At one time we used to consider the play on words laugh worthy. Time: William Tell. As Rossini’s heroic arpeggio links the oxymoron with bravado I considered the operatic circumstance that took place in my private concert hall yesterday. I will try to score it for you.
As most of my recent narratives have begun, this is another that opens with my standing in the tiny kitchen of my soon to be demolished home, sipping J3 coffee. My soon to be demolished home was built in 1905 and sits on a million dollar piece of property in Puget Sound. It is scheduled for demo in less than 90 days to clear the gorgeous site for the construction of the owners new dream home. J3 is military-esque semi acronym for Mr. Coffee (Joe) and the three times I have perked a pot by simply adding to the existing (used) grinds. I have never experimented with J4, yet, but if inflation and gas prices keep up the assault on my food/gas budget, that taste test is not far off.
As I sip the J3, outside the kitchen window sits my pair of Honda Shadows. One is under the traditional blue tarp and the other under a cammo wrap. The chore of continuing my troubleshooting on the black bike (under the cammo tarp) has been a daunting adventure in humility. The only thing I have left to try is another Ethanol burn-off and hope that this time it will be of sufficient heat to allow proper gas-air-flow mixture in the carburetor. I am not sure what I will do if this fails, but I need to start the process of downscaling so that when the dozers rumble down the drive I have nothing but my backpack and sleeping bag to tote away.
I finish the J and gently set my favorite mug on its resting pad, slide out of slippers and into my well worn Hookas, zip vest and head out to the bike. This is it, the last hurrah. I whisk the tarp away like a matador and disconnect the battery charger. I look at the bike with compassion and kindness much like a coach might look at a rookie star player whose emotional status is compromised by the sudden loss of love. I turn the key and the lights come on. I pull the choke. I thumb the kill switch to off. I gingerly press the start button and she coughs. It is 600 cubic inches of sore throat. But there is a heart beat. Finally with a combination of choke, throttle and release she fires. I set the choke idle as appropriate for warm-up to operating temp and decide to try a long-slow burn. I walk back into the house and fill my mug. Let ‘er run.
After an e-mail check and news update (the attorney general is lying for the POS POTUS) I head back out and rip through a few explosive blasts of internal combustion. If this doesn’t torch-off the gummy deposits - nothing will.
It works. She is now idling in a lovely twin valve octave that sounds just like an Italian overture in overdrive. I am stoked. The Lone Ranger is about to ride again. I run back into the house and grab my helmet and gloves. Let’s put her to the test kimosabe.
She runs great all the way to the convenience store gas pump where I splurge for three gallons of high-octane fuel. I am gleefully riding back to the house when I see that the Ford Transit Connect that is parked in front of the rental store every day is now sporting a FOR SALE sign. The mechanical gods, I consider, might be smiling on me today. I pull a safe and controlled ninety degree turn into the parking area to check the price.
How long will this good moto-karma last? I wonder pushing down the side-stand to kill the engine.
Time: William Tell.
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