about half of the press fleet has been dented or crashed. [...]

During the two days I had the bike, I didn't find much occasion to go slow, aside from the time I was stuck behind a beat-up pickup truck on my first run through Azusa Canyon. Being forced to go slow behind that pickup was probably a good intro to the 1098 S. One twist of the grip in a straightaway and I was practically teleported into the upcoming turn. It's that fast and flawless on the accel. As I rode up and down Azusa Canyon, then up and down it again, and again and again until my gas light flickered on and a fleet of cops sped by with what appeared to be dollar signs reflecting in their sunglasses, I was alternately shocked and euphoric at the bike's power and grace.

"Objects in mirror are closer than they appear" has never seemed less relevant. [...]

Probably the least practical bike on the planet, but this sled ain't about practical, folks. It's all about state-of-the-art blinding red Italian sex!

Mamma Mia!

Seriously ...

Since I had fun at their expense yesterday, I figured I'd introduce ya.

Click to embiggen

l to r: Indian, Sam, PDB, Fixer, Harry

That's wrecked, that's ruined ...

Well, it seems the annoying blanket ass Indian found this blog. I hadn't told the idiots my esteemed colleagues about F & G so I could say any fucking thing I please nice things about the people I work with and they wouldn't know what I really think about them I wouldn't embarrass them. I said nice things about the little tramp Samantha, and the old dinosaur Harry over the years and I hope they don't think I'm getting maudlin. I even said nice things about that batshit crazy nitwit PDB, something I certainly wouldn't want him to know. Now that's all out the window. Now I'll never hear the end of it from those assholes my cohorts, all happy to know that I don't really give a fuck how close I feel to them.

Heh ...

The Perfect Car

Super Duke

Throttle Jockette Susan Carpenter of the LATimes with a review and video of the KTM 990 Super Duke:

THINK KTM, and a couple of words spring to mind:

Dirt.

Orange.

Not only has the renowned Austrian manufacturer of navel-orange dirt bikes dominated the prestigious Dakar Rally for seven straight years, it's giving the Japanese a run for their money in motocross, supercross, super-moto and every other two-wheeled off-road sport.

The Super Duke is KTM's first stab at a pure street bike. Knowing them, they'll pull it off just fine. Austrians, you know.

Go read and watch. The bike is kinda pricey, but F & G brings you nothing but the finest. I sorta have a lust on for KTMs. The Super Duke is a nice bike, but if I had my choice it would be the 990 Adventure because it's more back-road capable and the styling's more to my taste. What I'd really like is for 'em to hang some lights on the 950 Super Enduro R...

Note to Ms. Carpenter: shitcan the music in the video and let us hear the engine, and what the hell are you doing putting Shell gas in a nice bike like that? Ya tryin' ta melt it? I wouldn't put Shell in my leaf-blower!

Yes, BadTux, we know you love that old KLR. :)

A Well-Rounded Motorbike

I may have found a sled for Fixer! The term 'arrested landing' comes to mind!

The engine is a new 7 cylinder, 110HP radial aircraft engine out of Australia by Rotec. Good site for round motor freaks like me - sights and sounds. I bookmarked it under 'motorcycles'. Heh.

More at The Kneeslider.

What got me going on this was I got my new copy of Cycle World yesterday, and there was a radial-engined bike on the cover by West Coast Choppers. Not the one in the picture above. CW doesn't have a picture of it on line, but there appears to be more than one of these crazy things.

One thing that struck me kind of funny is that WCC had to take the power off the rear of the engine instead of the front and then turn it sideways to turn the gearbox. They thought they knew which direction the engine turned, but when they got all done they fired it up, put it in gear, and went backwards. Oops. Back to the ol' drawing board! From the magazine article, it apparently runs just fine, is easy to ride, and real fast.

I think I'd be real careful about splittin' lanes, though!

NYC Fire Hydrant - 1 Mrs. F - 0

Ouch! She got crowded by a city bus from the left, avoided him but snagged a fireplug on the other side. Thankfully she wasn't hurt. It's going into the body shop tomorrow. $4100 by the way.

Click to embiggen.

Let's see how that little Toyota pickemup (see post below) takes one of these. Heh ...

A little good-natured brand rivalry

An '06 Toyota at Pismo Beach:



To be fair, I also found a video of a Toyota being pulled out of a ditch at Pismo after its idiot driver leaped before he looked, but I didn't wanta post that one!

New Triumph Tiger

I've got a '69 Triumph Tiger that I bought new. The new one has some subtle changes (cough!).

LA Times. Article with video.

With 114 horsepower, the Tiger's liquid-cooled, triple-cylinder 1050 engine doesn't pack as much punch as Triumph's Speed Triple and Sprint 1050 motors, with peak horsepower rated at 131 and 125 respectively. As its name suggests, the Tiger isn't about flat-out speed. It isn't king of the jungle but second in charge, which makes it fun and ferocious without all the pressure of being the biggest and baddest prowler around town.

My old Tiger has a 40HP air-cooled twin-cylinder carbureted OHV 40ci (650cc) engine. It's good for a little over 100mph, which is fine given the drum slower-downers and the tires of that era. It also has some of the best styling ever, and the best sound bar none. It is just plain fun to ride.

The last five words of that sentence may be the only thing besides the brand name the new Tiger has in common with the old one. Subtle changes over 38 years, you know.

It's taken me some time to get used to modern motorcycle styling, but now I like it. This is a nice bike.

There's nothing new under the Sun...

The EssEffChron has a nice write-up about the new Can-Am trike.

But oh my freaking God, what the hell is this sexyugly machoweird three-wheeled motorcycle/car thing called the Spyder Roadster that costs 15 grand and goes about 110 mph and looks like a BMW motorcycle got it on with a nasty go-cart during a lost weekend at a mutant underground design studio in Testosteroneland? I mean, please.

I have no idea if the Spyder will sell, if it's just silly and ridiculous and overblown and who the hell wants an expensive flat-cornering faux-motorcycle when the same 15 grand can get you a Ducati Multistrada and personal riding lessons and an entire suit of badass leathers with enough left over for a delicious hooker-filled weekend at the MGM Grand in Vegas?

Doesn't matter. One look at the Spyder and your brain snaps a few boundaries. Definitions loosen. Possibilities widen. Yes, it's just another crappy oil-sucking vehicle. Just another drain on the planet, another expensive toy for wealthy middle-age Boomers with too little extant testosterone and too much disposable income. I know.

But then again, it might be more. It might actually be just as wickedly hot and fun and deliciously unique as it appears. After all, anything that stretches your brain and makes you consider new possibilities, that breaks old definitions of what the world is supposed to be all about, these things are precious and good. These things are all too rare. This has not been, in the age of Bush and Rove and the sustained, systematic, intentional crushing of independent creative thought, the way of the culture.

Plus, don't you sort of miss riding your tricycle?

Well, kinda. When I was about seventeen, me'n Tommy and Ed ponied up $25 each (a lot of money for teenagers to have all at once back then) and bought a '47 H-D Servi-Car from a gas station that used it for transpo after delivering customers' cars. The thing used more oil than gas. It had a 45ci (750cc) sidevalve mill and would go about 50mph flat out, which was scary fast. At that speed, it wobbled and shook and clanked and mightily protested such a caning. It also overheated, spewed oil, and stunk. It was red. It was the cat's ass, and we were the only guys in town with such a cool beast. Or maybe we were the only bozos who'd be caught dead on it. Don't know, damn sure didn't care.

We took turns bombin' around on it all one summer. It had a tow hitch, so we would tow it to parties, the beach, etc. behind my '48 Plymouth and take girls for rides. Sometimes three or four of 'em at once. We figured out how to get the thing sideways. The bald tires helped.

We actually got chased through town one Saturday night by a local cop on his much newer Servi-Car. We didn't want to get caught because we had just scored three or four quarts of beer and didn't want to lose it. We outran him for a little while, then pulled into the gas station we had bought it from, shut 'er down, and dove under a car to hide. Yeah, like that worked! We looked out from under the car and saw the officer's polished riding boots about two feet away, one toe a-tappin'. He said this: "I'm off Sunday and Monday night. If you guys don't have passenger grab handles on that thing by Tuesday, I'm writin' ya up". And he left. Talk about yer sigh of relief! We thought we were gonna go to jail. We had taken the grab handles off because it looked cooler. We put 'em back on.

If he had written us up he would have discovered that the license plate we were using was off my my little H-D Model 125. Hey, same make and almost the same year, whass the prob?

One of the big deals was the time we parked it in the same gas station, which was right next door to the local hangout, and when we came back, the station personnel had scraped the name of the station off the back. I don't blame 'em. We had acquired a little local notoriety with the machine by then and they understandably didn't want their name associated with our shenanigans. It didn't look very good, so we put our own logo on it:



Sort of a bust, I guess, but we were young and foolish. The little white thing above 'Olympia' was the offishul sticker of the "National Association for the Advancement of Flatheads", Politically Incorrect as all get-out, but hey, it was 1963. I went in the service that fall and have no idea what ever happened to Sweet Betsy the Trike.

Sorry about the wasted space, but I copied it from a very small photo and don't know how to fix it. For you sharp-eyed ol' H-D buffs, no, the photo isn't flipped. All the shit is on the opposite side because the thing was an old police mount, from way before parking meters, and the no-meter maid needed his right hand free to mark tires. Throttle was on the left, gearshift on the right.

I hadn't really planned to tell that story, but it brought back memories, so I'm glad I did. That was the most fun I ever had for $25.

What I was gonna do was counterpoint the space-age Can-Am trike with this Morgan, about which marque can be found everything you would ever want to know at the link:



There really isn't anything new, just modern.

Don't get me started on four-valve cylinder heads...

Where I work ...*

Me: Good morning, ma'am, dropping your car off for that brake job?

Her: Yes, F-man, here's the keys. (She notices Sam putting oil in a motor) Who's that?

Me: That's Samantha.

Her: What a pretty girl. Is she your granddaughter?

Me: You want your brakes to work when you leave here? Jesus H. Christ, I'm 44 years old.

Her: I thought you were Harry's age.

Me: Get out.

*Part of a semi-regular, ongoing series.

We are the machine ...

The machine is us ...

Video courtesy of Dave Johnson.

Cross-posted at the Brain.

Douchebaggery

I was gonna bitch and moan about the idiots on the Long Island Expressway this morning but I was over at our pal 42's place and he had the same deal with the Massachusetts drivers:

...

If the roads haven’t been plowed and are about as grippy as buttery mashed potatoes, and you can’t stop/steer/whatever because you’re going too fast and you sit there gawping and acting all surprised when you do slide to a stop, you are a douchebag.

...

I hate NY 4

Just an update on my tribulations. Harry got his letter yesterday and the same fine I got. As the facility owner, he's culpable in my 'crimes'. So, in one little place, the State of NY made $800. Calling around to others who've been hit (seems all the letters went out Friday), Harry and I got off the easiest. Other fines in the area range from $600 - $3500.

We figure we're safe for 6 months to a year until they decide to fuck with us again.