More punctures, Don's Service & the Idaho State Police...
21st July
I wake feeling a little hung over – something to do with a six pack of Budweiser whilst typing up my journal last night (it was a warm night). I drag myself out of bed and pack the bike – I’m on the road at 0815.
I join Interstate 90, heading west and, almost immediately, the rear end starts a familiar squirm – I stop to find, as expected, the plug has pulled out of the rear tyre.
I quickly replace the plug and set the mini compressor to the task of re-inflating the tyre. I’m pretty sure that the problem is that the hole in the tyre is probably right at the upper limit of the size that the plugger can repair. I’m quite content to keep repairing it for now as, when it does deflate, it does so slowly and predictably.
I get back on the road and stop at the first service area. As a precaution, I replace the plug, re-inflate the tyre and then ride off, resolving to avoid gravel and dirt roads as I think the plugs may be pushed inwards by gravel.
I’ve ordered a set of tyres from SW Moto (I’m going to try Michelin Anakees, by way of a change, as they were out of front Tourances). I’m therefore loath to stop & buy a new tyre before getting to Jorge & Sheila’s on Saturday.
I carry on up the Coeur d’Alene River Road – the road which parallels, & has replaced, the little by-way I rode yesterday evening. It’s my plan to slowly make my way, over the next few days, over to Aloha by back roads like this, but I’m going to try & avoid gravel, given the state of my rear tyre.
But guess what…
…pretty soon, I pass a ‘Pavement Ends’ sign and, having checked with Betty to make sure there was no reasonable alternative route, I enter a web of forest tracks, which take me up & down through the Coeur d’Alene National Forest…
I stop regularly, to check the condition of the plug…
…which seems to be doing OK. I decide not to live in fear of what the plug decides to do – the hell with it – the views are great and the roads are good to ride – I’m not going to spoil that by worrying about a puncture…
I stop to admire the view from the top of the final hill…
…and hear an ominous hissing. Time to exercise the plugger again…
As I wait for the compressor to do its stuff, I have a look around the bike and make a discovery…
…that’s oil leaking out of my front shock absorber.
The damper is 53k miles old and has had a hard life, so I feel it’s done its job OK. This is exactly why I fitted Öhlins in the first place – they are service items – if these were the original Showas, I’d be looking at replacing them, rather than having them repaired. I decide to get Paul in the UK to send me both my original Showa shockers over to keep me on the road. I’ll fit them this weekend, send the Öhlins off to be refurbished (the rear takes a worse hammering than the front & will almost certainly be on its way out soon). I’ll have the refettled shocks sent to a mailbox or pick them up in person, depending on my schedule, and how long the job takes.
Sufficiently reflated, I ride down into Clark Fork. I go to use the air line in a garage, only to have problems trying to get air into the tyre. It appears the valve may be standing too proud from the rim and letting air out as it flexes sideways as I apply the air line. Bugger. I ask the owner of the service station, only to find that the tyre expert is away on holiday. Double bugger. ‘Just a minute’, says the owner – and goes off to use the phone. She comes back and says she’s found someone to help me, and directs me to Don’s Service. She warns me that Don can be a bit grouchy, but actually has a heart of gold. ‘Just don’t try to pat his dog on the head, not if you ever want to ride a bike again’
. I follow the directions to Don’s place…
…where I meet Don…
Don chain-smokes Marlboros, has been riding and working on bikes for as long as I’ve been alive, and has the foulest language I’ve ever heard.
I liked everything about him.
We discuss the problem and he says ‘Spray some ****ing WD****ing40 on the ****er, then press the ****er down, that should sort the mother****er out’.
And do you know what? He was ****ing right…
We discuss the problem of the plug in the tyre. He agrees that it’s probably too big a hole, but then suggests we pressure test it. We inflate the ****er (sorry, getting into character) up to 65 psi, and it holds without a snag – we reduce the pressure to 42 – I feel reasonably confident in it now – although I’m going to avoid gravel roads, if possible, until I get the tyre changed.
We then spend some time examining Don’s collection of Harley Davidsons. This ****er is a 1939…
…with a hand gear change & foot clutch.
This one is a 1938 and, like the ’39, has a car radial tyre on the rear…
I ask how long these tyres last – ‘I don’t ****ing know – but it’s been on there eighteen ****ing years’.
Don then shows me the engine he’s been working on…
…it’s a 1941 ‘Knucklehead’, which he’s replaced all the working parts on. He’s building it for a friend who’s in prison at the moment – he’s just found out that his parole application has been turned down, so he’s got a little more time to finish it…
Don refuses any suggestion of payment ‘Hey, you did all the ****ing work’ – he’s part of a dying breed – I bet he’d have a go at just about anything mechanical in his workshop…
I’m riding across the causeway over Lake Pend Oreille, when a Idaho State Police car appears travelling in the opposite direction. Almost immediately his lights come on and I check my speed – 65 – poo – this is a 55 zone. I roll off and check the mirror – sure enough, he’s doing a U-turn. I find a suitable place and stop. State Trooper J Jaynes…
…asks me if I’d checked my speed, I admit I’d only done so when I saw him. I go through the normal (and all too familiar) routine, giving him my licence, insurance and the import documents for the Adv.
He asks me how many times I’ve been stopped since I started the trip – I tell him the truth - 4 stops. ‘How many tickets?’ I say none. ‘So, if you were doing 65 in a 55 limit in the UK, what would happen?’ I say it would depend on the mood of the traffic cop – he grins – ‘So, you’d think we were soft in Idaho if I gave you a warning’ – ‘No,’ I say, ‘I’d think you were top blokes’. ‘Okay’, he says, ‘Go a bit slower and enjoy the rest of your trip – what’s been your favourite state?’ – ‘Idaho, of course, their policemen are very understanding…’ – he laughs and wishes me well.
I stop at an Internet Café in Sandpoint and upload yesterday’s journal entry. The bored youngster working there manages to charge me $4 for 2 hrs internet time and 2 iced Lattes (the drinks alone should have cost $5). I tip heavily.
It’s a warm day and the air conditioner in the café is wheezing, but producing little in the way of cool air, so I look for accommodation as I get out of town. 3 miles down the road, my search is rewarded with the Country Inn - $37 per night including tax – excellent…
21st July
I wake feeling a little hung over – something to do with a six pack of Budweiser whilst typing up my journal last night (it was a warm night). I drag myself out of bed and pack the bike – I’m on the road at 0815.
I join Interstate 90, heading west and, almost immediately, the rear end starts a familiar squirm – I stop to find, as expected, the plug has pulled out of the rear tyre.
I quickly replace the plug and set the mini compressor to the task of re-inflating the tyre. I’m pretty sure that the problem is that the hole in the tyre is probably right at the upper limit of the size that the plugger can repair. I’m quite content to keep repairing it for now as, when it does deflate, it does so slowly and predictably.
I get back on the road and stop at the first service area. As a precaution, I replace the plug, re-inflate the tyre and then ride off, resolving to avoid gravel and dirt roads as I think the plugs may be pushed inwards by gravel.
I’ve ordered a set of tyres from SW Moto (I’m going to try Michelin Anakees, by way of a change, as they were out of front Tourances). I’m therefore loath to stop & buy a new tyre before getting to Jorge & Sheila’s on Saturday.
I carry on up the Coeur d’Alene River Road – the road which parallels, & has replaced, the little by-way I rode yesterday evening. It’s my plan to slowly make my way, over the next few days, over to Aloha by back roads like this, but I’m going to try & avoid gravel, given the state of my rear tyre.
But guess what…
…pretty soon, I pass a ‘Pavement Ends’ sign and, having checked with Betty to make sure there was no reasonable alternative route, I enter a web of forest tracks, which take me up & down through the Coeur d’Alene National Forest…
I stop regularly, to check the condition of the plug…
…which seems to be doing OK. I decide not to live in fear of what the plug decides to do – the hell with it – the views are great and the roads are good to ride – I’m not going to spoil that by worrying about a puncture…
I stop to admire the view from the top of the final hill…
…and hear an ominous hissing. Time to exercise the plugger again…
As I wait for the compressor to do its stuff, I have a look around the bike and make a discovery…
…that’s oil leaking out of my front shock absorber.
The damper is 53k miles old and has had a hard life, so I feel it’s done its job OK. This is exactly why I fitted Öhlins in the first place – they are service items – if these were the original Showas, I’d be looking at replacing them, rather than having them repaired. I decide to get Paul in the UK to send me both my original Showa shockers over to keep me on the road. I’ll fit them this weekend, send the Öhlins off to be refurbished (the rear takes a worse hammering than the front & will almost certainly be on its way out soon). I’ll have the refettled shocks sent to a mailbox or pick them up in person, depending on my schedule, and how long the job takes.
Sufficiently reflated, I ride down into Clark Fork. I go to use the air line in a garage, only to have problems trying to get air into the tyre. It appears the valve may be standing too proud from the rim and letting air out as it flexes sideways as I apply the air line. Bugger. I ask the owner of the service station, only to find that the tyre expert is away on holiday. Double bugger. ‘Just a minute’, says the owner – and goes off to use the phone. She comes back and says she’s found someone to help me, and directs me to Don’s Service. She warns me that Don can be a bit grouchy, but actually has a heart of gold. ‘Just don’t try to pat his dog on the head, not if you ever want to ride a bike again’
. I follow the directions to Don’s place…
…where I meet Don…
Don chain-smokes Marlboros, has been riding and working on bikes for as long as I’ve been alive, and has the foulest language I’ve ever heard.
I liked everything about him.
We discuss the problem and he says ‘Spray some ****ing WD****ing40 on the ****er, then press the ****er down, that should sort the mother****er out’.
And do you know what? He was ****ing right…
We discuss the problem of the plug in the tyre. He agrees that it’s probably too big a hole, but then suggests we pressure test it. We inflate the ****er (sorry, getting into character) up to 65 psi, and it holds without a snag – we reduce the pressure to 42 – I feel reasonably confident in it now – although I’m going to avoid gravel roads, if possible, until I get the tyre changed.
We then spend some time examining Don’s collection of Harley Davidsons. This ****er is a 1939…
…with a hand gear change & foot clutch.
This one is a 1938 and, like the ’39, has a car radial tyre on the rear…
I ask how long these tyres last – ‘I don’t ****ing know – but it’s been on there eighteen ****ing years’.
Don then shows me the engine he’s been working on…
…it’s a 1941 ‘Knucklehead’, which he’s replaced all the working parts on. He’s building it for a friend who’s in prison at the moment – he’s just found out that his parole application has been turned down, so he’s got a little more time to finish it…
Don refuses any suggestion of payment ‘Hey, you did all the ****ing work’
– he’s part of a dying breed – I bet he’d have a go at just about anything mechanical in his workshop…
I’m riding across the causeway over Lake Pend Oreille, when a Idaho State Police car appears travelling in the opposite direction. Almost immediately his lights come on and I check my speed – 65 – poo – this is a 55 zone. I roll off and check the mirror – sure enough, he’s doing a U-turn. I find a suitable place and stop. State Trooper J Jaynes…
…asks me if I’d checked my speed, I admit I’d only done so when I saw him. I go through the normal (and all too familiar
) routine, giving him my licence, insurance and the import documents for the Adv. He asks me how many times I’ve been stopped since I started the trip – I tell him the truth - 4 stops. ‘How many tickets?’ I say none. ‘So, if you were doing 65 in a 55 limit in the UK, what would happen?’ I say it would depend on the mood of the traffic cop – he grins – ‘So, you’d think we were soft in Idaho if I gave you a warning’ – ‘No,’ I say, ‘I’d think you were top blokes’. ‘Okay’, he says, ‘Go a bit slower and enjoy the rest of your trip – what’s been your favourite state?’ – ‘Idaho, of course, their policemen are very understanding…’ – he laughs and wishes me well.
I stop at an Internet Café in Sandpoint and upload yesterday’s journal entry. The bored youngster working there manages to charge me $4 for 2 hrs internet time and 2 iced Lattes (the drinks alone should have cost $5). I tip heavily.
It’s a warm day and the air conditioner in the café is wheezing, but producing little in the way of cool air, so I look for accommodation as I get out of town. 3 miles down the road, my search is rewarded with the Country Inn - $37 per night including tax – excellent…
