The Royal Enfield Bullet Blog

I changed some stuff in the template.

To Joppa

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Staying near Blanco river.

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OD 7397

Whew.

Chain stretched 1 to 2 inches in 2 days of strong headwind

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Beautiful place

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To Washita

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Too tired, needed to do wash.

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Heading to Washita

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Hard ride - strong headwind

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To Ft Robinson

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Tourist trap

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At one time Deadwood was a happening place, but now it is happening because it was once happening. There were too many tourists for my taste, but I can see that a biker could have a real good time there running amok. Had I been with a group of friends looking for a good time, we would have found it.

It's actually a cool little place, despite being slightly on kitschy side.

But I headed deeper into the Black Hills.

The ride down 385 was a beautiful one. The Sioux consider the hills to be a holy place, and as I rode down the twisty, narrow highway, the smell of pine washing over me and then a light rain stinging my face, then a sharp sunbeam warming the wet asphalt -- their understanding began unfolding before me.

I camped at Sheridan Lake. Here's a self portrait:

After setting up camp (I was starting to get pretty adept at quick setups) I went into the woods.

I climbed shallow hills for some time, playing with my GPS unit, but really looking for why it was that the Sioux believed the Black Hills was a holy place. If I recalled correctly, the Sioux (and other Amerindians) would come to what they called Paha Sapa on vision quests. I was looking for a place that a warrior might seek out to find a powerful medicine dream.

It didn't take long.

The Paha Sapa is filled with hillocks that rise steeply up and are crowned by granite rock out croppings. Often the outcroppings are weathered in such a way as to allow sufficient space between boulders to lie down in. And that is what warriors and medicine men seeking visions often did. They sought out a secret spot, then deprived themselves of food and water and stayed put through whatever the weather brought until they recieved some sort of dream.

I found a medicine spot. It is near this small grove of Aspen:

From the elevated ground of the medicine spot I could survey most of the surrounding Black Hills. Tremendous slideshows of cloud shadow and sunshine played across the hills and vales. In the distance I could hear boat motors, shouts of kids being towed through cold lake water.

It was a bizarre contrast.

The Sioux believe the Black Hills have been contaminated and desecrated.

The National Park Service asks that you pack out what you pack in, that you confine all fires to the pits provided, and that you respect quite hours that begin at 10:00pm and end at 6:00 am.

I had heard the Sioux, but I paid my $17 to the park service and slept soundly after a cupful of chili and an oilcan of Foster's Lager. My campfire burned itself to dead ash in the firepit while I watched its fading embers from inside my tent.

Heading to Black Hills

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Tired, Haue dilapidated room across from site,

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Sandwich and smoothie

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Arrived Fetterman battlefield 2 hrs ago

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OD 5372

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Arrived 2 hrs ago

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OD 526O

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Arrived Torrington via Scottsbluff - in Crazy Horse country

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Thanks Ed and Mel at Morse motorcycle

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Pizza and beer

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Flat rear tire

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I was making good time over 40 - 50 mile stretches of completely EMPTY highway -- no cell phone signal out there, that's for sure.

I rode through a small town called Cope, CO.

Before I knew it the town had disappeared from my rear view mirror. The praire was green and rolling and beautiful, I was starting to feel giddy -- Wyoming was only a couple of hours away.

Wrong.

The back and of the bike started slithering this way and that.

Uh oh. I had learned once before about hitting the back brake when this is happening. I very slowly braked until I got the bike stopped after wandering all over the highway.

This is one of the advantages of taking roads no one else takes. In an emergency, you have all the room you need 99.99999% of the time.

Of course the downside is: nobody around.

I had signal, but no numbers to call. I called 911 and explained my situation. They called a guy at a Sinclair station back in Cope. I remembered that station.

Then I stood on the highway next to my bike waiting for help to arrive.

The owner of the Sinclair station, Larry, was really helpful. First we tried to inject air into the tire to see if I could ride it back. Air was blowing out faster than I could pump it in.

Eventually, after an aborted attempt at removing the rear wheel on the side of the highway, Larry said, "I'll go get a trailer".

He came back and we loaded it up.

For the next three hours I labored and managed to change the tire.

A flat rear tire -- the worst thing short of bottom or top end failure I could imagine.

Anyhow I slept in the local park last night. While lying in my tent tossing and turning I realized that I had installed the innertube incorrectly. .

In the morning I did it all over again but it only took 1 and a half hours.

My tire was looking a little damaged, and I freaked about that, because I didn't want to have another rear tire failure -- for any reason. So, now I am in Fort Morgan CO waiting for a new tire to be sent from Illinois. To be honest I think I could get away with the old tire. But, life is dearer to me than the cost of the tire, the installation (which I'm letting the shop do, for once), and the price of shipping.

That kind of thinking made me redo the inner tube install as well. Why ride on something you know isn't right?

I just can't do that.

Don't want to be in Fort Morgan, but life is what happens to you while you're busy making plans.

Besides, my wife doesn't want me home yet. She's studying for boards.

Od 4738

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I could not post at Quitaque Peaks or Tule Canyon or Palo Duro Canyon. The Quitaque jut out of the staked plains, about 500 - 1000 feet high, and form an escarpment.

When you role into Quitaque there is a sign that lets you know how to pronounce it: Kitty-quay

I kind of prefer Kit-talk-ee.

Anyway the promontery is again a Comanche lookout. These were the lairs of the northern Comanche bands. Climbing out of the staked plains through the Quitaque escarpment you come suddenly onto the gently rolling, grassy waves of the central plains. It was really beautiful, a kind of serene nothing where distant showers drifted across distant further hills, an on and on.

Just as suddenly these plains ended at Tule Canyon. I couldn't even see it coming, which is why the plains indians were so good at ambushing enemies. The plains deceive the eye; you cannot tell what lies beyond the next swell.

I ran hard through Palo Duro canyon (stopping at an overlook I was questioned about the Bullet by a group of bikers).

Onto the central plains again. Now heading full steam toward Adobe Walls. I found it after the town of Stinett (not pronounced Stinett, according to a suspicious gas station cashier, but Stin-ETTE). Whatever.

The first and second battles of Adobe Walls had historical significance, but where they happened seem nearly arbitrary.

I almost turned back from the second battle site because I couldn't find it, however a waypoint implanted in my GPS led me there -- down a twisty gravel road.

When I got there, I couldn't understand why anyone would fight over it, although I admit it had a certain beauty. No more than the surrounding area. And in fact I found it hard to believe the Comanche's ever managed to even find those lone traders out there in an outpost now turned to dust.

Well, I accomplished what I'd set out to do, but now was running at least an hour behind what I had expected -- Texas is way bigger than one can believe. Motorcycling across it really brings that fact home hard. Painfully hard.

I sped up a state highway it was getting dark with rain clouds, I flew past a huge snake in the road -- belly up. Six feel long, thick as a strong bicep.

I raced storm clouds to Boise City, OK. Lightning flashed a few miles to the north, I was only 22 miles from Boise City and dry and did NOT want to get soaking wet a few minutes before arriving.

The road kept turning more north, heading me for the clouds.

There is no place to hide out there from lightning. Not a tree, not a house.

Got a room at the first hotel in Boise City, where my grandfather lived when it was ed during world war two.

Slept hard, forgot some of my stuff there (which is part of why I can't post pictures).

Ate breakfast at a little cafe, Jo Ann's Diner, or something, on main street.

I went down to the town square on my way out, two prisoners where standing on the steps of the courthouse, in thick white and orange stripes. I took their picture.

On the way out of town I was pelted by a pretty ly rain.

Got soaking wet and had to buy thicker socks in Colorado. Some town. Don't remember right now.

Od 4414

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I was unable to send any posts when I got to Double Mountain. It's a land form that rises substantially from the rolling plains and it's easy to see why Comanches used it for a lookout and landmark during their raids and hunts. They also signaled one another on these peaks, by both smoke signals, and also later using mirrors. Intruders be warned ...

Double Mountain, 20 miles distant

The rolling plains are dry, the roads I used to traverse them thinly traveled.

I had almost no traffic, and on one stretch for 40 miles there was no one. If I'd had any sort of breakdown I'd have been hosed.

I was really starting to enjoy myself.

Talked to an old guy at a gas pump in Roby. Then to two other people. The Bullet attracts a lot of attention.

I was running late and so did not go out to explore the small creek area that was once Teepee City, a place where Comanche's often camped until settlers and traders took over. Later, the Matador Ranch bought out the entire town and shut it down. Their ranch hands were disappearing there for days at a time, drunken, uproarious, and brotheling.

Od 4233 overcast 7venty

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Spending night at abilene state park

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Post mortem:

The first day's ride was uneventful except for a little rain (later on I would very wish each day had been uneventful).

Eventually I'll get around to posting the route on the Bullet Blog -- but it will have to wait until I return. Basically I left Austin and went north on 183. It was overcast and easy riding -- not too hot at all. At Liberty Hill I took highway 29 up to Llano, then north from there. That's pretty Hill Country, but I was focusing on how well the motorcycle was doing. I figured I could handle about anything but a flat rear tire, which would require a tow in. Actually a flat front would have screwed me over as well, since I had no way to fill it up with air once fixed!

I got rained on south of Abilene, and was having trouble using my GPS. I missed Pecan Bayou but did get a couple of decent pics of Santa Anna. I can't post any pictures right now, but will later.

Buffalo Gap was a tourist town, and it was pretty much all closed up except for a couple of restaurants and a bar, which I couldn't go in for various reasons. I ate at "The Deutschlander" after I'd set up my campsite. I was really hungry and ordered a double meat -- which was a mistake since it came in at about 1 pound of beef. French fries cold.

I went back to the park and saw some deer and an armadillo.

Looked at the stars until the moon came up. Had trouble sleeping on the hard ground.

Od 4224

Buffalo Gap is a small tourist town southwest of Abilene. When the Comanche ruled the Texas Great Plains, they ran large herds of buffalo through the gap, where they were able to close in on them and kill them more easily.

These days it is filled with scrub oak and cedar, but before cattle were driven through from South Texas the vegetation was mostly grass, which the buffalo feasted on. Herman Lehman tells of charging through an army encampment with a Comanche friend, shooting and stampeding the soldier horses.

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Highway 183 runs from near the Red River at the southwestern corner of Oklahoma clear down to the Texas coastal plain at Refugio. It spans more than 450 miles and from Austin heading north runs almost through the middle of Comancheria. On the way out of Texas I would only use highway 183 as a quick way to leave Austin, but on my return I would ride on it from Vernon, Texas all the way down to the Hill Country. Up north it is not a major highway, but a rural two lane state road. Following 183 alone will expose you to the lands of the north eastern Comanche bands – the Kuhtsoo-ehku, the Nawkohnee, the Tahneemuh, and the Tehnawa.

My bike, fully loaded with close to 250 pounds of gear, tools, and spare parts, wound its way through my neighborhood and then onto the freeway.

It felt good to be moving.

On the way out of town I passed where I worked, which had given me a month of paid sabbatical (in my experience an unheard of policy) but one I was quite happy to make use of. In the weeks leading up to sabbatical I had found myself sitting in heavy traffic inching forward on “freeway”, white-knuckled grip on the wheel, cursing under my breath.

I needed to get out of the city.

We were supposed to use the sabbatical period to reflect on where we were in terms of career development, if there weren’t things we ought to be doing but weren’t -- or perhaps to consider the things we ought not to be doing but were. We were supposed to be thinking about our lives in the broader framework of orientation, our direction -- our goals.

I’d bought a GPS unit before leaving. When I checked it at a stoplight I was at N30 30.287, W97 49.203 with a current heading of 342 degrees. I’d traveled some 16 miles at an average speed of 43 mph, a top speed of 64 mph, and had been stopped for a total time of 3 minutes 47 seconds.

...

The traffic was intense in Austin out through Cedar Park, and clear to Leander. But it subsided quickly when I reached my turnoff at Seward Junction. Once I was past Liberty Hill there was almost no traffic at all.

I had time to think.

A barbeque joint had made me think about food.

That reminded me that there were certain limitations to my motorcycle driven anthropological investigations of stone-age man on the plains.

I’d spent a fair amount of time packing simple but good things to enliven the food that I’d cook while camping out.

I did want to camp out.

I wanted to experience the plains like the people of the 19th century had. Well, at least I wanted to get close to what they experienced. I thought that camping out would help me do that. I would cook meat over a campfire. I told myself that sleeping in a bag on the ground without an air or foam mattress might help me understand those people’s lives better. That eating simple foods grilled or raw would give me perspective on their world and mine.

I didn’t recognize that as a crock.

I had strung a backpack on the rack I’d welded up for my saddle bags. I’d put some beef jerky, an apple, and a candy bar in it. I figured if I broke down somewhere in the middle of nowhere that stuff would come in handy.

Before I’d left on the trip I’d eaten all kinds of things that I really liked but knew I wouldn’t likely get on the trip (while camping out, for instance): gnocchi di potate with red sauce, roasted lemon chicken with braised vegetables and rice, saag panir and fried daal with basmati, humus and babaganoush with arabic salad, linguine with an exquisite pesto sauce made of an assortment of homegrown basils and mints and pine nuts, and with all these meals I had cabernets, pinots, chardonnays – whatever fit. I admit this is snoot food, but I'm no snoot. I like my burgers and beer, too.

My ordinary culinary life had nothing to do with the primitive ways of the plains.

It is often said that food reveals the culture.

Herman Lehmann was introduced to his new culture the first night of his capture. Carnoviste, the chief of the raiding party and whose slave Herman now was, found a calf lying down near their trail in the moonlight. The chief signaled Herman to capture the calf, which Hermann did. Carnoviste slit its throat. Immediately he then cut open its body cavity and sliced out its stomach. He plunged his knife into it and began to eat the congealed sour milk inside. Feeling generous, he motioned for Herman to partake.

Herman flatly refused.

There was no way he was going to eat any of that, just as I would not. In fact, I don’t think I even could feast on the innards of a freshly slaughtered calf. Neither could Herman. Here’s what Herman wrote about his first meal with Carnoviste:

He grabbed me and soused my head into that calf’s paunch and rubbed that nauseous stuff all over my face, in my eyes, up my nose, into my ears and forced some down my throat. He held my nose and made me swallow, but the stuff would not stay on my stomach and I vomited copiously. He then cut out the kidneys and liver and compelled me to eat some of them while they were warm with the animal heat. I would vomit the mess up, but he would gather it up and make me swallow the same dose again, and again I would vomit.

Eventually Herman held it down.

It was not in my plans to kill a calf and eat the soured milk contents of its stomach. Nor was I fan of heart, liver, kidney or intestine, all of which were devoured voraciously by Amerindian hunters when they killed for food. My approach to understanding stone-age man had clear limits that were defined by very clearly by chief Carnoviste. I determined that the closest I would get to their culinary tradition was a hearty grilled steak or some well smoked brisket.

...

The Texas Hill Country was unwinding below my tires. Glancing down I could see the road rushing past six inches below my boot. The tires gripped the asphalt, I leaned into an easy left hander. I had just passed through Burnet and was heading briskly toward Lake Buchanan. The motor buzzed warmly, the fresh air in my face smelled clean and earthy. When all is right with the motorcycle, when it is in mechanical top trim, when the course of the road and the pace of the bike are matched correctly, the rider feels as though he is flying, as though the rhythm of the world and his own body are pulsing synchronously, breathing and exhaling the same breath in the same beat. It becomes a vision in itself, it seems incomparable, and yet I felt the rush as a rumor of a distant world.

OD 4157

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Herman Lehmann was a German boy whose family settled in Central Texas during the late 1860s. They located themselves directly in the midst of a territory the Spaniard’s had named Comancheria.

One hundred years before the Lehmanns decided to move in, the horse-mounted Comanches had begun to ruthelessly evict other Amerindian tribes from the southern plains: Apache, Ute, Pawnee, Tarankawa. All of them were driven out or killed. They nearly exterminated the Lipan Apache.

At the same time they stopped cold the advance of industrial age culture for over 150 years. At the Rio Grande they put to rest any realistic claims Spain had on North America; and Anglo-American penetration from the east was halted in the area between the Sabine and Trinity rivers. To the north Comanches ranged clear to the Arkansas river, to the west as far the Rocky Mountain foothills. Smack in the center of this realm Herman Lehmann’s father established a homestead. Though the Comache had been cowed by the Texas Rangers thirty years before, inconsistent policy thereafter led to a resurgence of Amerndian activity on the Southern Plains. Because Comanche power had waned, Apache’s risked raiding into central Texas from New Mexico, and in fact Apaches abducted Herman Lehmann. But no one entered Comancheria without risking their scalp, and many settlers were rubbed out, taken prisoner, made into slaves, or adopted into the tribe. After his abduction Herman would plunge from the cusp of the industrial age directly into the stone-age world of the plains Amerindian. Astonishingly, he would excel at it. He rode in raids, participated in battles, stole horses, mules, and cattle, killed settlers -- and after falling out with his adopted Apache tribe he would eventually be taken in by the Comanches as a full bore warrior.

But just as Herman was achieving strong medicine in the primitive world it began to collapse under the heavy pressure of the very culture he’d been stolen from.

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Santa Anna Peaks is actually 83 miles north of where Herman Lehmann was abducted. His family homesteaded in Squaw Creek, near present Loyal Valley Texas, where Herman is buried.

The Apache Indians who nabbed Herman from his homestead took him north, but perhaps not as far as Santa Anna peaks themselves before heading east toward New Mexico.

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In May 1870 Herman Lehmann’s mother sent him and his siblings out to a wheat field to scare the birds away. It was probably a fake chore, maybe she just wanted to get the kids out of the house for awhile. When they got to the field a few hundred yards from their house, they sat down and began to play.

Within moments they were surrounded by Indians. The warriors had war paint smeared on their bodies and faces. Herman’s sister screamed. She ran for the house, and the Indians immediately began shooting at her. Herman’s brother Willie was caught where he sat, and the youngest sister – just a baby -- lay on the ground not knowing what was happening. Herman dashed after his sister.

The Indians kept shooting at them, and Hermann’s sister fainted from fright. Herman kept running, the Indians chased him down and tackled him in the tall grass.

Hermann fought.

He kicked, pulled hair, punched, and bit.

Just as he was about to break free of one Indian another joined the fray. Herman was overpowered. One Indian grabbed his head, the other his feet, and they scurried over to a stone wall that ran along one side of the field.

They heaved him over the wall.

Crashing into the ground on the other side, Herman was stunned.

His mouth was full of gravel and sand, he couldn’t breath, and before he was able to move the two Indians packed him and carried him to a horse. They stripped his clothes from his body and bound him over the back of the horse. Herman saw that his brother was bound the same way. The Indians mounted up, hooted, and drove their horses away as fast as they could.

Departing od 3961

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One hundred and fifty years before I began my motorcycle ride across the Great Plains Crazy Horse and a small band of Oglala warriors charged over a grassy hill in the Nebraska panhandle and rode down furiously upon their Omaha Indian enemies. They whooped as they rode into the Omaha camp, shrieked war cries, and fought fiercely with knife, lance, bow, and war club. Sent to flank the enemy, Crazy Horse, who was only thirteen years old, spied an Omaha crawling through tall grass. He strung an arrow and let it fly. The Omaha slumped to the ground and Crazy Horse let out a war whoop, but when he found the body in the grass and turned it over, he recoiled in horror. He hadn’t killed a warrior -- he’d killed a young woman.

Far to the west in Montana, near the Little Bighorn, an eleven year old orphaned Crow named Two Leggings entered a sweat lodge. He was already beginning his painful search for a powerful vision, a medicine which would allow him to become a great warrior, a pipeholder, a leader of his tribe. His father had died when he was an infant while demonstrating to his wife how black powder was supposed to work. Laying the powder out in the lodge, he placed it too close to the flames. It exploded. Two Legging’s father was burned so badly that he died two days later. To complete his personal tragedy, his mother died after giving birth to his younger brother a year later. After that the band took basic care of Two Leggings (boys that could become hunters and warriors were far too valuable to waste); yet he was destitute, and Two Leggings’ poverty turned him into an extremely ambitious boy. He was determined to prevail against the odds and rise up from his humble state to become a Crow war chief.

During Two Legging’s early struggles, far to the south in Texas, Quanah Parker was about three or four years old. Quanah was a half blood, an equal mixture of European and Amerindian. His mother was a Comanche captive and his father was chief Peta Nacona. Quanah would himself become a war leader, fighting and raiding throughout the southern Great Plains. When the struggle against the European invasion became utterly hopeless and their wildlife commissary was destroyed Quanah led his half-starved band to the reservation in Oklahoma and adapted himself into the role of a Comanche peace chief. Through his creative efforts to merge the old ways and the new he helped save his people from complete annihilation.

...

My plan was to ride from Comanche lands to Crazy Horse country.

I would begin in Austin, Texas and head west-northwest, using back roads, two-laners, farm roads, and scenic byways. Anything that followed the Amerindian travel routes of old. In fact any number of Texas highways and farm roads transit various Comanche hunting and raiding routes.

I would try to visit as many Comanche landmarks and sites as possible on the long ride to the northern Great Plains – Wyoming, Montana, South Dakota, Nebraska.

The Great Plains was a place where disaster befell a people who had been living the same life for forty millennia. Had the Amerindians had a different social organization then perhaps the same mistakes would not have been made from south to north, from east to west -- then perhaps the promises of the invader would never have been accepted, or a realization of the unstoppable nature of the coming onslaught might have led Amerindian chiefs to work together to negotiate a more equitable solution for all of their people.

However the social organization required for such politics was the hallmark of the invader, not the invaded. Amerindian culture was frozen in form, as though it were in a bizarre time warp, having changing little if at all from a time tens of thousands of years before the last ice age. But in a little over one human lifespan, stone-age life came to an abrupt and violent end on the prairie of the Great Plains.

I finished painting the rack I built for my luggage carriers on Friday night. Here's a pic:




I had to teach myself to weld to get that one, but it was worth it, since bags available for the RE are all too small for my needs.

I a couple of hours I'm heading out toward Santa Anna peak, Pecan Bayou, and Buffalo Gap.

Posts from now on will be short until I can get to a library or internet cafe to fill them out.

This is a test of the mobile bullet blog network.

Let's see if I can subsequently edit this. I believe so.

Yes, it is so.

I spent the last two months working on my Bullet and beginning to map out my plains ride.

In March I installed a 19 tooth countershaft sprocket. The goal was not necessarily to go faster, but raise the speed at which the engine vibration sweet spot occurred. Normally, with a 17t countershaft sprocket on the Bullet 500, that speed was about 55 to 60.

To go faster I had to really wind it out into an RPM range that was uncomfortable. I also prefer a lower RPM for engine stress reasons.

The 19t sprocket has raised the sweet spot into the 70 - 80 mph range.

Here's a pic of the installation process:


Primary drive case completely removed

Once I had the 19t on, though, I discovered that the linkage system Royal Enfield invented to convert the bike to a left hand shift for the US market was unable to move far enough up or down to allow shifting.

The solution was to go to a right hand shift.

I spent the month of April fabricating a RH shift mechanism from the parts on hand from a left hand shift. I had to teach myself to weld, as I need a left hand brake pedal and a right hand shift lever. I had to machine the crossover shaft and cut it so that it could be made to stick out of a hole I drilled in the outer gearbox case.

Here's a couple of pics of the mockup and then the converted outercase sitting loosely on the innercase (I didn't have a camera to take a pic of the finished deal, but may put it back on later and then I'll post a pic of it):



Internal mechanism (mockup)




Finished case

I got it working, but test rides made me suspect that the design was potentially not strong enough to take the beating of a very long ride. So, in the interest of not breaking down in the plains of Wyoming or Montana, I paid for the conversion kit and installed it.

Once I got it all back together I had ignition problems -- I'd let the battery electrolyte levels drop too low. Bought a battery, but it was slightly too big. Anyway I think I'll fabricate a holder for it and install it instead of the usual RE battery.

Still wouldn't light up -- somehow the plug was not firing regularly. It would fire once, then not for a long time. Changing the plug fixed this, but I may install a new condensor to boot.

The other project that I'm finishing up is a rack that holds two 20mm army surplus ammo cans -- that's what I'm using for saddle bags. They actually look pretty good on a Bullet. Pics of that project next time.

I've picked a route from Austin to Abilene that follows old Comanche trails and encampment areas. I'll spend the night at a lake just south of Buffalo Gap, where Herman Lehmann busted through a detachment of US Cavalry while he was being a real life "Little Big Man". He charged through early in the morning with a group of Comanche comrades. Riding past at full gallop they fired into the troopers, who were still bleary eyed and stumbling around in their underwear.

I suspect Thomas Berger read Lehmann's Nine Years Among the Indians, because the story of Herman Lehmann looks a lot like what happened to the fictional character Jack Crabb.

We'll see about that.

I'll be doing a bunch of work on the drive train in the coming weeks. I hope to document it with plenty of pics so I can finally add another section of maintenence info on the Bullet Blog.

I've been lax in updating this site, in particular from the technical perspective. However I do have some news relating the mechanical condition of my Bullet, some upcoming work I will do on it, and plans for an extensive riding adventure this coming summer.

General Mechanical State:
At 3800 miles or thereabouts my 2001 500 KS is doing pretty well. Some things are worn out that need to be fixed: the left hand shift linkage bushings wore (or fell) out causing a rather frustrating tendency for the foot shift lever to stay in a depressed condition when switching down through the gears. It leads to trickier shifting than is ideal.

One day after work my kickstart spring broke and during the replacement of it I dug deeper, opening up the inner gearcase and having a sludgefest with the 00 grease that they pack the transmission with; I also checked the kickstart pawl.

After putting everything back together I have had difficulty going from 2nd to 3rd gear. Sometimes it just won't go at all and I have to disengage and reengage the clutch multiple times before it'll pop into 3rd.

I'm hoping that it is only the worn out or missing bushings, since that can cause misshifts; when I replace them I will see if I have to go in and mess with the footstop and ratchet shift mechanism.

One other thing is that the stock electrical connectors on the Bullet aren't very good. Wires become disconnected suddenly and give rise to all sorts of bizarre electrical issues. I'm going to replace all of the connectors with some that my motorcycle maintenance teacher swears by. I can't remember what the part number is or the manufacturer at the moment, when I find out and after I verify their quality I'll recommend about them in a separate post.

I have also noted clutch slippage when rapidly increasing throttle when resistance is offered to forward momentum in higher gears (up a hill or strong headwind). This may have started because of not having had (or still not having) the clutch cable quite loose enough.

Upgrades:
I'm trying to rely on the Bullet to ride periodically to Fort Worth where my wife is attending medical school. It's a great ride (see Eastern Comanche Run for some notes on the route).

The only real problem is that the Bullet is not comfortable cruising at 70 mph stock. I feel that the rider has to push the RPM too high. There are people who push it that hard, but I think there is pretty substantial anecdotal evidence that running with a 17t sprocket at 70 mph often damages the motor (piston seizure, valve train failure, etc).

With that idea in mind I'm going to change the drive train such that the layshaft has a 19t sprocket on it. Because of the extra torque on the clutch (and because of the slippage mentioned above) I'm going to put in new friction and drive plates and heavy-duty springs. Then I will see ... it may be that additional gear tweaking is needed, perhaps lowering 1st gear some so I don't lug down taking off from full stops.

I hope to use a camera to document the work for a future post.

Summer Plans:
During summer 2005 I plan on riding my Bullet from Comanche lands to Crazy Horse country. I'm going to camp as much as possible and stick to the back roads. I will cover much of the Indian trails of the Penahterkuh (southern) Comanche areas (central Texas), cruise up through the northern Comanche areas of the Texas panhandle and Oklahoma; I will visit the Washita River battle site; cruise up through Colorado and then pick up the Bozeman trail near Cheyenne Wyoming where the Grattan massacre in 1859 began the famous Sioux indian wars which culminated in the battle of the Little Bighorn and the subsequent piecemeal defeat of the divided Sioux and Cheyenne tribes.

My goal on the northern plains is the Powder River country and then on up to the Yellowstone. I will carefully document all the routes I take and keep the Bullet Blog updated as often as I can along the way.

I hope to recount a tremendous amount of Amerindian history and hopefully have some adventures of my own to relate.

One the way back from the Missouri (if I make it that high up), I'll cut down through the Dakotas and Nebraska, Kansas, and then through Oklahoma on the way back to Texas. At the very least I'll be able to provide a really solid web guide to motorcycling the back roads of the a significant part of the great plains, with lots of pictures and hopefully good information on interesting places to see, good places to eat and drink, and maybe even discover some of the mystic places that the Amerindians called home.

I took a night ride to Fort Worth last Sunday night.

Poor 17t sprocketed Bullet can't really get up to speed at comfortable RPM, trip took 4 1/2 hours or so with three stops.

The first two were to fix a contact lens problem, as I suddenly found myself seeing double on the freeway just outside of Belton, the contact having blown off my eye onto the goggle lens. Luckily I was only a mile from my exit or so, and a convenient, well-lighted gas station provided a place to fix that up.

Next stop was up TX 317 at McGregor, where just outside town the same contact plopped out of my eye again and landed on my lower eyelid. I rode past some kind of accident scene, tried to spy (with my cyclops vision) what had happened, but failed.

Gawddamnit.

At a gas station I fixed it again, only this time put it in correctly (it had been on outside - in).

Bought gas and headed up toward Crawford.

Crawford is the current home of the "Western White House", were the President elect of the US had just cast his vote only a few days before. Crawford is little more than a few buildings at the intersection of a state and a county road. There were no presidential motorcades or secret service to be seen.

On up the road I puttered.

I arrived in Fort Worth at 11:00 pm or thereabouts, butt-sore and determined to do something about a nagging shifting problem that had been devloping during the previous days: difficulty getting it into 3rd, and the foot shift actuator tending to remain depressed after being pushed down to select a lower gear. But most important I wanted to get that bike moving faster without having to wind it out past its comfort zone (maybe 3000 rpm or so?)

After some investigating I discovered that the plastic bushings were gone from my shift linkage system, and decided that the looseness is preventing easy shifting into 3rd AND the snap back problem.

I spent the next day reading and going to the Amon Carter museum, which has a bunch of artwork from people like Remington, who depicted life on the plains in the late 19th century.

19th century life on the plains happens to be a personal hobby of mine; and the great plains are the goal of a pet project for next summer (or if I get shit-canned from my job, sooner): a ride on my Bullet through the great plains of the United States, focusing on contrasting the experience of the people who were there in the 19th century with my experiences on the motorcycle today. It oughta be a fantastic trip, and I'm already doing a lot of research into the history on the Amerindians who plied their livings from the great plains, from the souther reaches near where I live (Austin TX) up to the Powder River country and beyond the Yellowstone up to the Missouri. I have a rather tome-ish entry on that on this blog already Eastern Comanche Run or some such; anyway, I pretty well tired myself out doing the museum and reading about military movements across the plains of the Montana and Wyoming territories in 1876.

I was planning to ride home on Wednesday morning, and Tuesday evening I hopped on the Bullet to head down to an ATM for some cash, and then a pint at the Bull and Bush on Montgomery street. A great little pub which attracts all types from the cultural district of cowtown.

I kicked her to life, pulled out into the street, started to accelerate away -- PLOONK

The engine stopped and the lights went out.

My Bullet was completely dead.

Of course it was at night, I pushed her back to the dim porch light and started looking at the fuse.

Fuse was fine.

Now, I spent a whole semester at Austin Community College doing a course in motorcycle electrical systems. So I thought to myself, dude, you have to be able to fix this. It was a matter of honor.

However, I could find no grounding problem or potential short. I started grimly contemplating having to take my woman's car back to Austin, leaving the Bullet in cowntown and having to come back with a trailer, the whole whacked out rigamarole.

I reached over and turned on the ignition switch again, suddenly the lights were back on.

I started the bike, backed out into the street, put it in gear, turned the handlebars -- PLOONK

Dead again. No lights, no nothing. Switched on and off several times. The same.

Hmmm.

I new that the battery was good, the fuse was good, and that it had just worked a moment ago.

The only suspicious thing was that it had quit when I turned the handle bars.

Pushed it back up under the dim porch light. Looked under the cowling, twisting the handlebars first this way and then that. Well. Everything looked fine, but I reached up and jiggled the connector that goes from the harness to the ignition switch. It seemed to move.

I turned on the ignition switch -- lights, camera, action.

The connector had come loose.

Whew!

I've learned from previous experience (see Snafu below).

After verifying the battery, go with circuit continuity at the switches and connectors first.

Leave the multimeter and disassembly for dead last.

# posted by Bullet @ 4:10 PM

My kickstart return spring broke one day at work.

It dangled all the way home and I was anxious about turning right too hard, as the kickstart arm would flop into the ground and bounce up or maybe even snag on something and throw me -- admittedly unlikely.

So I got the parts in the mail and replaced them, but not before first removing the innner gear case cover to inspect the little pawl that actually engages the kickstart gear. That was a big mess and I didn't have a gasket to replace the one that I tore while removing the plate. I used a silicone gasket as an experiment, it seems to have worked okay.

I put everything back together, kicked her to life -- nothing.

I scratched my head.

The ammeter wasn't deflecting like it should. I had power when I turned on the key, but the ammeter wouldn't deflect as I rotated the crankshaft through its cycle.

Hmmm.

I busted out the test light -- no juice to the points.

Hmmm.

So I began to trace back through the wiring harness trying to find where the wire that fed the points went to in the headlight cowling. I couldn't quite find where it went, so off came the headlight so I could see better. That was okay, since I had been wanting to replace a bad light bulb in the high beam circuit. I was then able to trace where the wire from the points went. It had a connector up under the cowling, I disconnected it and did a continuity test on the wire -- it was good.

Now where did that damned connector go? I grasped it and traced it up, up, up, out through a hole in the cowling to the right hand handlebar control, it wasn't attached to the brake lever though, I inspected carefully, saw finally what it was connected to --

The kill switch.




Happy thumping, ya'll.

A couple of weeks ago my woman needed to drive down to Cuero from Austin. I decided to follow her Toyota Corolla on my Bullet.

I got it out of the garage, put my gear on, and, in the 95 degree heat, kicked it to life.

Well, not quite.

To my horror I discovered that I could kick through all 4 cycles without using the decompression valve. The last time I'd ridden was about three weeks previous. I'd ridden a long way in pretty high temperatures. I didn't *want* to have missed so much riding time, but my family situation had demanded it. We all know how that goes sometimes. I wasn't thinking about how long it had been since I'd ridden though, I was thinking about what damage the long ride in the heat might have done to a valve or the rings.

My woman was anxious.

I kicked and kicked and kicked -- checked the decompression valve to see if it was stuck open -- then kicked some more.

"Look, I need to get going babe ..."

She had that semi-annoyed, quizzical look on her face of somebody who has a schedule to keep and you're the one keeping them from adhering to it.

"I don't understand", I muttered. "It was fine last time I rode it."

Kick. Kick kick kick.

Finally it thumped once or twice and died.

Sweating, I kicked some more, and when that failed put my head down on the forks. I couldn't take my Jeep, because it was misfiring -- and now I couldn't take my Bullet because it wouldn't fire at all.

In frustration I admitted defeat.

"Sorry babe. I just don't know what's wrong. Guess it's not my day to be riding. You'll have to go alone."

Then I kicked once more to punctuate the failure.

A-thump-thump-thump-thump-thump-thump-thump ...

I revved the motor gently, she kept going, my woman rolled her eyes.

"Finally!!!"

Off we went. Of course, we had to turn around and come back to the house after about half a mile because she forgot some paperwork she needed.

I grinned and figured that was my revenge, but on highway 183 she kept creeping way out in front of me. I pulled up next to her at a stoplight in Lockhart.

"Baby," says I, "I told you this bike only does 60 to 65 comfortably. You gotta slow down."

She bit my head off and said she'd never gotten above 55 and most of the time was at 50, and if she went any slower then she'd cause a wreck.

Ahead of us, down south toward Luling, I could see some rather ominous looking black clouds.

I told her I'd see her back at the house, and I figure she was glad to be rid of me.

On the way back I figured out using milage signs that my Bullet was going 60 MPH when the speedo was jumping around the 70 MPH mark. Heh. Optomistic Indian engineers! The other thing I pondered was why the bike hadn't wanted to start.

Thirty minutes later I was in my driveway testing the compression. It was solid -- no problems at all. I could no longer kick through all 4 cycles without actuating the decompression valve.

So, what was the problem?

The Bullet theoreticians over at the Yahoo Group Bulletech came up with what I figured was a reasonable explanation: when you let the Bullet sit for an extended period you can get a case where the oil lining the cylinder wall drains out to such an extent that there's not enough fluid to create a hydrostatic seal between the rings and the cylinder wall.

At first that seemed ... well, unlikely.

But several posts showed up describing the same symptoms I had and describing that getting the bike running again -- however briefly -- could solve the issue. One poster said he had actually taken out the plug and squirted a small amount of oil in the cylinder -- and it fired up first kick after that.

That convinced me: hydrostatic seal it was.

The only thing that still annoyed me was how fast ... er, slooowww ... my Bullet was going. Next move: putting on the 18 tooth sprocket I've got sitting in my parts bin. It may not help a lot, but I think it ought to get me going a little bit faster without the high rev screech and vibrations from hell -- and I've got a sprung seat.

Actually I like going slow. But it will be some time before I get or build a big twin, and so if I can up the speed just a little and do some mechanical work for pleasure it's a win/win situation.

Eight generations ago Texas was in the midst of a collision between stone age man and the industrial age.

Sometime near 1700 the descendants of mountain Shoshone Amerindian tribes had become what are reputed to have been the finest horsemen on the Great Plains -- the Comanche -- and with their horses they followed the massive buffalo herds, hunting them with arrow, axe, and spear. They tracked these animals southward into the most fertile parts of the plains below the Arkansas river. Along the way from their northern Rocky Mountain orgins they spread east and west and ever further southward, driving out other indeginous folk, destroying cropland and appropriating horses, Utes to the west, Pawnee along the Platte, Apache, Wichita, Waco, and Tonkawa to the south. Some, like the Apache, they utterly decimated.

The weekend of February 21 I took my Bullet up from Austin to Fort Worth tracing the eastern extent of bison grazing in the 17th, 18th and 19th century; and in so doing I also tracked the eastern limit of regular Comanche ranging in Texas.

I avoided Interstate 35 on the way up, transiting perhaps 10 miles along that route once I entered the suburbs of Fort Worth.

Thoroughfares like I35 hold no interest for me while I'm aboard a motorcycle. For the best riding I sought out small state and county roads; I actually wound up finding a route that is straighter and shorter to Fort Worth than the interstate is.

But on the way up I chose a longer passage that penetrated deeper west into Comanche lands.

I traversed Travis, Williamson, Burnet, Lampasas, Coryell, Bosque, Johnson, and Parker counties. It was fantastic Texas motorcycling, from Austin to Briggs via 183, from Briggs to Copperas Cove via 2657, Copperas to Gatesville via 116, Gatesville to Valley Mills via 215/217, Valley Mills to Laguna Park via 56 (the most beautiful part), onto 22 toward Whitney, and from there taking 933 to a small intersection with a few houses called Blum, going a bit further to 174 which takes you north, eventually into Burleson and the junction with I35, Fort Worth.

Comanche conflicts with the invading industrial age white men have been recorded in an incredibly long tome titled "Comanche Depredations in Texas" by J.W. Wilbarger, first published in 1889. There are other books that catalog the confrontations, Wilbarger's is probably the longest and has an interesting origin of its own.

Picture this: you're riding from the coast toward Austin on chilly winter day, about 10 miles outside of La Grange you stop to rest at a bar; another cyclist comes in wearing a helmet. He takes it off and lowers it, messing with his jacket, and you see that the man's head is raw, red, wet, and showing a large patch of whitish skull bone on top.

You have to ask.

"Excuse me, but what happened to your head?"

The man matter-of-factly replies, "I been scalped."

Exactly that short conversation did take place in a cabin about 10 miles outside of La Grange in the 1840s. The scalped man was J.W. Wilbarger's brother Josiah Wilbarger. He and three companions were attacked by a small party of Comanche warriors near present day east Austin somewhere along Pecan Spring branch -- and though the indians took his hair, he did live to tell of it.

The asphalt of 2657 rushed past under my footpegs, I leaned into a long, downhill, lefthander. It was a beautiful sweep and I rolled the throttle slightly more open, accelerating, conserving traction. Limestone roadcut flew past as the turn unwound and I headed into a small valley and passed over a creek. The air was cool and dry, I smelled the earth, I smelled horses in the distance.

J.W. Wilbarger's book is not surprisingly starkly critical of Comanche behavior, and, at the same time, remarkably unreflective about why the Comanche were hostile to begin with. Nothing less could be expected from the pen of the brother of a man who was brutally attacked, stripped, scalped, and then left for dead. To my knowledge no accounting of this incident was left behind by any Comanche scribe, though tales were probably told of it by the campfire when the warriors returned home. Much is on the internet about Josiah Wilbarger, a search on Google will lead you directly to his story.

For the greater part of the ride north I was by myself. No cars. No oncoming traffic, no traffic behind me, no traffic to overtake. It was pristine. I had time to absorb the scenery, and reflect. The motor thumped rythmically, I was cruising a relaxed and comfortable sixty miles per hour.

At the time of Josiah Wilbarger the land I was traversing did not look like it does now. Scrub oak, cedar, and even the ubiqitous cactus plants were native only to regions further south; during rainy years tall grass -- waist high -- dominated the softly rolling landscape. You can still see this wherever ranchers remove the invading species for grazing. Trees and shrubbery concentrated in crooked lines following the path of creek and river. Bison ranged here freely one and a half centuries ago, eating that tall grass, seeking out water pools and streams. Comanche hunters, moving in out of sight in nearby vales, charged up suddenly on horseback and stampeded the buffalo. They attacked them with both spear and arrow. The Comanche would press their knees against their steed, their hands busy with weaponry, directing their mount by pressure, the horse following its master's command, narrowing distance, cutting off animals that strayed, driving them further, galloping full speed across the plain. The hunters fired into the heaving animals and brought them down.

It is a strange sight then, to drive so many miles across essentially empty land: no bison, only a few stray cattle along the road, some horses that look up startled as I honk the tinny-sounding electric horn, sheep, huge swine farms, and the occasional house and hound dog.

A million creatures that once dominated the landscape, now nothing more than ghosts and distant murmurs, for none now live that can remember that time.

For a brief moment on a long straight tract of empty road I released my firm grip on the handlebars, let my knees push the tank, let the bike lean a little to the left and to the right, tried to find the quickening pulse of another age -- but nothing came of it.

I continued on.

Soon I was busy dodging cars and trying to find my way in Copperas Cove. The signage for 116 north was essentially not present and my map was innaccurate. I wound up going too far east on 190. I should have gone north at Main Street -- which is 116, for any that want to know -- but instead I had to stop at a grunged out garage and ask.

Once I got onto 116 I discovered that it is truly a fine trek; it traces the western borders of Fort Hood, which is one of the largest military reservation in the US. The road winds up at Gatesville, where nearby numerous conflicts between Comanche and Texan happened in the mid-nineteenth century.

I was racing along country that was covered with grass, that was used for grazing cattle today and in the spring of 1859 was the scene of a Comanche raid from the northwest.

A party of warriors came down; they were looking for hostages and other booty, horses or other goods that they might use, and of course to harrass and punish the invading white Texans. North of Gatesville I began traversing farm road 215, another two laner that winds along hill and dale, fields that stretch out beyond the immediate lining of scrub oak or fence. In that territory the warrior party made its way, and whenever they encountered traveling whites they attacked them.

Early one day a certain Wm. Riggs was taking his wagons down to a cedar brake to collect wood with a young boy, David Elms. They saw distant horsemen approaching fast.

"Are those Indians?", David asked.

Moments later the Comanche war party swooped down upon them. Elm was captured almost immediately, while Riggs began a mad dash for his home -- some four hundred yards away. The warriors whipped them both with ox tails and chased Riggs, some of them laughing, some whooping, trying to outpace him as some kind of strange joke. When the indians saw Rigg's home, however, they turned tail and ran, fearing that it might be a trap of some sort, with firearms waiting for them to come within range.

All these things happened as clearly as the road appeared to me, rushing past, twisting and turning, but those things were invisible now, the asphalt and the grass and the animals and trees tell no such story -- and yet this same landscape witnessed these events, the same kinds of animals looking up surprised, the oxen chewing their cud, the horses nervously bolting, the grass crushed underfoot, a child screaming for help.

Riggs made it home, the indians took Elm hostage, and seemed to ride away.

Sometimes it's best to stay home, sometimes not, in any case Mr. Riggs decided to make a run for it with his whole family; the indians saw this and intercepted them, felling Riggs and his wife, and taking a 10 year old and a six year old hostage.

They left a baby boy crawling about on the bodies of its parents.

These things are hard to grasp today. Our world is filled with news, sometimes bloody news, but conflicts like these between two cultures vying for the same land are something far away from the shallow undulations I was riding through.

Texas FM 215 merges into FM 217 at a small village called Mosheim. There is what looks to be the ruins of a mission there. I did not stop to investigate but it would make a nice picture or two.

On to Valley Mills.

The only thing I regret about my ride is that I didn't take enough pictures. I failed to take any of the curving two lane roads that stretched out so invitingly before me. That was mostly because of the distance I had to travel and the speed I was limited to: I didn't want to stop too much to be taking pictures. I did manage to get one of Lake Whitney, one of some horses in Blum, one of Crawford (home of the new western white house), and one of the green countryside at Valley Mills.

Valley Mills is a very picturesque part of the journey, the Bosque river flows nearby, and it is obvious that the town was built in the fertile soil of the flood plain. Though my picture of Valley Mills didn't come out, I will go through there again I should think, and will get more pictures then.

By the time I got to FM 56 I was getting tired. I hadn't really taken a break except to get more fuel in Briggs and then again in Gatesville; I was being hyper-cautious about keeping fueled up, not really knowing the distances or how big any one town might be. Some of the towns had only one gas station, some had none at all. FM 56 is a great road that winds up out of the Bosque river valley and ends at lake Whitney.

Here's a picture that turned out, it's of Lake Whitney:



FM 56 dead ends at Laguna Park into state highway 22, where I turned right and headed across the lake Whitney dam, going north. The Brazos river feeds Whitney, and continues on southeast down toward Waco.

SH 22 was pretty busy and I can't say it was an particularly interesting part of the ride.

Right south of Whitney I turned left onto 933. That was a good ride once I got out of Whitney and into the countryside again. I passed through more good horse and cattle country, green swells that rose and fell as far as the eye could see. That was all well and good, but by this time I'd been riding for near on 4 hours and I was getting TIRED. But I was determined, and despite the growing numbness in my hindquarters I persevered through Blum and onto SH 174, going north, the last bit through Cleburne, Joshua, and finally Burleson.

There where way too many traffic lights starting at Joshua. Basically I spent a good twenty minutes getting through Joshua and Burleson and I was pretty happy to get onto I35. That was annoying on the one hand, but at each traffic light I could at least stand up and rest my poor aching ass. Well, I wouldn't take the long route again, I was certain of that.

The interesting parts of the ride pretty much ended after getting past Cleburne. The rest was just Friday afternoon rush hour, a wreck or two, bad tempers, impatience.

My route started about 100 miles north of the lowest extent of the Great Plains, and it ended in Fort Worth, nicknamed "Cowtown" for the cattle drives from the south that ended at the railheads here. I don't know how many million head traversed from south Texas, down by the King Ranch and other places, but I do know that those cattle are the reason that so much of central and north Texas are now covered with cedar and scrub oak and cactus. The seeds were brought north with the cattle.

After Burleson it took me maybe 15 more minutes to arrive where I was going.

It was the longest motorcycle ride I'd ever done with no breaks. My Bullet held up admirably. I STOOD at my girlfriend's for the better part of an hour, drinking wine, watching her fix dinner. It was shrimp scampi over pasta and with wine it washed down the last of the hard flavor of 222 miles of Texas two-lane highway.

I had arrived.

The following is an excerpt from Robert Pirsig's Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance (Part I, Chapter 2). I'm still working through the book but this one anecdote stirred me to repost it here. I have had many similar experiences which I hate to admit having had, they weren't necessarily anything to do with motorcycles, either, but the essence of those experiences is thus:

We were on a little six-and-one-half-horsepower cycle, way overloaded with luggage and way underloaded with common sense. The machine could do only about forty-five miles per hour wide open against a moderate head wind. It was no touring bike. We reached a large lake in the North Woods the first night and tented amid rainstorms that lasted all night long. I forgot to dig a trench around the tent and at about two in the morning a stream of water came in and soaked both sleeping bags. The next morning we were soggy and depressed and hadn't had much sleep, but I thought that if we just got riding the rain would let up after a while. No such luck. By ten o'clock the sky was so dark all the cars had their headlights on. And then it really came down.

We were wearing the ponchos which had served as a tent the night before. Now they spread out like sails and slowed our speed to thirty miles an hour wide open. The water on the road became two inches deep. Lightning bolts came crashing down all around us. I remember a woman's face looking astonished at us from the window of a passing car, wondering what in earth we were doing on a motorcycle in this weather. I'm sure I couldn't have told her.

The cycle slowed down to twenty-five, then twenty. Then it started missing, coughing and popping and sputtering until, barely moving at five or six miles an hour, we found an old run-down filling station by some cutover timberland and pulled in.

At the time, like John, I hadn't bothered to learn much about motorcycle maintenance. I remember holding my poncho over my head to keep the rain from the tank and rocking the cycle between my legs. Gas seemed to be sloshing around inside. I looked at the plugs, and looked at the points, and looked at the carburetor, and pumped the kick starter until I was exhausted.

We went into the filling station, which was also a combination beer joint and restaurant, and had a meal of burned-up steak. Then I went back out and tried it again. Chris kept asking questions that started to anger me because he didn't see how serious it was. Finally I saw it was no use, gave it up, and my anger at him disappeared. I explained to him as carefully as I could that it was all over. We weren't going anywhere by cycle on this vacation. Chris suggested things to do like check the gas, which I had done, and find a mechanic. But there weren't any mechanics. Just cutover pine trees and brush and rain.

I sat in the grass with him at the shoulder of the road, defeated, staring into the trees and underbrush. I answered all of Chris's questions patiently and in time they became fewer and fewer. And then Chris finally understood that our cycle trip was really over and began to cry. He was eight then, I think.

We hitchhiked back to our own city and rented a trailer and put it on our car and came up and got the cycle, and hauled it back to our own city and then started out all over again by car. But it wasn't the same. And we didn't really enjoy ourselves much.

Two weeks after the vacation was over, one evening after work, I removed the carburetor to see what was wrong but still couldn't find anything. To clean off the grease before replacing it, I turned the stopcock on the tank for a little gas. Nothing came out. The tank was out of gas. I couldn't believe it. I can still hardly believe it.

I've added two new sections, Maintenance Tips, and Projects.

The first entry in Maintenance tips has been taken from the Bulletech forum, where serious questions about Bullet maintenance and modification get serious answers. I liked the post because of its Zen approach to maintaining the motorcycle, and it procedes with the premise that the Bullet is of sufficiently simple technology to be best tuned using the ear, the eye, and the heart. The author shall remain anonymous.

The first entry under Projects describes the replacement of the OEM muffler (the one that is stock in the US) with one that is similar (or the same) as the one that was stock in the 50s in the UK. The article covers in detail the proceedure of rejetting and tuning your carburetor once the new muffler is attached. Attaching a new muffler will almost always require some attention to the carburetor, as that is the device that sets the air/fuel mixture being pumped into the engine during operation.

The second article was written by James Lonano, a Bullet rider and maintainer in the US.

I hope they are of use to the Bullet owners of the world.

Now for one other thing.

I'm setting up at least three more sections on the Bullet Blog: Bullets Around the World (pictures and short descriptions of Bullet rider's bikes from anywhere and everywhere), Bullet owner websites (links to websites about individual Bullets), and a section on Rides Around the World (ride stories from around the world).

Please do submit something for any of the sections I have. My goal is to make the Bullet Blog a large, fun, and USEFUL site for Bulleteers everywhere.

Here are a number of techniques covered for tuning and repair that will be of great assistence when you are far afield and have to do some work or other, say timing, or some carburator adjustment or other. A tool (or even a part) is often what we can contrive (cf Robert Pirsig, Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance). That contrivance and your own ears are the ultimate art ...

From Bulletech:

Maintenance
I will tell you a story about Bullet maintenance. My way to do it.

First I take my Bullet out, where it can have fresh air and breathe properly. Then I stay still, listening to my heart. Yes, can you hear it? Thumping about 100 times per minute, sometimes less, sometimes more, it depends, but something like that. That's how the Bullet should thump too.

I start the engine.

Then I kneel down and listen to the engine sound. I can hear how the piston goes up and down and if everything is in a good condition, it doesn't need anything but riding. If not, I start to figure out what the reason is. By thinking and with some help from the voices out there in the world, I can get a idea what to do.

Points

If I want to check the points, I will take a small piece of plastic from a curdled milk can. Then I look if there is a peak in the points. If so I clean it away by sandpaper, then using alcohol (in the only way that it should be used) by wiping the points with it. Then I check the point gap using that piece of plastic can. The thickness of it is just somewhere between zero and one millimeter. Suitable for points, also suitable for the gap between alternator rotor and stator, for the spark plug ... Actually it is about 0,5 mm and with points it needs to be a little bit too tight for the gap to have about 0,4 mm (I have checked it).

Timing

Then the timing. To adjust it I loosen the back plate so that it can be turned while the engine is running. I find that point, where the engine idles the best, then from this point I take it so much backwards that the sound of the engine starts to be low-voiced, but is still running
well. No equipments needed, just listening. The final tuning I make after having a good test ride while listening to the sound and feeling the run.

After the run my timing is a bit too early -- but it will be fixed soon.

This is one of the most biggest questions which has been discussed here ever I believe, at the same time one which has maybe become my distinctive mark because the only way I do any adjustments to my bike is by feeling the results without any equipments.

So, you need to find that fastest idling point, but then you have to take it a bit backwards to get the ignition a little bit later -- you can hear how the engine sound will change to be deeper.

Then you have take a ride, to some road where there are some hills, then it's easier. During that ride you have to listen the engine to get an idea if it's pinging. You have to ride in the way where the engine has quite a lot load, like when you carry a passenger or other heavy things on a hilly road with high gear selected. Just don't exaggerate too much.

Then change the position of the points plate so that the bike starts to ping in those hills.

You can hear that better if you turn your head a bit sideways while riding. It can be heard with a helmet also -- I use a helmet because we have that kind of law, but my helmet is not an integral type, it's open type, and with that I can hear the pinging.

Now, when you have found exactly that point where it starts to ping, then take it back a little bit, just a little so that the pinging ends but not any more, just that tiny amount.

And there it is, your adjusting is complete.

Using those hills with a load takes into account the action of those weights behind the plate.

Of course it's best if you are listening to the engine every time when riding for other reasons too, then you can hear always if it needs some adjusting. And always carry some tools with you.

Valves

The valve adjustment is made by tightening/loosing the pushrods I will make it if I hear too much noise from there or I have difficulties to start the engine. I make it after the engine has been cooling about one hour after riding, so the warmth of all parts are just suitable enough for my purposes. I find the point where both pushrods are in their lowest position by looking at them and feeling them with my fingers. Well, that is where the ammeter needle comes to the center position from left.

I make the pushrods so tight that I can turn them around by my fingers, but they are still so tight that there is one point where the turning is difficult. They are maybe bowed a little.

Carb

For the carburator, when the engine is idling and warm, turn the throttle stop screw to have the revs as low as possible. Then find a suitable position for the (pilot) mix screw, the position where the engine runs fastest and then one very small amount back so that I can hear a tiny change in the thumping of the engine.

Then I turn the idle speed so that it is thumping like my heart.

Then my Bullet is in a good condition to run again.

That was all I had in my mind about Bullet maintenance now, I hope it gave some ideas to somebody else and if somebody will give me some advices about what I'm doing wrong, I will also be grateful.

But what I wanted to say was simply that listening to the Bullet sound is always more fruitful than some measurements.

Because we have the only original Indian made Bullets and ... beware the copies!!!

Now I'm empty!

Keep on thumping

Well it seems the blogging service I use is polluting The Bullet Blog with pop-up advertisements. I'm really sorry about that. They are embedding code somehow in the html that causes the popups to occur -- I think.

I'm going to work on remedying this ugliness.

When I bought the motorcycle it came with a Goldstar exhaust -- the type with no baffles in it. I figured since I had a couple of spare hours today I'd try to put it on and ride and see how it sounds.

The following is a brief description of the work and tools required.

Tools:


15mm,13mm,10mm sockets
17mm,15mm,13mm,10mm wrenches
2 ratchets

The proceedure was straightforward:
1) Undo muffler clamp bolt and nut at main exhaust pipe.
2) Undo bracket nuts and washers on rear tire frame area.
3) Undo right side passenger peg.
4) Undo nut and washer that holds OEM muffler at transmission area.
5) Slide the OEM muffler off.

OEM removed:


6) Remove the bracket that supported the rear part of the OEM muffler.
7) Reattach nut and washer to bolt under transmission -- this bolt serves as an axle for the left hand shift mechanism.
8) Slide the Goldstar on.
9) Align the rear mounting bracket for the Goldstar with the removed footpeg bolt hole.
10) Reattach the footpeg -- note the goldstar requires a change in orientation of the peg (see the finished picture, the peg no longer rotates up, but forward; other orientations didn't seem to work).
11) Reattach muffler clamp bolt and nut. I used two lock washers to do this.



Now this is JUST attaching the Goldstar muffler. This usually leads to greater air throughput in the engine, which means the mixture will be leaner. A proper job would include rejetting and probably putting on a higher throughput air filter/air box combo.

Just how the air/fuel mixture is changed on my bike depends on many things. For one thing, it may have been set up to run with the Goldstar by the shop; the first owner may have disliked how loud it was and simply switched it out without changing jets back to original. In that case I was running too rich before putting on the Goldstar. On the other hand, the bike might have been set up for the OEM muffler, which doesn't let as much air flow through, and so now with the Goldstar I might be lean. Too rich merely means poor performance, plug fouling, bad news for the environment, bad gas mileage, etc. Too lean can mean doing serious damage to the valve train, so I'm going to check out the mixture before I spend too much time riding with this Goldstar.

What does it sound like?

When idling the bike sounds much deeper and throatier. When accelerating slowly it has a pleasing deep thump. When accelerating more quickly it sounds racous and somewhat tinny -- not really as powerful sounding as you might like. At higher speeds the loudness increases, at lower revs in higher gears it's nice and deep, climbs in pitch at higher revs. The only objections I have about the sound is a) it would piss off the neighbors when I go to work at 6:00 am, and b) you can't hear other engine noises (valve train noises) that you might want to keep tabs on while riding at higher speeds. A bad noise could keep you from doing more damage if you hear it soon enough to kill the motor.

I noted that the idle seemed faster than before. I'm still learning about all that; I'm pretty sure that I have pulled the idle screw out as far as it can go. Perhaps that's the wrong thing to do, but the idle speed does increase as you screw it in further. Alas. A more advanced carb tuning may be in order.

Anyway I DO have to make sure I'm not running too lean, and that I can pass the state inspection. Probably have to have the OEM for that, not sure yet.

Comanche Trail and Lime Creek Road are both two lane, curvy, twisty roads with lots of elevation changes and chances to practice your braking and cornering techniques.

Comanche Trail leads from RR 620 out to several state parks. It's a fun ride with moderate traffic, not very long but with some breathtaking views -- if you dare to take your eyes of the road. One of the parks, Hippie Hollow, is a clothing optional park. Another is Windy Point (Bob Wentz), where lots of scuba divers go, none of them naked, for better or worse. The map shows Comanche Trail eventually dead ending or turning back on itself, I have not ridden it much past Windy Point. It's a good short ride if you've just gotten your bike and want a quick fun ride in a rather populated part of the Texas Hill Country.

Lime Creek Rd is a longer ride, skirting the north shore of Lake Travis, and more fun. You can leave Comanche Trail Just after you pass The Oasis restaurant, turning right on a short downhill twisty cutover that connects directly to Anderson Mill Rd (RR 2769), turning left (northwest) will take you eventually to a T intersection with Lime Rock Rd. Take a left to follow the shoreline.

I've heard that a lot of sport bikes get out there and buzz around, but I didn't see any on my ride this last Sunday. Lime Creek is a two lane road that runs for some 20 miles, I think, judging by my odometer. It has more turns per mile than any other road in Texas, I have heard. I can attest to many blind curves, many 180 degree turns (2nd gear if you want to live), and this road has fabulous scenery and -- on the Sunday I cruised it -- very little traffic. I encountered only 5 vehicles on the road, except near the intersection by Volente beach. There were some bicyclists here and there. I saw no other motorcycles at all. At one point a large lighthouse came into view. I tried to get a picture of it. It's visible in this reduction:



Lime Creek Rd is a great place to practice your cycling skills or to take a leisurely ride without big crowds.

On the way back, in a section that was bounded on the left by a vertical road cut, I flushed a whitetail deer out of the brush. I slowed immediately in case he darted out onto the road; instead he ran as fast as he could about 100 yards along the road and bounded up the hill when he cleared the road cut. Very nice.

There are two or three places to eat along Comanche Trail and Lime Creek (Volente). This ride could be subtantially longer than I did if you head out southwest away from Cedar Park where Lime Creek ends at RR 1431.

Time: I spent about an hour and a half on the road, including a couple of stops to take pictures.

I've added a page on the Royal Enfield Bullet lubrication system. It describes how the system works in general and in particular; it also contains a section on service.

Contact me with any corrections that may be in order.