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167,000 Miles Superglide: Jetting The Carb Update

 Jetting The Carb: UPDATE 167,000 miles on Superglide WOT It’s fairly easy to tell if the idle jet is correct, but according to Nightrider website, if you don’t have access to a dyno, you need to do a W.O.T. run. Wide Open Throttle.  WOT TEST:  TO TEST THE MAIN JETTING, YOU MUST BE IN FOURTH OR FIFTH GEAR, AND RUNNING FAIRLY HIGH RPM (4000+), THEN OPEN THE THROTTLE ALL THE WAY TO THE THROTTLE STOP, NOTING THE FEEL OF THE BIKE. And immediately afterwards, you shut her down, and check the plugs. But anyway, I’d changed my pipes, and I just wasn’t getting the POWER, that I thought I should have, so I put in a bigger main jet. The long hill on 84 west outa town Rolling fast on the Superglide No one in the right lane 95, 100 miles per hour some stupid SUV Plodding along at 65 eases on over check left, there’s room hit the middle lane And the plodding SUV Can’t decide, straddles the line So he hits the gap Between lanes And blasts on through But just for a sec he touched the re...
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Roadglide Geezer At 156,000 Miles

 Thoughts of a Old Roadglide Geezer at 156 thousand miles:  Great on the highway, but low-speed handling and parking suck due to weight and high center of gravity. Each time she layed down was a memorable event requiring human or mechanical assistance. "Dirt biking" up to the fire tower, gravel parking, rain-slick stop signs, all treacherous: easy to lay her down, hard to get her back up. Just like one of my old girlfriends, back in the day. I carry a small scissor jack now. And those tar snakes are the work of the devil.
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The Dude's Big Big Vegetable

                     The Dude rode from his house to the farm market, on the crude, mud spattered Ironhead Sportster, with only a backpack with which to carry home his produce, and a big backpack it was, because he would buy enough for the week. The Dude, as usual, was doing his grocery shopping, mostly all at the farm market, except for the bread, and his bakery of choice happened to be in an old neighborhood noted for street gang hoodlums. The Dude, tall and lanky, was for the most part, a vegetarian.    But now, I must step back, to the incident of last week. He’d parked on the street a few doors down from the bakery. When he came out with two still warm loaves, he saw some young street punks around his bike, and one of them was even sitting on it, posing, like he was riding. There were three of them, altogether, brazenly watching him as he approached. Two more stood in a nearby doorway, looking amused, and smoking f...
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Paul's Bar and Dennis Hopper's Grave

  We rode around Ranchos de Taos with flimsy directions looking for Dennis Hopper. A dirt road led back to Jesus Nazareno Cemetery: a carved wooden cross, loose stones, an American flag, a blue glass bottle. Born in Dodge City, died of prostate cancer. Rebel Without a Cause. Easyrider. We rode away, stopped in front of nearby Paul’s Bar. It looked like Hopper's kind of hacienda.
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Sturgis to Hallelujah Junction

I'm glad the tequila is gone.  Said goodbye to Mike and LuAnn and headed south into the Black Hills:  Custer State Park.  Rode the "Wildlife Loop" and saw a couple of antelope and buffalo.  Rode through the town of Custer:  a clusterfuck of tourists, traffic, bikers, and folks dressed up as pioneers. Hah…folks dressed up as bikers. I waited for the same traffic light four times!  Glad to get out of there.  Gassed up in Newcastle, Wyoming, and took route 450 to Wright, desolate, nothing but antelope for 70 miles, and hot ninety five degrees.  Made it to Casper just before the rain.   Had a dream my tooth fell out.  Woke up and it was still there.  Route 220 out of Casper, lots of antelope, and 287 to Rawlins, where we found I 80 west.  Crossed the Continental Divide three times:  once on 220, once on 287, and once on I 80.  Temps. on the high prairie ranged in the high 80's, but once we descended into Salt Lake City,...
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Albany Helmet Protests in the 1980s

  Some of the best rides in New York State, in the 1980’s were the ABATE sponsored helmet protests. There was usually a designated camping area and riders made it a weekend event. The pack, consisting of several hundred bikes would meet on Monday in the huge parking lot near Taft Furniture,  and the helmetless parade would ride Central Avenue into Albany, the capitol, where speeches and meetings with politicians took place. The whole event had a festive mood; I never saw animosity. After the event, folks put their helmets back on and rode home with a feeling of accomplishment and camaraderie.
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First Ride To Sturgis

It was our first ride to Sturgis on the new Superglide and we rode through torrential down pours, truck gauntlets, Chicago traffic jams, unrelenting midwest sunglare and crossed the mighty Mississippi. We’d set our daily limit at 500 miles per day, an easy goal west of the Mississippi; we spent our first Sturgis night in Wall. Badlands was spectacular, but hot and dry, so we headed west looking for a bar. In New Underwood, we found “The Worlds Smallest Biker Bar,” a friendly place where the bartender held coins between her cheeks and dropped them into a cup.  
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