Test Rides

So, yeah. That little window in the your master cylinder?  The one that allows you to check the brake fluid level during your pre-flight? Mine fell out. I mean, it just fell right on out. There it was, sitting on the ground. Weird! But I told you that already.

Situation No Go

 

Looks pretty clean?

So last weekend after a fluid top off (the cylinder hadn't completely emptied out), I took it for a teeny tiny little test ride around the block. And around a few more times. Stop! Go! Stop! Go! Just to see if I could trust it enough to ride to a friend who has all these fancy tools that would make the just-in-case line bleeding super easy.* Yes, I hate trailering SO much, that I'd actually ride across town with a questionable front brake - hey, that's what the rear is for, right? - rather than load up my bike.  In any case it, stopped on command every time.

I also did some testing at the AZ Farm & Food Fest!

Yummy apple-y thing. Didn't think to note chef OR menu details. Just ate it right up.

And? Just like that, I wrote a blog post. Baby steps, right?**

*Would NOT have done this if the cylinder had emptied out!
**Big hopes 2019 is the year "life gets back to normal."  Whatever that means.

Neither Zen Nor Art

My mother died, so the motorcycle didn't make it to Utah*, so I thought I'd do some things I usually don't because I'm busy motorcycling instead. So I'm planning a maybe backpacking expedition to King's Peak (3 days, 30 miles) and I need granola, so I pick some cherries and dry them, but I need some butter, too, so I have to spend three hours fixing my bicycle to get the butter, and then the chain gets jammed up anyway on the way to the store, and I never get the butter (way better than oil, by the way), but -look!- there's one of my favorite brilliant yellow birds**, dead in the middle of the road, and suddenly I turn back; I must carry the dead bird home in my bicycle basket (what am I, eight years old?), and it makes me cry and cry and...see?  This is why I hate fixing motorcycles*.  The End
*This really does all make sense.
**Yellow Warbler? Wilson's Warbler? I'm not sure.

Granola tips: Use whatever bits and pieces you like, but instead of plain oil, used browned butter or coconut or olive oil,  and instead of honey/sugar/agave syrup/whatever, use maple syrup. Put in the dried fruit after baking. Cook it low and slow, turning it over often.  If you want it "clustery," grind up some of your oats and coconut into flour and let your final mix sit for a few minutes before baking it. Then pinch it together into clumps before baking.  (See here for the method, but I think this recipe itself is too sweet.) Mom, however, in her final weeks, had a sweet tooth that never would have been obliged in earlier days. She requested I pour caramel all over her granola when I made it for her this spring.  She remarked candied orange peel would make a lovely addition, and she was absolutely right.

Annual Migration

The Ducati wanted a battery? She got it.  Fork seals?  Sure thing, sweetheart.  Fork TUBES?*  I’m outta time, my dear.

“Old Reliable,” the good Kawi was happy to step up to the plate and carry me northward on my annual migration to Logan, UT**.  That Kawi, she has as much grit as my beagle, and all she ever asks for is a steady supply of zip ties, WD-40, and packing tape***.  After a few gentle reminders she has half the front braking power of the Ducati - aieee! – we were comfortable with each other again.

Roosevelt Lake, AZ

June belongs firmly in the Season of Wind. Riding hundreds of miles in a 55mph crosswind? Situation Normal.   Three hundred miles of vigorous pounding feels sufficient for the day.  Sunset Crater National Monument is a good place to spend the night.

Jet Boil (new acquisition!) with… Ducati?  And Ramen?  Do explain!

Yep, that’s my Ducati in the photo background.  You don’t mind if I cheat by writing about both Annual Migration 2013 and 2014 in one post, do you?   Yep, that’s Maruchan Ramen in the photo.  It’s not my normal fare, as I’m sure you realize, but a hasty test subject for the then newly acquired Jet Boil.  They’ve since been replaced by Eating on Two Wheels proprietary instant soup mixes.  Just so you know.  Why am I not whipping up a crown roast with fingerling potatoes and wild greens over the campfire?  Because washing dishes at a campsite downright disgusts me.  Just one of those things, I guess.  I strive to minimize my clean up duties, but refuse to resort to a depressing handful of GORP for dinner, or something even more awful than campsite dishwashing: an “energy bar.”  Ew.

The wind bashes the sides of the tent into me all night, while the Friday the 13th Honey Moon drills a hole through its walls.   I’m awake in the wee hours trying to calculate exactly why the sun is rising at 3am.

The rippling sea of grass in  Wupatki National Monument is mesmerizing in the morning breezes.  I nearly miss a turn watching the invisible hand brush the desert grassland this way and that.  Last year, I stopped to visit some of the ruins.

Wukoki Ruins

At a gas stop in Marble Canyon, a familiar sound from just across the street makes its way into my helmet, past the music in my headphones, and into my brain.  I snap a blurry photo with my phone to send to Pilot Guy.
 

I’ve never noticed this airport before!  I guess little planes haven’t been on my, uh, radar, until recently.

Last year, the Ducati and I had time to check out the twists and turns of the Cedar Breaks Scenic Byway, which had eluded me for so long, and Cedar Breaks National Monument.  You don’t have to hike far to get a spectacular view.
 

Spectra Point, Cedar Breaks National Monument

After a rough year, several hundred miles on the Ducati were just what she and I needed to rebuild our relationship.  We were finally getting places!  It was just about the time I was starting to trust her again, of course…



… that I was rescued by my own fearsome Corolla.  Pilot Guy and I had arranged to meet that evening just a few miles away, so it was easy for him to skid in for the glamorous rescue.  “It’s just the battery,” we told ourselves.  All that southern AZ heat is so very hard on batteries, you know.  And – Lo! – after a long drink from the Corolla****, she came back to life.  But you know what?  It’s never just the battery, as far as I can tell.*****  And I was right.  What we don’t know yet is that the stator had all but melted away.

Rolling again… for now.

 

Whatever the mechanical issue, the next day I was able to limp the Ducati 270 more miles, with the Corolla support vehicle not far behind. We had to stop over and over for long stretches to recharge the battery, we sipping endless cups of lemonade and iced tea, she sipping electrons.

Traffic stoppage in Salt Lake City.  What will come first, a dead again battery or an overheat?

We made it as far as Adrian’s****** house before nightfall threatened.  Adrian just happens to live about 60 miles from my final destination, and has a very well equipped garage.  It was an obvious place to throw in the towel.

The beagle watches while I optimistically install a new voltage regulator.  It's not going to do the trick.

Sushi consolation dinner upon arrival in Logan via Corolla. 

But that was sooo last year. This year, the easy-natured Kawasaki and I ride along encumbered only by the swan song of my tent stakes*******.   After my lengthy and arguably painful absence, I’m falling in love with the Great American West all over again: majestic, brilliantly painted, and just plain big here; gentle, sweet, and abundant there, with everything in between.  Utah Route 89 between Panguitch and I-70 has none of the drama of Zion National Park, Bryce Canyon, Capital Reef, and the areas further south, but it is so very beautiful in a simple gifts sort of way, that it still wrenches my heart on this, my twelfth migration.  The glassy blue Sevier Creek, hesitantly twisting its way through the verdant green grass, ever unsure of the proper direction, and later, as the Sevier River, briskly bubbling with intent, northward down the slope, touches me deeply and inexplicably.  The dreamy landscape is rhythmically broken by little towns from another era, sporting Lavender Festivals, baskets of flowers, soda fountains, and picturesque temples perched atop hills that call to mind storybook Transylvanian castles.  There’s something too special about this place for me to just pull the bike over, snap a casual photo, and be done with it.

I spend my last night out at Freemont Indian State Park, in quiet reflection and gratitude.



My final approach the next day offers little room for detouring, aside from a pass down Utah’s “Fruit Way.” The road is lined with trees visibly bursting with sweet cherries. It’s hard not to stop, but there’s no room on the bike for produce at the moment, and I’ll have a pleasantly difficult time keeping up with northern Utah’s cornucopia as it is.

Home for the summer is around the bend…

My back yard - the mouth of this canyon.

… and before I know it, I’ll be packing for my August return migration.  Oh wait... ********.


*Turns out one of the new seals was defective.  For once, the easier answer prevails.
**Beagle, Toyota, and Ducati have since arrived under separate cover.
***It’s invisible!
****No, I couldn’t simply jump start and go. If only.
*****Recent victory!  As it turns out, sometimes it is just the battery!
******You met Adrian in Baja.
*******Quite problematic with the crazy wind, actually.
******** Posting about June at the end of August is also Situation Normal.  Have I broken a blog post asterisk record?
 __________________________________
Cooking Equipment Review: 
The Jet Boil Sol Advanced Cooking System performs exactly as advertised, so I advise you not to turn your back on it for a second.   Jet. Boil.  Get it?  It's fast.  Despite the fragile plastic bottom cover (customer service replaced it with a smile,) and ill-fitting plastic lid, this thing has opened up a new camping culinary world for me. I can't believe there was a time I didn't want a camp stove.  The Coffee Press accessory is a neat little item, which I even used in the house in Utah, when I didn't have my usual press available to me.  I use the fuel modestly, but it's lasted so long that I haven't yet had the opportunity to try the fuel canister Crunch-It recycling tool.  You can use the stove to cook with an actual little pot or pan, too, but because of my camping dish washing aversion, I just use the provided cup to boil water.  The metal cup gets really hot (duh!), even with its little heat cozy, so take care not to burn your flute playing lips.  It's a bit tricky to disengage the cup from the stove itself, especially when it's hot, and I don't trust the cozy handle to keep me from spilling boiling water over myself, but neither of these things keeps me from loving my Jet Boil!  Not the cheapest stove in the shed, but worth it, in my opinion, especially since I got it as a birthday gift!

Sweet Homecoming (Again)

At first I thought my air compressor was broken.  Rrrr, rrrr, rrrr, it could barely muster enough energy to make a sound.  But ho ho, no no!  It wasn’t the air compressor, it was the motorcycle.  Clicky, clicky.  No starty, starty.  The Ducati had failed self proclaimed Ducati test day.  It would not, could not start, it would not be charged, it could not be jumped, it would not be bumped.  (I didn't try to bump it, but it rhymes, okay?)  Given its history and my long absence, I guess I wasn’t surprised, but that doesn’t mean I had to be happy about it. There was good reason to believe it was just the battery, but, honestly, in all my life it’s never been “just the battery.”  No, not once, not ever.  Not this time, and certainly not last summer in southern Utah, when every last bit of the Ducati’s alternator insulation melted away like so much dark chocolate on a June day in my not so climate controlled house*.

Aside from celebrating the fact I was in the same locality as my motorcycles for the first time in two months, this ride was specifically designed to answer two questions.  1) Is the Ducati running? (Answer: No)   2) Can I still corner respectably?  So I went up the mountain in search of Answer 2 on the trusty old Kawasaki.  (Answer: Yes)**   Bless that bike, it’s 15 years old, has never seen the inside of a shop, is held together with more tape than a toddler’s first gift wrap job, and, last link not withstanding, runs happily every time.

Yesterday, I put a new battery in the Ducati.  Damn that M696 design team, but you actually have to pull the gas tank to do so.  It took me utterly by surprise, but when that machine gaily started, I actually burst into tears of relief. It really was just the battery!***

Ducati with Mount Lemmon hoodoos.

On the way home from today's post-op ride, I picked up enough pork shoulder to test the capacity of my top box.  I'll simmer it slowly it in a silky, shimmering, red mud bath of Eating on Two Wheels chile paste.

Good red chile paste sorcery can and does cast a hypnotically alluring magical spell.  You may even accidentally cast it upon yourself.

Colorado trip next week?****  "We are ready to go!"*****

*But, WAIT!  My house has recently become so climate controlled that I actually tempered chocolate in it earlier this week.  In May.  In Tucson.  I love my little ductless minisplit heating/cooling unit!!  What’s next, croissants in June?
**An additional question remains unanswered: Why do you need a shiny sports car to drive up Mount Lemmon at 30mph?
***So what if I jostled the lambda sensor when wrestling with the tank, such that 10 minutes into my test ride today, the engine light went on?  The real miracle here, folks, is that I could interpret the error code, knew what and where said lambda sensor was, and could re-jostle it all in the T.J.Maxx parking lot.
**** As it turns, out, we didn't go to Colorado.
*****You have to say that part aloud, in the same voice Pilot Guy uses to radio the airport tower when we've successfully completed our run up, are poised at the runway hold short lines, and are, well, ready to go!

I just thought you ought to know…

… that after after nine months, one chain catastrophe, a wrecked rear brake bracket (twice!), one leaking slave cylinder gasket, one valve adjustment/belt replacement, multiple tensioner pulley failures, and (pardon me, but WTF, as they say) one bent valve repair, there's an operational Ducati back in my life.

The Beagle is overcome with emotion.

Welcome home, my little Italian Princess.
What's that? Track Day tomorrow? Don't mind if we do!

No Excuses. Well, yeah, some excuses. (A Number of Occasional Other Matters)

If you’ve been following my Sort Of Sabbatical Phase One By The Day Posts, you probably decided long ago that I finally succumbed to the spectacularly distracting Pacific Coast Highway views and crashed the Ducati into sparkling azure sea.

I didn’t.

So that's good.

Today I thought, as a writing exercise, I’d relate the long list of excuses that brought my posting to a halt.   Do enjoy!

My computer has been acting suspiciously since my return from Sort of Sabbatical Phase One.  Specifically, it has been giving me error messages when I back up my data.  I have, mostly, been successfully ignoring this problem (Me - 1, Computer - 0!), except for the minor side effect that I am not particularly motivated to work on my photographs if there’s a decent possibility I might lose all my work.  Surely you understand.

Then I went on Sort of Sabbatical Phase Two.  Of course I took photos. You’ll see them later.

Then I came back.*  My computer did not fix itself in my absence.  Harrumph. (Computer - 1, Me - 0) After some time-consuming yet unsuccessful attempts to rectify the problem, I went back to my original plan, namely, ignoring the problem.  Not surprisingly, this tactic brought on those same pesky minor side effects.

Then I went on Sort of Sabbatical: Epilogue.  Of course I took photos.  You’ll see them later.

Then I was sequestered, pretty much without internet or phone, for a week in a tiny town in northern New Mexico.  I lived in a retrofitted Airstream trailer, complete with kitchen and farm animals.  I didn’t eat any of the farm animals, but I did  have some two-thumbs-up tapas at La Boca in Santa Fe.  Overall, the week was fantastically hilarious.

It's not often I open an Airstream trailer door.  Even less often do I find a horse begging for a snack on the other side of said door.

Do I have to say that by the time I finally made my way back to Tucson, my computer still wouldn’t back up correctly?**  Heal thyself! (Please?)

Then there was the matter of my last post.  I was, for a time, rather distracted by it all.   Recently, I saw a dead dove in the middle of the street.  Its body was crushed, with one delicate wing miraculously still reaching skyward.  I wish I had taken a photo of it.  Because that’s exactly what it feels like to be run over by a bus.  I know, because just as surely as Julia was betrayed by Winston,*** I was thrown under the bus in a manner so clever I almost admire it, by someone who was (supposedly) my greatest ally.  Pfft.  Not exactly the stuff of superheroes.

Then it was September.  It’s generally a lovely month. I ease myself gently back into work, while enjoying all the local day rides I haven’t seen since May. Except this September I was leisurely repairing the Ducati in time for a track day at the end of the month.  (You’ll find out why the Ducati needed repairs round about, oh, Sort of Sabbatical Phase One Day 25, give or take.)  Leisurely making repairs?  More along the lines of “leisurely inflicting further damage.”  No, I didn’t have it fixed in time for the track day.  I still don’t have it fixed.

Then I decided perhaps it would be more efficient to drive 26 hours to retrieve my Kawasaki, which had been residing in TX, than to fix the Ducati.

Then there was the short but all consuming project of my very first paid food photography gig.  I was actually paid (still waiting on the check, to be honest) to cook and photograph the process of making a certain risotto recipe****. I borrowed a decent camera, turned my little house into a photo studio, cleaned my stove, and took the requested five specific photographs.  If I’m lucky, it’ll boil down to minimum wage.  But it was amusing, and I got to eat a great deal of risotto over the next few days.

The ingredients. And a cookbook.  Although I didn't actually use a recipe from this book.  Do you suppose the Risotto page would lie nicely in the middle of the book like this?  Of course not.  Hurrah for color copiers and tape.

It's quite a trick to pour broth AND stir AND release the camera shutter with your toes or teeth. (I know about self-timers.  Couldn't use it. Long Story.)  The lighting on shiny pans can be rather problematic.  After spending hours getting it right, the sun had moved into the kitchen window. Argh.

Then October hit me like a 12" All-Clad Saute Pan.  I’m still standing here blinking stupidly from the how-did-I-not-see-this-coming avalanche of work.  Speaking of side effects, however, it is nice to finally have some paychecks rolling in.

And my last excuse?  I have a new friend in my life!  Remember this sad day?  Well, I’ve been dog-less and dog-longing ever since.  (No sense in getting a dog before the Sort of Sabbatical).

“Miss Molly” arrives and my heart sings!

My nine year old darling came from Southern Arizona Beagle Rescue.

There she is! All 42 pounds of her!  She's already discovered that I'm immune to the sad brown eyes trick. (Boo!)  But I like to walk. (Yay!)

Hard to say who is happier.  What a lovely, lovely conundrum.

There.   No more excuses. Except neither the computer nor the Ducati work yet. And now I have to borrow a proper camera to get a proper beagle portrait.

*By that I mean I continued on to UT.  To work.  A tiny bit.  And ride more.
** Yes, I should just buy a new one.  Or at least reinstall the OS to rule that out as the problem. (I really don't think it is.)  But the amount of work (and frustration) required by either of those things makes Ducati repair seem like fun.
*** "Do it to Julia!" he cries, when faced with his greatest fear, in George Orwell's 1984.  To be fair, Julia also betrayed Winston in Room 101, we just have fewer details. I still hold some respect for both Julia and Winston, though, based on their circumstances and the final scene where they actually own up to it.
****Shrimp, chile, pine nuts, carrots, and black olives?  Really?  I suppose I wasn't paid to approve of the recipe, just to make and photograph it.  What a silly use of some expensive ingredients.

Yamaha XT225 Oil Change, in 27 Easy Steps (so far)

As much as I despise working on my motorcycles, it is a necessity, and, over the years, I have, if nothing else, become competent enough to handle simple operations, such as oil changes, without much ado.  I’ve been working on kitting up the Li’l Burro with luggage and other accessories to make it a bit more tour-worthy, so it only made sense to address its routine maintenance needs at the same time.  Let us not forget, as big summer trip phase two machine, it's going to have to earn its keep in July.  Since I hadn’t changed the oil on this particular model vehicle before, I carefully studied the manual and watched a tutorial video on the procedure, hoping to achieve at least a small degree of calm regarding the great unknown.  I was verging on confident while watching the video, thinking that even I, perhaps, had finally risen above the need for such a detailed (three parts!) explanation  of this simple process.

Step One: Figure the time needed for the job.  Use the following remarkably accurate equation for such calculations: for every hour the job should take, plan on one full day.  In this case, give yourself half a day for the job.  Perfect!  You should be able to get the work done while you still have shade, and probably before outdoor temperatures reach 100 degrees.  These instructions assume you are working in a similar facility: a hot and dusty back yard equipped with a small tool box.

Step Two: The night before, hose down the bike, to avoid the possibility of dirt, mud and dust working their way into the engine or contaminating various threaded parts.  By doing so the night before, you give the big puddle a chance to dry, and you slowly ease yourself into the idea of dragging out the tool box in the morning.  Reward your excellent work by dining upon sweet potato gnocchi* with pesto, accompanied by good glass of wine.  Job well done!

Step Three:  Wake up and eat an enormous bowl of the coconut almond muesli ** you assembled earlier this week.  Don’t forget the cafe au lait.  Call your mom, because it’s Mothers’ Day.  Think ahead and make a quart or two of iced tea.  With today’s weather, you are going to need it.

Step Four :  Congratulate yourself for remembering to apply sunscreen.  It’s a bit easier to remember when you are still healing from the seven basal cell carcinoma sites frozen, scraped, burned and/or cut from your flesh over the past two months.  Be grateful it’s no big deal, but grumble about the bills, anyway.  While putting away the sunscreen, a glance in the bathroom mirror will remind you that when hosing down the bike last night, in the tight corner next to the  partially dismantled evaporative cooler and the ladder you somehow (you can’t quite remember how, exactly) scraped your nose.  That scrape is pretty, um, noticeable.  Job well done, indeed.

Step Five: Warm up the bike.  Meanwhile, heave a big sigh and your toolbox outside, along with all your other projected needs.  Accidentally tear open the bag of charcoal, making a big mess, while rooting around your storage bin.  Celebrate that, a few days ago, you found a few quarts of Mobil One in the bin, probably left over from your deceased car, with a  weight and viscosity about right for your climate, so you won’t have to agonize over the controversial decision of which oil to use.  This time. Shut off the bike and the fuel supply.  Safety first!

Step Six: Remove the skid plate.  Check! This is going well!

Step Seven: Lay hands on your wrench and a 19mm socket.  Wish you had a 6 point socket, because 12 point tools have an annoying and inconvenient tendency to sculpt bolts into beautifully rounded shapes that might as well read "Abandon All Hope, All Ye Who Have Rounded Out This Bolt."  Umph.  Oof.  The bolt doesn’t budge.  No sense in knocking yourself out.  Head back to the tool box for the breaker bar.  You need an adapter for the breaker bar, your wrench and socket being a 3/8” drive, and the breaker bar being a 1/2” drive.  Hm.  Where is the adaptor?  The others are right here…

Step Eight:  Slowly it comes to you, rising from your long-term memory like an ominous and asphyxiating smog.  The adapter you need has been stuck on a 12mm allen socket for about two years now, and has been sitting in a little plastic cup on your desk, mocking you, ever since.  As if you hadn’t done it all before, yank at it with vise grips, spray generous doses of WD-40 in its crevices, wedge at it with a flat blade screwdriver, poke at the spring loaded pin with a allen wrench in a blatant mis-use of tools (use the SAE one, since you never need it anyway), tap it lovingly with a rubber mallet, and apply all the swear words you know.  Nothing.  Except a big bruise on the heel of your hand.  Post an SOS message on XT.com.  Gripe about it on Facebook.

Yup, good and stuck.

Step Nine: Go to yoga class.  Immediately.  Breathe deeply.  It's a vinyasa class, so you will have many opportunities to become one with the bruise on your right hand.

Step Ten:  Spend an awfully long time looking for the maligned adapter, which you had secured in a safe place before stomping off to yoga class.

Step Eleven: Bring the obstinate components to the hardware store, the employees of which also can not disengage the offending pieces, enact Plan B of buying a 6 point 19mm socket with a 1/2” drive, only to find they do not have one. Wonder why 6 point tools are so hard to find.  Ride your bicycle back home, reapply your tools and swearwords, add to the mix a pipe wrench and the hands of your neighbor and… pop!  Gasp! You can’t believe it, but you are now looking at two separate pieces.  And they’re not even broken.

Step Twelve: Apply a lot of grease to the adapter ball bearing, and look at it skeptically for a long while before deciding it might be okay to use again.  Wonder why you didn’t ask your neighbor to help you with this when it happened two years ago.  Make and eat some Korean rice sticks with spicy garlicky pork***.

Step Thirteen:  Apply more sunscreen.

Step Fourteen: The project so far has taken long enough that the heat and sun mid-day have come and gone, and now you have shade again.  Warm up the bike again.  Meanwhile, wonder if you should admit that the adapter you wrestled with all day was the wrong one.  Turn off the bike and fuel supply.  Safety first!  Sheepishly put your 19mm socket on the correct adapter (which had been right where you looked this morning) and onto the breaker bar.  Umph. Bolt still not moving.  Lean into it.  Smash your knuckles a few times.   Burn yourself - twice, second degree - on the exhaust.   Realize you are in danger of rounding out the bolt.  You know enough to know you really, really don’t want this to happen.  What you really would like is a 6 point socket.  Give in, call around, find one, go buy it.

Step Fifteen:  Triumphantly put your shiny new fresh-from-its-packaging 19mm six point socket on the adaptor-that-was-never-stuck-in-the-first-place (you couldn’t find a 1/2” drive socket) and onto the breaker bar.  Umph.  Bolt still not moving.  Employ a dousing of liquid wrench.  Employ the rubber mallet.  Still nothing.  Instead of throwing the wrench across the yard, thereby risking damage to the Ducati which is parked over yonder, call your neighbor in for his second assist.  He manages to loosen it, but only by applying a 6 foot length of pipe he just happens to have laying around.  Hah!  Take THAT!  Your neighbor’s socket is, of course, now stuck to the drain bolt.  Ignore that for now.

Step Sixteen:  Clean the screen, spring, bolt (no extra charge for also cleaning the socket that's still stuck to it), threads, and gasket (which is in remarkably good shape!).  Remember the time your car engine oil pan threads were stripped, likely by a mis-threaded drain bolt (but, for the record, probably not mis-threaded by you).  Remember how it ruined your trip to California, and how much it cost.  Proceed with caution.  Delicately seat the parts, wedge off the misaligned socket, and use a torque wrench to tighten the bolt, because you never trust yourself to get this right on your own. Feel relieved that you no-longer have to borrow a torque wrench from your ex-husband, since you were recently gifted a hand-me-down one, even if it is just a beam type. Wonder about beam type torque wrenches, since you’ve only used your ex-husband's click type in the past.  Think to yourself that the guy on the tutorial video is awfully sure of himself to re-install the skid plate before checking for leaks.  You know better.  Leave it aside.

Step Seventeen: Loosen the oil filter element cover bolts.  Marvel that they seem to be willing parties to this operation. Plan to keep them in the cover, since they are all different, and you’d rather not mix them up. But the cover, of course, is stuck.  So take out the bolts, laying them in a careful configuration, rather than waiting for them to fall out in a jumble.  Work on the cover, breathing deeply all the while.  Eventually, after being bitten by a number of ants, to which you are highly allergic, and after running for the Benedryl,  you will succeed.  Put the bolts back in the cover before it gets turned around and you forget which bolt goes where.

Step Eighteen:  Now it’s time to remove the oil filter element.  Decide that a reusable oil filter element is a cool idea and wonder what one looks like.  Continue to wonder, because it’s stuck in its recess.  This certainly didn’t happen in the video tutorial, did it?  Work at that for a while, neatly slicing around the entire circumference of your pinky as you do so.  Bleed some.   Bleed some more.  Remember that the helpful guy in the video warned you not to let the gasket get stuck in the engine.

Step Nineteen:  Lo! The oil filter element is free at last! The gasket, predictably, is stuck in the engine.

Step Twenty: It’s important for hypo-glycemics to maintain steady blood glucose levels throughout this procedure.  Safety first!  Have a bowl of Cheerios.  Go easy on the milk, because there's not much left, and the only thing worse than not having enough milk for breakfast is having to change the oil in your motorcycle. 

Step Twenty-One: Consider how to remove the stuck gasket without ruining it.  Root around your silverware drawer for some plastic utensils.  This small victory is sweet.  You always knew the Yamaha, unlike the Ducati, could be repaired roadside with a plastic spork.

Step Twenty-Two: Clean the filter element, the gaskets, the cover.  You are less impressed with the reusable filter element now, because you can’t really clean it up to your standards without running the risk of tearing it.  Bzzzt! on the reusable element!  On the flip size all the gaskets appear content, happy even.  Bow your head in a small prayer of gratitude.

Step Twenty-Three:  Replace the filter element, the cap, the bolts (you remembered how it all goes!).  Even though the bolts only require 10nm of torque, use your also relatively newly gifted hand-me-down mini-torque wrench anyway, because you know what happened last time.  Find yourself relieved it’s a click type wrench, because the beam one was kind of weird.

Step Twenty-Four:  Excellent!  Now all you need to do is pour in some oil, start her up and check for leaks!  Discover your funnel is too big for the XT, but attempt to use it anyway.  Uncap your oil and joyously let the rejuvenation begin.  Remark to yourself that the oil looks awfully black.  That would be because it’s already been used once.  Make a big mess yanking it all away before you pour a quart of used oil in your engine, since you really, really do not want to see that drain bolt again so soon.  Admit that perhaps a teeny dribble (or two) did go in the engine, but declare you’re not removing that drain bolt again, even if you were wise enough to leave the skid plate off.   You’re still ahead of the game once this is done, right?  Right.  Promise you’ll do the next oil change sooner rather than later.  Realize it's getting dark and all the auto parts stores are closed anyway.  So much for the accurate one hour = one day equation.

Just in case I repress the entire episode and decide to ride to work in the morning.

 
Step Twenty-Five: Wish you had remembered to cook the artichokes**** that you set out, and realize you are too hungry to wait for them now.  Realize you are too hungry to function enough to decide on dinner at all, much less prepare it, so start with a first course of Cerveza Pacifico Clara.  Decide to write this blog entry, because it puts your mechanical inadequacy to good use, and besides, it cracks you up (especially after the beer), even if no one else reads it.

Step Twenty-Six: Notice that you are dangerously hungry and that several hours have passed since you sat down with your computer and Pacifico.  Make an omelet (eggs courtesy of the chickens next door) with left over grilled vegetables (courtesy of your cleverness in grilling extra earlier this week).  Eat the last of your candied orange peels, which, unlike the rugged ones you pack when riding, are dipped in chocolate.  The dark chocolate really adds something, no question.

Step Twenty-Seven:  Look at the clock, sigh and admit it’s too late to practice, and that your hands are too grubby to put on your gazillion dollar flute, anyway.  Silently thank your grandfather for subsidizing your gazillion dollar flute some 15 (or more?) years ago.  Wish you could remember to wear gloves when you work on your motorcycle.  Wish they made tiny sized chemical grade gloves to begin with.  Wish the same thing about motorcycle clutch levers.  Take a shower. You will remember, when shampooing, the big goose-egg on your head, incurred last night (again, you don't remember exactly how) when washing the bike or reassembling the evaporative cooler.  In a whiny voice, say, "Ooww."  Go to bed.  Wish you didn’t have to go to work in the morning.

You know that thing I said about being competent?  I take it all back.

*My ratio of two parts (by weight) potatoes to one part sweet potatoes made for delicious gnocchi, but next time I’d increase the sweet potato proportion.  I made them Parisian style (with an egg) and like all gnocchi, with flour as well.  They’re great with pesto, but even better with sage brown butter sauce.
**I typically buy bulk rolled oats and two or three other rolled grains (whatever strikes my fancy or is on sale at the moment – spelt, rye, whatever).  Mix the grains together with raisins, sliced almonds, unsweetened coconut, and/or whatever else you want.  I eat it (with milk) cold in the summer, and microwave it in the winter.  I prepare  about two weeks worth at a time in one variation or another. It’s way cheaper than boxed cereal or pre-made muesli, and quick, too.  It feels a bit like eating horse grain, but I’m perfectly okay with that.
***I saute leftover pork dumpling filling rescued from the freezer, add coins of soaked sliced rice cakes (supplied by my Korean flute student), cover with some broth and/or water, adding whatever seasonings I have/want/find, and simmer until I’m ready to eat.
****I had planned on simply steaming them whole while I was working, and dipping the leaves in aioli.  Oh well. Tomorrow, I hope.

You Can Lead a Burro to Water… But Will it Swim? (Ironwood Forest National Monument)

Per my prior kvetching, there’s not much opportunity for riding this time of year, even if the weather couldn’t be better.    I’ve been plagued with (or blessed, depending) not just with a heavy work load, but a dead battery or two here, flooded carb there, flat rear tire, insomnia… all of which have conspired to keep me from even the short rides that I wouldn’t consider newsworthy.  So the Ducati has been languishing under its cover, while the Yamaha’s wheels took up a lengthy residence in the trunk of my car.

You know, I don’t trust that Yamaha one bit. I put both wheels back on (after taking them off, of course, for some re-shoeing) and the job did not require one swear word. I was sure something must have gone terribly, terribly wrong, I just didn’t know it yet, because that simply is not the way I roll, in regards to mechanical repairs.  You haven’t finished the job if you haven’t had to throw a tool at least once.

This week I did get out a bit, and decided to give the newly-shod burro a test ride through little known and undeveloped Ironwood Forest National Monument.  There’s a 23 mile rocky, rutted, dippy turny dirt road that loops through the incredible scenery and it seemed like just the thing.  (It seemed a bit less like just the thing after three people warned me of the violent drug smuggling crime there, and that the area was sans-cell-service, so at that point I reminded myself if I had any question as to the route, or felt like I was getting in at all over my head, technically speaking, I could and would turn around sooner rather than later.  Not quite the best place to get stranded, yanno?)

Avra Valley Road, Silverbell Road, Sasco Road

But I happily putted along, at my inexperienced off-road pace, meeting my little challenges successfully and without undue concern.  A few “mogul” fields (which for me, consist of about 3), some areas rough enough for bucking burro moments, steep blind dips into dry washes lined with loose rocks…. that sort of thing.  It was beautiful and green, full of happy desert plant life, with curious mountains and rocks left and right (including a great view of Ragged Top Mountain, whose craggy jagged silhouette never fails to take my eyes off the road when it I see it from afar on I-10), yet I didn’t stop to take one photo. I just didn’t feel like it, and my current burro packing system is not at all convenient as far as accessing anything but water goes (HAH!*), so I justified my laziness by telling myself that perhaps it was best not to stop in what is considered a dangerous area, anyway (didn’t see a soul for the first 21 of  the 23 dirt miles).  It was simply one of those days when I wanted to enjoy the ride and the surroundings in a simpler fashion.

I was almost back to the safety of asphalt, in a relatively civilized area, with other travelers here and there,  when I came across an obstacle one simply doesn’t expect ‘round these parts…

The Li'l Burro meets the Mighty Santa Cruz! 

Yes! Yes I did!  And no, remarkably, I didn’t**!
Lil’ adventure for a Li’l Burro.

*Turns out my current packing system is a bad one. I was warned that luggage doesn’t stay put when riding off road, so I diligently strapped my Camelbak down, tying it directly to the grab rails, before topping it all off with a bungee net.  Guess those bucking bronco moments were enough to launch the entire reservoir out from inside of the secured pack to who-knows-where.  I’m glad I didn’t know I had lost all my water (and ability to carry it) until I was almost home. That’s scary stuff out here.  Time to buy a new reservoir, and to start appropriately outfitting “Eeyore.”

** Didn’t hurt that two Italian tourists were contemplating crossing in their little car at the same time, and when asked if they’d help me haul my bike out of the river if things went wrong replied, “Maybe.”   We saw a 4x4 plow through, so I knew, at least literally, I wouldn’t be in over my head.  The trick of it, of course, is that you can’t see and avoid any potential obstacles in your path.  And you certainly don’t want to find yourself so deep that your bike starts inhaling water instead of air.  One of the Italian tourists videotaped my success, and as always, these things always look utterly unimpressive on tape.  So I’ll leave the execution of the escapade to your imagination!  The tourists... well, they turned around.

The Beautiful Simplicity of Carbs (Carburetors and Freshly Made Pasta)

Funny, I have not one post about disassembling the carburetor of the Kawasaki into all its tiny pieces. The first time was quite the learning experience, but I’d gotten pretty quick about it in my later Kawi ownership years.  Should the day come when I need to do so on the Yamaha, it’ll be twice as efficient, no doubt, as it has half the cylinders (and bodywork).   That being said, I'm not looking forward to the day I stare down the Ducati, with its computerized fuel injection and desmodromic valves.  Perhaps sometime soon I’ll simply take off the gas tank, peek at the sophisticated machinery hiding beneath, and then put it back together again, quickly, before anything bad happens.  I love the Monster, but I’m secretly thrilled to own Eeyore, the slow but sturdy Yamaha, a bike I’m not afraid to work on.

Fresh pasta is another example of beautiful simplicity, this time in carbohydrate form, even more so when making the pasta of southern Italy.  With a few exceptions, the pasta of northern Italy, all about seductive silkiness, is formed from delicate sheets of finely milled white flour rich with eggs.  The pasta of the south is what I make when there are no eggs in the house.  Semolina and water alone, manipulated with kneading and deft finger work (no fancy Italian machinery needed) come together into highly effective sauce trapping shapes full of lively springy chewiness.

While videos of motorcyclists riding barely hold my interest (shrug, it's just not the same, yanno?), I can lose myself for hours watching Italian nonne magically spin out pasta shapes or Jacque Pepin debone a chicken (I adore this man).   I’ve included the pertinent youtube links in the captions.

Trofiette - the name doesn't mean "twisted little string beans," but that's certainly what they look like.  Eat these with Pesto Genovese, and you shall be transported to Liguria.  (This pasta is the exception: Liguria is a bit too far north to be in the land of semolina.)

Orecchiette ("Little Ears"), from the heel of Italy's boot, are inside out cavatelli of sorts.  The rough surface is no accident, it serves to hold the sauce.  Serve with olive oil, broccoli or rapini, garlic, chile, and just enough mashed anchovy to give it all a mysterious savory quality.  Or grated butternut squash, walnuts and ricotta salata.

Busiati, or fusilli al ferro, hail from the deep south (Sicily) and were traditionally rolled around thin knitting needles. (I use a bamboo skewer; knitting is definitely not in my skill set.)  Delicious with with rich meat or fish sauces or the tomato almond pesto of Trapani.

Recipe (of my usual vague sort):

Per smallish Italian sized serving:
generous 1/2 c. semolina
3 tbsp water (or more, or less)
Combine then knead for 5-10 minutes until you get a soft, smooth but not at all sticky dough.  Form the shapes according to the youtube links.  Or however else you feel like it.  Have fun!  It's play-doh destined for your dinner plate.
Cook them in boiling water salty enough to make you reminisce about the ocean.
Although you can  dry this pasta, it's better eaten the day it's made.  It's thick enough that if cooked from dry, by the time the inside is done, the outside is overdone.
For the record, factory dried pasta is neither better or worse (although it's certainly easier.)  It's a different beast entirely.

Reuniting with Old Friends: Texas Hill Country on the Kawasaki

Here I am, astride my Kawasaki for the very first time.

It sure looked a lot more shiny then.  And not an inch of packing tape (my secret repair weapon) anywhere to be seen.

I was in Texas, picking it up after what seemed like an eternity.  I bought it in off of Craig’s List in November of 2005, but didn’t have the time off to pick it up until Jan of 2006.  During that lengthy interim, it was held in safekeeping by the very person who piqued my interest in motorcycles in the first place.

True, I’m not wearing much in the way of safety gear, but this moment was strictly a photographic opportunity.  My first lesson on my new-to-me motorcycle was not riding it, but learning to pick it up.  I do have a photo of the baptismal (for me and the bike) voyage around that neighborhood, and even some video footage, but the borrowed suit I was wearing is just the outfit I’d need if I was auditioning for the kick line dance number of “Star Wars: The Broadway Revival.” You can't exactly blame me for not sharing it with you.

And, lo!, here I am, almost six years later to the day!

Sporting not just my old bike, but my old jacket, kevlar jeans (first time I've ever ridden more than 2 miles not wearing full leathers - kinda gave me the heebie-jeebies) and a really old helmet, not worn since before I even knew how to ride. But there's only so much you can pack in a carry on.  Not quite so shiny now, but my Kawi is a faithful machine, and I love it for that.

I hadn’t ridden (under my own power) in Texas since that very first day, although I have enjoyed Texas Hill Country more times than I can count from passenger seat.  My old Kawasaki recently moved back to its homeland, so now, when I visit, I have wheels!  Last week, I got to enjoy hill country on my own for a few hours.  I still haven’t dined at the Grey Moss Inn, or seen the spring time blooming of blue bonnets, but I got what I was after that day.  The legendary “Twisted Sisters”, aka “The 300’s,” aka TX 337, 335 and 336.  Knowing what I know now, I’m not sure they deserve the adjective legendary, (the turns are wonderful to be sure, but perhaps a little too few and far between to be classified as top tier riding, although I don’t hesitate to recommend them if you’re in the area), but then again, I’m awfully spoiled with good motorcycle roads at my disposal.

Hill Country is loaded with deer.  I mean, just look at them here at my gas stop.  Seriously, it's not unusual to see 10 or 20 just walking to the mailbox, so be careful out there, fellow riders.

And what fun to be on the old Kawasaki again! It was feeling good with a sorely needed new chain and sprocket set (installed by its new caretaker – even better!), and I found myself enjoying all its modern conveniences.  A center stand!  A sensible diet of regular octane fuel!  An old fashioned analog dash! (In my opinion, they give so much more info at a glance than the silly digital read-outs of 21st century vehicles.  I’ve found the rev-limiter on the Ducati more than once, but I still couldn’t tell you where indeed the red-line actually lies.)  Functioning turn signals and horn!  (No, I haven’t solved the Ducati fuse blowing problem, not that I’ve tried all that hard.)  A clutch lever that fits my little hand! (I can barely reach the friction zone on the Duc, despite its adjustable levers, and even now, it’s rather disconcerting in certain situations.)  An ergonomic-to-me gear shifter!  (The one on the Duc is raised, since I tend to scrape it when cornering aggressively, which really isn’t ideal at all.  Which means I can give myself a Charley horse shifting the Duc from first to second.  I actually DID that yesterday.  Ow!)  There is one thing on the Ducati that fits me better than the Kawi, though.  The throttle.

300 mile day trip to ride the "300's Loop."  Wish I had had time to repeat the loop and explore other areas.  Next visit!

All Work and One Tank Rides Make Jill… Heed the Call of the Open Road and Go for a Proper Ride

Since making my annual summer migration to northern Utah this year, I’ve limited myself to a few “one-tank” rides, primarily Logan Canyon and Blacksmith Fork Canyon (which I’ve always incorrectly referred to as Hyrum Canyon.)  I’ve got a substantial work load this summer, plus a project brewing on the side, so the flute-less days are going to have to be rare exceptions.  I decided today (which means Monday in Blog Daylight Savings Time) must be one of those exceptional days.  Really, it was time for a proper ride, and the camera was not invited.  Like I said in earlier posts:  100 miles is: Not. E.  Nuff.

Plus, I replaced fuse No. 3, (“consumers”), after it blew on my last ride.  I needed a good long ride to establish whether or not this was a fluke.  Right?  Wrong.  The fuse blew again after 12 miles, depriving me of my horn (“What’s a motorcycle horn good for," asked my motorcycle safety instructor?  “Absolutely nothing,” he answered for the class.), my right turn signal (I can bend my left arm, so no problem there), my high beam flasher (don’t use it), my menu button, (really, should you be messing with your on-board computer while riding, anyway?), and a reliable clock (That one could get me in trouble.  Try explaining that to the maestro whilst clambering over your colleagues into your chair in the orchestra pit to the sound of the oboe’s tuning A.  It’s just not done.)  Whether or not I am deprived of anything else from this malfunction I do not (yet) know.  Why is the fuse blowing, is the obvious question.  I guess I’m going to have to look into that wiring harness recall I’ve heard about, which will require a trip to the dealer.  The dealer is almost 100 miles away, and my few days off over the next 5 weeks are on Mondays, which is exactly when  motorcycle dealerships are closed.  But I’m thinking outside the box on that one.

Whatever.  This ride is not being called off after 12 miles. This show is going on.

So, three states, three National Forests, three scenic byways, (lots of threes, huh?), two sandwiches (one of cheddar and Swiss chard, the other of vanilla ice cream), one “No Gas Next 70 Miles” sign, one very buggy visor, and one blown fuse … are they “E. Nuff?”  Perhaps.*  Electrical phenomenon notwithstanding, it is, at least, a step in the right direction.  Next exceptional (aka flute-less) riding days coming the first week of August.

The offending fuse

*350 miles

Ducati’s First Camping Trip! - Postscript

And finally, from the “wow, this bike really burns through tires” (aka “you’re a stupid idiot”) department…


The condition of my tires upon my return. Wrists duly slapped.  Do you suppose I can run out to Gates Pass and burn off the edges before replacing it?*

*kidding

Epilogue

So, as you know, I made it to California, finally (albeit not with the Ducati), without the slightest of problems.  I did make it back, too, but with a little help from my friends, pictured at left.

0800 hours - depart San Diego

80 mile point (aka - in the middle of the desert) - in a dramatic cloud of white smoke, dump ALL of your coolant.  Hmm.  This is going to be a problem, no?  Be grateful because:

• You can dismantle practically your entire motorcycle with your leatherman.
• Because the screw that holds the stray coolant hose decided to lodge itself in the hose well, rather than go skittering onto (or off of) the highway, somewhere.... anywhere...  Metric screws are not easily replaced in the middle of nowhere.
• And finally, be VERY grateful that this particular "middle of nowhere" happened to house a border patrol checkpoint. So you could actually refill your motorcycle with water after repairing it.  I carry water, but not THAT much.

130 mile point - fill up with gas, peer at hoses and fluid levels.  Hmm.  Oil is down.  Note that your valve cover gasket appears to be self-destructing.  Pick up some gasket goo at the truck stop, apply, add oil.  (Aren't you glad you packed some of your motorcycle specific oil, just in case?)

260 mile point - fuel up, reassess.  Apply more gasket goo. Reattach license plate that is hanging on by a thread with zip ties. No self respecting motorcyclist EVER leaves home without zip ties.

1600 hours and 400 mile (or so) point - arrival!  400 miles and three roadside repairs in 8 hours.  Not bad!

16:10 hours - fall asleep

Next day - order new gasket.  Here we go again...

Yes, there is packing tape in that picture.  Guesses? (from those of you who don't already know what I love to use it for)


Due to popular request (that means by more than one person! By some people I haven't even met, believe it or not!), I've added ways to subscribe to this silly blog of mine. For email notification, look at the top right of the page. At the bottom right of the page you can "follow" or get notifications on your browser bookmark bar. Hope it works! 

Hah! I Win!

Heartfelt thanks to all who aided, abetted and otherwise cheered me on!* In order of appearance:
sksrverret, xDaveManx, 02_500R, alxb, Pogo, FOG, ShadesOfGray, jonh, Apriliarider, K-woppa, netjustin, twowheels, wickedsprint, in4mation, Knightslugger, House_of_Dexter, cathoholic, JK, E from SWMT, DN

* During the "Crap, I suck!" bolt mis-adventure.

When the night is darkest, it is closest to dawn. Or whatever that saying is.

Okay, where were we? Oh yes...

...Idiot!

Because you used inappropriate tools for the job, KNEW it, and did it ANYWAY. Okay, there WAS a certain, if faulty, line of reasoning to your actions, but, still, it serves you right. "It seemed like a good idea at the time..." Uh huh. It always does, doesn't it?

Prepare yourself with mosquito repellent, fire ant spray, sunscreen and a hat. Eat something before you begin, I don't care if you just had breakfast an hour ago. You are hypoglycemic and if you get hungry during this procedure, you will most definitely sit down (on an ant hill, no doubt) and cry. Have a nice cheese melt topped with wilted amaranth greens tossed in olive oil, raw garlic and chile flakes. Tell your three-legged Dalmatian, that, yes, YOU CAN DO THIS. Wonder if she believes you. Wonder if YOU believe you. Take a deep breath, pick up that - oof! - heavy tool box, do not pass Go, do not collect $200. Remove the pieces to get to the valve cover again. Remove the valve cover itself again and see what you've got to work with. Remember? Maybe... just MAYBE, there will be little nubs of bolt stem to grab with pliers or tweezers.


Please...



Please...



Pretty please...



...AaaaaHA!


The bolts are not stuck in the engine block proper, but in little easily removable pieces!

This... THIS... is a game changer. Your computer is not dead. You have NOT lost every byte of data. Golden beams of light emerge from the thunderclouds. Hosts of angels sing. There is... (breathy voice)... Hope.

At the very least, if you can not remove the bolt stems, you can slap on some lipstick and bring the little pieces to a real mechanic and plead for help. All is NOT lost. Your relief is immeasurable and you are already celebrating.

Remove cam caps (a.k.a. "little pieces in which the bolt stems are stuck".) Easy! Feel clever because you notice they are labeled so they can be replaced in the same position with the same orientation. You are brilliant!

Wrestle for an hour (Idiot!) with the surgical tools you own from your days as a veterinary technician, extracting two of the three bolt stems, being verrry careful not to damage the threads in the cam caps. Brilliant!

Wrestle for an additional hour on the final one, not getting anywhere. Idiot! Consider the use of power tools. Try the drill for one second. (Idiot!) Decide it is a very bad idea. (Brilliant!)

Stop. Put. The. Drill. Down. And. Think.

Wrestle a few moments longer. Arrrrrrrrghhh!

Epiphany: Idiot! (No, that part wasn't the epiphany.) The bolt stem is in there pretty loosely, there's just not enough of it exposed to grab, no matter how many cool, teeny surgical and flute repair tools you own. Use the corresponding "mating" surface of the head end of the broken bolt. Press it against the stuck stem piece to match up the parts, hold it there firmly while backing it (and the bolt stem!) out of the cam cap.

Feel illegitimately and unbelievably brilliant.

Illegitimately brilliant because:
A) It was your idiocy that got you here in the first place.
B) You kinda got tipped off that the bolts were stuck in removable pieces, not the engine itself. But you would have seen that for yourself as soon as you took off the valve cover again this morning, right? Right.
C) It took you two hours and one serious hand cramp to figure this out. (Idiot!)

Feel brilliant anyway, and enjoy it.

Write on the blackboard 100 times. "I will use the appropriate tools for the job. I will use the appropriate tools for the job. I will use the appropriate tools for the job..."

Go to the store and purchase said appropriate tools.

Realize that, because the stems backed out so easily using the broken bolt head, you probably didn't have to even remove the cam caps in the first place. In retrospect, you may not even had had to remove the valve cover (and all the pieces to get to the valve cover) again. Idiot!

Except you should clean out any metal shards anyway. Brilliant!

Thank your internet community profusely for seeing you through this mess without saying (aloud) how much of an idiot you are. Be amazed that you are not the only one to have done this.

Await replacement bolts. *sigh*
(Thank you, FOG!)

Acknowledge that until this bike is running and you are riding, you are not yet out of the woods.

Have another one of those apricot smoothies. Consider the rum suggestion.

Think to yourself that at least you re-installed the reed valves correctly. Wink. You know who you are.

Note: As you might have noticed in the photo, I use little applesauce cups to keep my moto parts and pieces organized.