Passes & Canyons Blog

Flipping this petcock was supposed to provide me with fuel. It didn’t.

I knew I was running low on gas the morning I set out with the RMMRC on a ride over Guanella Pass. That was not a problem. We planned to gas up in Morrison and I was on the Honda, and had not yet gone to Reserve. I had plenty of gas to get that far, although I fully expected to need to switch to Reserve before I got there.

As expected, about the time we crossed Broadway on Belleview the bike sputtered a bit and I turned the petcock. But it didn’t seem to make any difference. I struggled along maybe another mile and then the bike just died.

The first thing I did was to remove the gas cap and look inside. There was definitely still gas in there, though not a whole lot. I checked the petcock position and, as expected, it was on Reserve. It wouldn’t start in that position so I moved it back to On. It still wouldn’t start. Back to Reserve and still no dice.

Roy and Charley had come back to check on me and Roy had me try a few things. No dice. Roy, however, is one of those totally prepared guys and he pulled out a bottle that he carries all the time, containing half a gallon of gas. I poured it in, tried the starter a few times, and sure enough it finally fired up and kept running.

OK, what’s the deal here? They told me to go ahead and they would ride behind me just to be sure.

On my way out to Morrison I wondered about it. Had I only partially filled the tank last time I got gas? This bike usually needs to go to Reserve at about 180 miles and it had done so this time at 185. I have run out before when I have forgotten to move the petcock back to On, and if I had not filled it all the way it could have run dry at 185. But it definitely was not already on Reserve. ???

So at Morrison I filled the tank and guess what: This tank holds 5-1/2 gallons. Roy had given me half a gallon and then we had ridden about 10-15 miles. The tank reached full after only 4.07 gallons. That math does not add up.

I filled the tank there at Morrison and then we rode a bit more than 100 additional miles that day and all went just fine. But now I need to figure out what the situation is. It appears to be a blockage of some kind in the fuel line but how to confirm this?

I figure the first thing to do is simply to switch to Reserve with plenty of gas in the tank and see if it runs. That way I know I won’t be stranded out somewhere because I can just flip back to On. But what if that doesn’t do it?

I have wondered for a long time about how the Reserve setting functions physically. The tank straddles the frame so does one side (Reserve) stay full as the other side empties? With intakes on both sides? Or, I have wondered, is it all one feed with an intake at one elevation, with flipping the petcock simply lowering the intake?

OK, so I got answers. There are two intakes, side by side, at different levels. So even if I switch to Reserve, if there is enough gas in the tank it is going to be fed via the primary intake.

While I tend to have a mechanical aptitude, I’m not this much of a motorcycle mechanic, so this means it is time to call Joel, my mechanic.

Biker Quote for Today

Top 10 signs that a computer is owned by a Harley rider: 05. — The mouse is referred to as “the rat.”

The Kawi out on the plains.

As I explained in my last post, my Concours needed some brake work. Dealers generally don’t like working on older bikes but I decided to ask Vickery for some assistance. Here’s what happened.

I explained to the guy at the service desk that I had bought the bike from them but they had fired me as a customer 10 years ago. Now I was just asking their assistance in getting a screw out of the plate covering the brake fluid reservoir. Could they at least do that for me? While I was making this appeal, a second guy stood and observed. This other guy turned out to be Randy, the service manager. He came out to look at the bike and called out an older mechanic, presumably because this guy had experience working on this older bike.

They assessed the situation and said they could try bleeding the brakes for me and would drill out the bad screw. They also said the front brake pads were nearly shot and should be replaced, which they would be happy to do.

I was surprised they would take the bike in but happily called Judy to come get me.

Shortly before closing time that day they called to say the bike was ready to be picked up. I said thanks, I’ll come by tomorrow.

The next morning I went over and Randy pulled out his phone to show me a photo he had taken. They had removed the plate from the reservoir and the photo showed a whole bunch of sludge that had formed over many years and which was blocking the ports on the reservoir, thus the bad brake performance.

The sludge had been cleaned out and the brake lines flushed, plus new brake pads had been put on. The brakes were working great again. I was good to go.

I told Randy I truly appreciated their working on my bike, and that they had fired me as a customer long ago, and yet they had done this work. Randy explained that the big problem for them is that at times people bring machines in for work and the mechanics find much bigger problems, such that the owners then decide they don’t want to spend the money and they abandon the vehicle without paying for the work already done.

The key, he explained, for them to agree to do simple maintenance work on an older bike such as mine, was to bring the bike in and let them look it over. If the bike is sound and if it’s just simple maintenance they will do the work, IF. The big if. If they have a mechanic–like that grey-haired guy–with experience with the older bike. Their younger mechanics have never worked on, say, a 1999 Kawasaki Concours, and they are reluctant to have one of them touch it. But if they have the guy, they’ll work on the bike.

I also got the impression that it is Randy who would need to look at the bike and make the decision, not the guy behind the counter. Those guys, it seems, are pretty much told to say no to any such request.

So I was thrilled. The Connie is long overdue for a basic tune-up and while that would be something Joel could do I’d much rather just drop the bike at Vickery. Thank you Randy, you haven’t seen the last of me.

Biker Quote for Today

You know you’re a biker if you see no use in going to a bar without bikes in front.

The Connie on Loveland Pass.

The front brakes on my 1999 Concours were squishy and the brake fluid level seemed low. I could add fluid but if it got low again that would indicate a fuel-line leak. That’s beyond my ability to deal with.

Normally I would just have taken the bike over to Joel at Mountain Thunder Motorsports but these are not normal times for Joel. His landlord had raised his rent a huge amount and rather than pay it Joel had closed up shop and is now working out of his home. Unfortunately, his home is somewhere up in the hills. If he’s going to work on my bike it will mean he drives down with a trailer, loads it up, drives home and works on it, then drives it back down. That’s a lot of effort for what might just be low brake fluid.

So I called Vickery, where I bought the bike new in 1999. I used to take it to Vickery for service but about 10 years ago they fired me as a customer because dealerships don’t like to work on older bikes. That’s how I ended up working with Joel. I had also been fired as a customer by Aurora Honda some years before that with my CB750, for the same reason.

It seemed to me that Vickery ought to be willing to just do some simple maintenance, even on an older bike. No harm in asking.

I called the service department and explained the situation and asked if they would be willing to at least do this simple job. The answer was no. I then asked what sort of brake fluid the bike would use, because I have read many times how you should not mix different types of brake fluids. I figured I could at least top it off myself and then if it got low again that would mean a bigger problem and I could call Joel.

The guy at the service counter told me what fluid it needed and I went over to Vickery to buy some. Back at home I tried to remove the top plate on the reservoir but for the life of me I could not get one of the screws out. The other came out easily but all the bad one did was start stripping. Now what do I do?

It was a nice day and I was determined to ride the Kawi that day so I geared up and headed out, with no destination in mind. Before I got out of the neighborhood I decided to ride to Vickery. At the very least perhaps they would help me get that screw out. Refusing that, I felt, would be terrible customer relations, but I wasn’t especially optimistic. If they wouldn’t even do that for me, I had located an independent shop over near where Joel used to be and I figured I could drop by there and see if they would help me.

What happened then is interesting and I’ll fill you in on Thursday.

Biker Quote for Today

Why bikes are better than women: Motorcycles only need their fluids changed every 2,000 miles.

Take a good look at this photo. It tells the whole story.

“We’ve got a diesel truck running out there.”

Those are not the words you generally want to hear about your motorcycle. Dennis was ecstatic.

We’ll start at the beginning.

We stopped for gas in Livingston, Montana, at a big station where the pumps in front were all busy. So we went around back and filled up. Then we headed west on I-90, destination Missoula. But right from the start Dennis could tell the big Indian wasn’t running properly. Bill, just behind Dennis, smelled something that puzzled him.

After about 60 miles Dennis decided to pull off at another station. He figured he had gotten some bad gas and that adding some good gas would dilute the bad. But after he filled the tank the bike would not start at all. It wouldn’t even turn over.

Maybe that bad gas had fouled the plugs. He didn’t have the tools to pull the plugs so Bill gave him a ride to the nearest town where he bought tools. Pulling the first plug it looked just fine. Now he was truly stumped.

Checking online Dennis found that the nearest Indian dealer was in Idaho Falls, about 235 miles away. The towing company he reached said that would cost $900. A U-Haul truck, 25 miles away, would cost $260, plus he would have to buy tie-downs. A no-brainer. Bill took him to Whitehall to get the truck and we returned to the station that was now becoming a second home to us.

Now, how do you roll a non-running 800-pound motorcycle up a steep ramp into a truck? When we first got to this station there were several burly young guys around who we sorely needed. None now. We finally recruited a couple older guys who seemed kind of iffy but you take what you can get. Miraculously we were successful. Tie it down securely and off we go.

The dealership was closed by the time we got there and there were supposedly zero motel rooms available in town. Dang. However, luck was with us and we found one small, older place that had a room for us. Big sigh.

Dennis was over to the dealership before they opened in the morning and immediately got the bike checked in for work. Then we walked a few blocks for breakfast. Returning after breakfast, Dennis asked at the counter about his bike. “The dead one?” the guy asked. He turned and carried over that vial you see in the picture. It had come out of Dennis’s tank and it was red diesel. How the heck did that happen? Was the gas station accidentally dispensing diesel from a gas pump, wreaking havoc with who knows how many vehicles?

More importantly (for Dennis) was what damage might have been done. Worst case scenario is that the pistons might have seized up. Nothing to do but clean it out and see if the bike will run. This will take an hour or two.

Meanwhile Dennis pulled out his gas receipt and it said right there, “red diesel.” He was the one who made a mistake. How?

Looking at the pumps he had seen a couple with green handles and he knew that was diesel. The other handle was red. Now here’s the thing: in Colorado for the most part, red is the color for gasoline. But in the more rural areas in a place like Montana, green means regular diesel, red means red diesel, and black is the color for gas. When I filled my tank I looked at the labels on the pump. Dennis only looked at the color of the handles.

So by the way, what the heck is red diesel? Red diesel is for farm implements and construction equipment that does not use the highways. Because they don’t use the highways they are exempted from the taxes that pay for the highways. Regular diesel has a red dye added. If your semi is stopped and they find red diesel in your tank you are in trouble.

With the dire possibilities in that worst case scenario you can now see why, when the mechanic came out and said, “We’ve got a diesel truck running out there,” that Dennis was ecstatic. His motor was not destroyed, and it was running so we could actually get back on the road.

Be aware, they told him, it may smoke for awhile.

Biker Quote for Today

Why Motorcycles are Better than Men: If your motorcycle smokes, you can do something about it.

I was looking at the console on my Kawi a lot on this ride.

Forty miles out of town and there’s some green fluid dripping. Oh, no! There’s no mistaking coolant, and on a day with temperatures in the 90s this could be seriously bad.

I had been up to Loveland to demo ride some BMW motorcycles, one of which, the R1200RT, I loved. Now headed home to Denver I stopped in Berthoud to visit their museum and see the current exhibit on Floyd Clymer, the renowned racer and publisher of motorcycle repair manuals. Floyd was a local boy who made good. Ready to leave, I was getting back on the bike, my ’99 Kawasaki Concours.

I’d caught just a whiff of the coolant earlier but didn’t think anything of it. I figured somebody else must be leaking fluid; it never occurred to me that it might be coming from my bike. Now that steady drip, drip, drip had my total attention.

What to do? Did I dare to ride it? And how could my Kawi be giving me trouble? It’s the bike that had always been 100 percent reliable, unlike my 38-year-old Honda that knows it’s 38 years old.

I decided to chance it, with my eye glued to the temperature gauge and ready to shut it off immediately if the needle started to enter the danger zone. With luck, running the bike at highway speeds would keep everything cool and the drip would abate. But if I got into the heart of Denver and hit a traffic jam there could be trouble. I’d have to play it by ear.

I pulled away and headed down the road and everything was fine. The needle stayed well on the cool side. I stayed in the right-hand lane, took it easy, and checked the gauge about every 30 seconds all the way to Denver. Coming through downtown on the highway the traffic flowed smoothly and things looked good.

Santa Fe Drive would be the next hazard. It’s a major road with only a few stoplights, but could I get through them all on the green? And what would that needle do if I did get stopped?

One by one I made it until I reached the last light I had to go through. It turned red. It seemed like it was red for a long time. And the needle started climbing. And climbing. “Oh, please let me just get to Joel’s shop. I’m only two miles away now.”

Finally the green and I was moving again. The needle didn’t drop but at least it stopped climbing. Joel was out front as I pulled in, turned the key, and got off.

“Joel, I’ve got a problem!”

No need for a big explanation; the drip told the whole story. A problem with an O-ring, Joel told me. He’d have it fixed that day, and once again I got lucky. In four days I was headed for Sturgis on that bike. If that O-ring had failed four days later . . .

Biker Quote for Today

Live life to the fullest. Forget drama, depression, and all that kinda crap. Be a happy person now!! Go for a ride!!!

Motorcycle maintenance doesn’t always prevent breakdowns.

Biker Brotherhood: A Tale Of Two Breakdowns

My old 1980 Honda CB750 Custom gave me trouble the other day. Twice. And others bikers came to my aid. Twice. Thanks guys. Stopping and helping another biker is a time-honored tradition and it’s one of those things that makes our group special.

Starting out from home, I had only gone about a mile and she died. I knew I had switched to reserve near the end of my ride a couple days ago, but that should have meant I had plenty of gas to get to a station. But “ought to” and “should have” are meaningless in the face of reality.

Happily, as I rolled the bike onto the sidewalk to get it out of the busy intersection where it had chosen to die, another rider came along and asked if everything was OK. No, it was not OK. So Roger gave me a ride to my house to get a can of gas and then stuck around to see if that would do the job.

It didn’t. I poured the gas in, turned the key, and thumbed the starter and while it turned over just fine, that was all. The only other thing I could think of that might be a problem was the fusible link. This part of my electrical system requires removal of the seat to get to, which is not an easy proposition on this CB, so I only do it when I need to. I figured I needed to.

Roger stuck around meanwhile, and when I got to the link it was fine. So now what? As I put it all back together and put the seat back on Roger was fiddling with the gas line down under the tank. He called my attention to a translucent portion of the line, and how when he nudged it with his finger a bit more gas moved into the line. He did that several times and each time more gas filled the line until it was full.

“Try it now,” he suggested. I turned the key and pushed the starter and it fired right up. Wahoo! I would never have thought to look at that, and Roger swore he’s no mechanic but was just following intuition. Only once I was up and running again did he depart, having done a very good deed for a total stranger.

Problem No. 2
So I filled up and headed off to Loveland, where I was going to test ride some Triumphs. I’ll be telling you all about that soon but suffice it to say for now that I loved the Bonnevilles!

I headed back to Denver and thought the bike might not be running quite right about the time I got back into the metro area. It was rush hour and I was going south on I-25 right through the heart of town, so it was slow going. I was in the far-left lane right at the 8th Avenue exit when the bike just died. We were moving slowly so I coasted only about 10 feet before I came to a stop. Fortunately, there was a spot just 10 feet ahead of me where the concrete barrier dividing north- and southbound traffic separated, creating a space just big enough for two motorcycles to tuck safely out of the way. I rolled up into that space.

Clearly I wasn’t going anywhere any time soon on my own. I was stuck in the middle of the interstate with traffic not about to subside. Within just a couple minutes, however, a guy on a Kawasaki, whose name I did not get, pulled into the space (that’s how I know there was room for two bikes) and asked if I needed help.

Yes, I certainly did, could I use his cell phone to call for assistance. I made the call and also called my wife to tell her I wouldn’t be meeting her as planned. And then the Kawi guy took off, having done his good deed for the day. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

Long story short (and leaving out some interesting details), I was rescued and hauled off to the shop. There my bike remains as I wait to get the word on what caused the problems.

Bikers helping bikers
I have to say that this practice of bikers helping bikers is a very special thing. I know it arose out of the vagaries of undependable machinery in the early days but that it continues today, when bikes are much more dependable, is a testament to how people really can get along if they choose to.

We may not share political opinions and may have a lot of different ideas about a lot of things, but when you see someone stopped by the side of road you don’t ask who they voted for. You ask if they need help. And if they do, you provide whatever you can. What a wonderful thing it could be if we incorporated this attitude into the other parts of our lives.

Biker Quote for Today

When I hit the open road the ride becomes meditation, the sound of my pipes become music, the rolling through turns becomes a dance, and riding becomes a celebration of freedom!

Stopping beside the road is not always your desire.

I read an article some while ago that said, “Nobody runs out of gas any more, not with dash lights and other geegaws reminding you to stop and fill up.” Obviously, they weren’t talking about motorcycles.

Most motorcycles don’t even have gas gauges. What they do have is a petcock that you turn to Reserve when the bike starts to sputter. Then you know you had better find a gas station fairly soon. Presumably you know how much fuel your reserve holds, you know how many miles you get to a gallon, and that tells you approximately how far you can get on what you’ve got left.

My Kawasaki Concours does have a gas gauge, but it’s in a minority. And even that is only a half-way measure because it still has reserve and once you flip that petcock the gauge just registers Empty and you’re judging your range as you would on any other bike.

I have run out of gas. More than once, on both the Honda and the Kawi. And you’ll rarely meet a rider who hasn’t also run out, at least on occasion.

Now, riding with the OFMC I have never run out, for the simple reason that all my bikes have bigger gas tanks than any of the other guys’ bikes. They need to gas up long before I do so as long as I do the same I’m golden. And I carry a long plastic surgical tube so that if need be we can siphon gas from my tank to one of theirs, though that has never been necessary.

That fact is largely due to John’s experience on one of our early trips. He and Bill and I were blasting north through Wyoming on I-25, heading for Deadwood, SD, and I was in the lead. I noticed they had dropped back so I slowed down and after awhile I pulled over. The customary thing in this situation is to wait, with the assumption that they’ll be along soon. If they don’t come along soon you head back to see what the hold-up is.

So I sat there a while, too long, and turned back. I hadn’t gone far and there they were, going the direction I was now coming from, so I turned around again. We all pulled off and they filled me in.

John had run out of gas and hadn’t thought to flip to reserve, so he coasted to a stop. Bill pulled over to offer aid. They quickly deduced the problem, but even after John switched to reserve the bike wouldn’t start because the fuel line had been drained dry and he couldn’t get any gas to the carburetor. Most motorcycles don’t have fuel pumps, it’s simply a gravity flow system.

So they tried jump starting. We were on flat land and Bill pushed and pushed and pushed while John tried to get the thing going. Finally, about the time Bill was ready to die from his work-out the bike did start, and after he trudged his way back to his own bike they were finally on their way again.

Ever since then John is a total fanatic about getting gas long before he even reaches reserve. He also instructed his son, Johnathon, in this approach so a few years later, on another trip, when the bike Johnathon was on started sputtering he had no idea what was happening because he had never gone to reserve before.

Me, I hit reserve regularly. The only problem is when you forget to switch the petcock back to the regular tank when you gas up. Then, if you’re not paying attention to how many miles you’ve ridden, when the bike starts to sputter, guess what? You’re out of gas. Trust me on this, I know.

Biker Quote for Today

You’re a biker wannabe if you spend more time shining your bike than riding it.

Riding with buddies means you have assistance if you drop the bike. But sometimes you’re not with other riders.

One of the most annoying – not to mention embarrassing – things you can do is drop your motorcycle in front of the whole world. I’m not talking about going down, which is when you wipe out at speed. Dropping the bike usually happens in a parking lot as you’re trying to turn sharply with almost no speed. You lean the bike a little too far and suddenly 600 pounds of falling motorcycle overrules any thoughts you had of remaining upright.

The good thing about dropping the bike in a parking lot is that you have friends or at least helpful strangers to help you lift the bike back up. But sometimes it’s not that easy.

When friends can’t help

We were out on the first day of one of the early OFMC summer trips, and John was riding his brand new Honda Shadow. Bill was in the lead and as we passed a lake he spotted a dirt road running down to the lakeshore. Figuring it to be a good place for a break, he turned in and John followed, with me behind.

The road quickly got steep and rutted, not the type of thing we like doing on street bikes, but at this point we were committed. It was easier now to go forward than try to turn around.

Then John started losing it in a rut. The Shadow was leaning precariously and he had his foot down trying to keep it from going any further.

“Ken, help me. Help me!” he yelled frantically but I was dealing with ruts of my own and before I could do a thing to help John I first had to stop my bike in a stable location and get the kickstand down. John dropped the bike.

Fortunately I was there, we righted the bike, and rode on down to the shore, where Bill was wondering what was taking us so long. Riding back up we managed to avoid any mishaps.

When You’re Alone

Friends are great to ride with but sometimes you ride alone, at least I do. I was crossing Nebraska one day on U.S. 34 and spotted a farm road heading north from the highway that looked like a good place to stop and stretch my legs. I knew it had rained the night before but the ground look dry and firm. What I could not see was that it was only the surface that was dry, while underneath the earth was soaked.

There was solid gravel for about 20 feet away from the main road and rolling at about 3-4 miles per hour I hit the end of the gravel and my front tire splooshed into deep mud beneath what had appeared to be firm. In slow motion the wheel slid to my left and the bike and I went down to the right, with me dumped into the mud hole. There was no one else around.

Now, I know how to pick up a bike and I had done it before. You cock the handlebars as far as you can to the side it’s laying on, back into the saddle and tank, grip the hand grip and whatever you can get a hold of with your other hand, and then stand up carefully, lifting with your legs.

But I was in a mud hole. Have you ever tried to get firm footing in a mud hole? The first few times I’d start to stand up and my feet would slip and down we’d go again. I finally dug my heels down far enough to reach something a little more solid and did get the bike upright. I was now standing in a mud hole with my back to the bike. I had to very carefully turn around, very carefully throw my leg over the seat, and then hope the bike would start. It did and I inched my way toward solid ground until I could finally relax.

Then I turned around, got back on the highway and stopped at the first town I came to. I got a motel, ran the bike over to a car wash to get the mud off, and spent a good part of my evening cleaning mud off my leather jacket.

Given the choice between annoyance and embarrassment, I guess I’d choose the embarrassment. At least then you have someone to give you a hand.

Biker Quote for Today

Instead of trying to blend in and be like everyone else, I became a biker.