Is Mount Washington Better Than Laconia. Yep

Exit 20 into Laconia, THE BIG EVENT, CLUSTERFUCK, the three T’s: TOURISTS, TEE SHIRTS, AND TRAFFIC. Spent close to A HALF HOUR OF STOP AND GO, between Weirs Beach, and Meredith. Can’t split lanes, cause there’s cops everywhere. Bikes are running hot. Get me the fuck out of here! Went north on I 93 to Lincoln; made eye contact with a black bear that was running on the side of the highway. And I found my way to Mount Washington, where I paid my $15 admission for a rare opportunity: THE MOUNTAIN WAS MOTORCYCLES ONLY. NO CARS, NO TRUCKS…MOTORCYCLES ONLY. This is a spectacular and dangerous mountain road, and the weather was beautiful and clear. The road is narrow and partially dirt above the tree line. There were steep drop offs, narrow, tight curves, and no guard rail. It was first and second gear all the way up. So I took a few pictures at the top and I rode back down, testing my bike on the sharp curves, testing the brakes, whipping her a little hard, downshifting, until I got behind some dude on an older bike with mechanical brakes, going too slow, until he gave me some room to get by, and I rolled on down the mountain, adrenalin energized, and I stopped in Gorham, to cool my brakes. They had those big 16 oz. PBR’s at Mr. Pizza, and whole fried clams, and French fries.

Next morning, 43 degrees in Lincoln, checking out of the hotel, I saw the Canadian dude from the next room, having trouble with his bike. He had an ’08 Roadglide, similar to mine, and his key was stuck in the ignition switch, and the switch was stuck in “LOCK.” He tried getting at the “pin” underneath, with almost every tool on my Leatherman, to no avail. His pretty French wife was noticeably worried, and there was talk about calling a tow truck. “Don’t,” I said. I showed the dude the pliers on the Leatherman, and said, “grip it down low.” He was afraid of breaking off the key, but tried it anyway. AND, VOILA! THE KEY WAS FREE! And I got a nice big hug from French wife. Ooo-la-la.

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519 to Buttzville

519 is a road, mostly smooth, curvy, two lane blacktop. At the New York state line, I followed her down. It’s cow country, sheep; 20 mile per hour turns that sneak right up, a narrow tunnel, and there’s Vernon, and Hope. All the way to Buttzville; so named because, at one time, it was the butt watching capital of America. Butts reigned supreme. Not so much anymore. But there was a nicely packed butt in skin tight camo, right in Hot Dog Johnny’s. So I ate lunch: two dogs, mustard, pickles, and kraut with a big cup of buttermilk. That’s the special. And I gassed up and headed north on 519, all the way to the state line, with a song in my head, from Bob Seger: She's totally committed, to major independence But she's a lady through and through She gives them quite a battle, all that they can handle She'll bruise some, she'll hurt some too But oh, they love to watch her strut…Bob Seger

Route 32 Walt's Speedometer

It was late afternoon in Albany, NY. I was riding the four speed Evo; Levi had his Sporty; both Mike and Walt were riding clean Shovels. The plan was this: we were gonna run south down route 32, make a few miles, then maybe stop at some juke joint or tavern, but closer to home. Once we got out of the city, the road opened up, and the throttle hands got looser. We were doing maybe 60 mph, in a tight pack of four, and we'd roll up behind some sedan doing 55, and most times, with plenty of room to pass, we'd give 'em a little gas, and just blast right on by. But each time we did that, we'd gain a little speed, and pretty soon we were kind of hammering down the highway, maybe 70 or 75. And I could see in my mirror, Walt was dropping back. He'll catch up, I'm thinkin', he's probably just not used to that kind of riding. So anyway, I'm watching Walt in the mirror, and he's back there maybe 50 yards…then I look again, he's still with us, but maybe

Fifteen Dollar Piston

That's Paul Riding My Old Ironhead With The Fifteen Dollar Piston Blasting over the mountain, I was giving her the gas, full throttle, right against the stop, passing all the cars. That's when I heard the bang. BANG . Sounded like a 12 gauge , and the Ironhead starts losing power. Cars that I passed, start to pass me. And I notice that she’s smoking some. Well, something ain’t right; I’m turning around, I'm heading for home… And by the time I get home…I’m limping, mostly running on one cylinder. FUCK! I think that was the word out of my mouth. And I’m laying down serious smoke . The trouble was the front jug. Front one is easy to take off, so I pull off the head, and loosen the cylinder, start to slide her up over the piston. And here, is where I actually showed a lick of sense: Before I pull the jug all the way over the piston, I put a clean rag around the connecting rod, under the piston, to prevent broken metal from falling off the piston, into the crankcas

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