One of the cool things about my 1980 Honda CB400T is that I bought it to tinker with. I want to learn more about wiring, and do some of the light-duty mechanical work I used to do when I owned a 1974 Jeep CJ5 and a 1974 Volkswagen Super Beetle. I miss being able to change the clutch on my Jeep. Not really, but it was cool that I could do it. Twice.

Anyway, one of the not so cool things about a motorcycle that is almost thirty years old is that some of the technology is lacking. Adama has disc brakes up front, but a drum on the back. The headlamp was also woefully inadequate. The first time I took him out at night I almost shit myself. I should have duct-taped one of my LED flashlights to my helmet for all the good it would do.

I decided to replace the headlamp as soon as possible, but this turned out to be a little more difficult than I expected.
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I hate talking on the phone. I avoid it at all costs, preferring email, instant messaging, cards, face-to-face talking, and smoke signals. I don’t know why or when my hate-affair with the telephone began. I have a feeling it was when I was a child, and my father would get upset if I didn’t answer the phone in a certain way. I also think that since I can’t see the person on the other end of the line I don’t know how to react to what they say. I guess I infer a lot through body posture and facial expression, and those are completely lost over the wire.

All of that being said, I try to spend as little time on the phone as possible. When I do talk on the phone, it’s with family or loved ones, and not for very long.

I needed new tires put on Adama, my Honda CB400T. None of the big shops around here will do the full job on a bike this old; I have to remove the wheels myself and bring them in. The shop will take the old tires off the wheels, then put the new shoes on and balance them. Since I don’t have any tire irons or a balancer, this seemed like an okay deal.

I was at work with all of my team members when I called the local Honda dealer yesterday afternoon. We all work in one room, all clustered around a few tables.

“Hey, can you [do all the shit I just typed out]?” I asked.

“Sure.”

“Okay, can I just bring them by tomorrow morning and you get them back to me whenever?”

“Sure.”

“Okay, see you tomorrow.”

“Okay, have a good day sir.”

“I love you too.”

I hung up.

Everyone was staring at me. “Ohmygod,” I said, “did I just tell that dude ‘I love you?’”

Bond and Jumbotron nodded and immediately bust out laughing.

Maybe I’ll just roll the four tires through the store front and haul ass. :\

I haven’t used spray paint in a long time, but my memories are still crystal clear. I was eleven years old. I wanted to spray my BMX-style bicycle matte black. I was out behind our utility barn; my father told me not to use his spray paint unattended. I waited for him to go into the far pasture and broke out the matte black. I quickly coated my bike a few times and smiled. I thought I was being super sneaky.

“Why did you paint your bike?” my father asked about a half hour later.

“Huh?” I blubbered.

He pointed at my right hand. There was black paint all over my index finger from the shitty nozzle.

I thought I was being super sneaky.
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Hey, what should one man with two motorcycles do? Buy a third one!

I’ve been wanting to accessorize/customize a motorcycle for awhile, but have been afraid to tinker with either one of my “real” bikes. A few months ago I started looking around for a motorcycle that I could buy for less than $2000.

This was harder than I thought it would be. ;)
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