The Man Who Fell To Earth...

Do you remember a guy that's been In such an early song: By the time I fell to Earth British artist David Robert Jones (aka David Bowie) was already 25 years old and had released five studio albums and over a dozen non-album singles. I was obviously unaware that Major Tom had already circled the skies in his tin can, and that Ziggy Stardust—that Rock 'n Roll Bitch—had both risen and fallen. Oh, what I was missing in my first few years...

I've heard a rumour from Ground Control, Oh no, don't say it's true: By the time I had crawled awkwardly to middle school and had developed a small interest in popular music, another eleven Bowie albums had filled the airwaves from America to Japan. Bowie was larger than life, had changed his persona multiple times, and had impacted the musical world massively before I had shaved for the first time. Beyond owning the 1983 album Let's Dance, and an excellent 1976 compilation album Changesonebowie, I had little interest in the more expansive Bowie. I hadn't learned to look back to the music of my elders for the greats that would influence me so much later in  life. My friend Tom Fenselau was wiser and was a bigger fan of Bowie—I was more interested in his step-brother's collection of skate-punk and hard-core. Although I passed quickly through an electronic pop phase in the mid-80s, I quickly turned toward harder fare such as the Sex Pistols, REM, Misfits, Joy Division, Bauhaus, Dead Kennedy's etc. Any chance for discovering a musically stalled out Bowie, or rediscovering his back catalogue, was remote at the time...

They got a message from the Action Man, "I'm happy. Hope you're happy, too...: By the time I was ready to graduate high school I had smoothed off my rougher edges, given up a somewhat self-destructive lifestyle, changed out many of my friends (even found a few really old ones I had ignored for too long), and had begun to open myself to new things, including new music. At the same time this transformation was taking place Rykodisc Records began reissuing the Bowie catalogue starting with Space Oddity (1969) and finishing with Scary Monsters (And Super Creeps) (1980). Major Tom, featured in both "Space Oddity" and "Ashes to Ashes" become the bookends of the Rykodic collection. The headers of this post are the lyrics from "Ashes to Ashes" by the way...

...I've loved. All I've needed: love. Sordid details following.": Bowie decided to retire the songs featured on the Rykodic releases with the 21 Country 4 Continent Sound+Vision tour in the summer and fall of '90, playing the Merriweather Post Pavilion (my neck of the woods) in July. It was something else. It was a "best of" concert that could have felt tired coming from a rocker who was hitting mid-carrier with little new material in years. It wasn't. The energy was intoxicating; the crowd diverse; the night, perfect. My best friend at the time, Tom O'Neil, and I had been eagerly acquiring all the rereleases, and the concert served as a perfect introduction to the real Bowie, twenty years after the fact. With nearly 20,000 in attendance, I still felt like I was in a small venue, right in the presence of greatness rediscovering himself...

The shrieking of nothing is killing me, Just pictures of Jap girls in synthesis: I maintained my love of Bowie from that point on, reveling in each new phase of his ever-changing career. I smiled when he toured with Nine Inch Nails for his Outside (1995) tour and gloried as he experimented with British jungle on Earthling (1997), In the new millennium Bowie returned to his roots and recorded Heathen (2002) which was delightfully refreshing and clean—a return to The Man Who Sold the World sound. I am not ready to review the recent and last Bowie album, Backstar (2016), as Bowie's death is still clouding my objective reaction to it...

And I ain't got no money and I ain't got no hair, But I'm hoping to kick but the planet is glowing: Owing to his ever changing personality and experimentation with dramatically different sounds, it is hard to pick a "best" album or song. I have been toying with what sort of review I might offer to the non-Bowie fan about where to start to discover why his fans are so devoted. I return over and over again to the beginning few years: not Bowie's British beginnings (The Laughing Gnome era), but rather two years later when he first introduced himself to America, changing his name from Davy Jones to David Bowie, and introducing us to Major Tom in the era of the cold-war space race...

Ashes to ashes, funk to funky, We know Major Tom's a junkie, Strung out in heaven's high, Hitting an all-time low...: From 1969 to 1972 Bowie recorded four of his career twenty-seven studio albums. Although Space Oddity (1969) and The Man Who Sold the World (1970) are amazing, I find the transition from Hunky Dory (1971) to The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars (1972) to be representative of Bowie at his greatest. These albums were the ones that I was most interested in calling up my friend Tom and talking for hours about how amazing each track was. We were so excited to be hearing this stuff from our infancy. I offer two clips below, the first, "Life on Mars" from Hunky Dory: Surreal, kooky, and wonderful—one of my favorite Bowie songs. The second clip is the album opener "Five Years" from Ziggy Stardust. One of the best album starts in my collection, I think. Enjoy...

RIP David Robert Jones

Fire and Water...

Finding a way to see things differently: We all have filters with which we process the things that happen to us, near us, with us. Although our filters are most often similar to those around us, we nonetheless perceive reality each in our own way. The shared experience allows for a conversation among those who were there, but variations of the story still exists as each participant sees different parts, focuses on different meanings, shares different aspects of the story.

When we gather together to share our experiences with those who were not present, the story becomes an amalgamation of the different filtered moments, and if there is a universal truth contained in the telling (and there usually is), the story is enjoyed by those who were not present for the experience.

It takes the wise ones among us to help us change out our filters, to shift our perception, to gain understanding despite what we think we know. It is the sages who lead us through the lost places—the dark corners where we cannot see—to where we can continue to perceive the light... in the light. The stories of the sages are often the best ones...

That said, I offer a simple little moment about shared experience and a slight shift of perception: Here is a comic by Kelly Angel about seeing things differently than conventional wisdom would have us think. If I might offer some advice here, don't over-think it. It's cute...

Tank to transit system... and authentic sound...

The insides looked like turn of the century sewer pipe.

"Be it no concern, point of no return- Go forward in reverse - This I will recall - Every time I fall - I'm free - Setting forth in the universe - Out here realigned - A planet out of sight - Nature drunk and high - Oh I'm free - I'm free..." --Eddie Vedder:
I want to hear the engine on my 1974 Honda CB360 run. There's no need for gears, brakes, and lights at this point. I just need first to hear it choke a bit, perhaps to growl, and if I am lucky... purr. It will be a first step, a hopeful step, to move me to where I can feel the wind in my hair...

"An injured lion still wants to roar." --Randy Pausch: There is something lovely (some would say "sexy", but I am not sure I concur) about the sound of a well tuned engine. It's the sound of metal moving/clicking in a synched rhythm that makes for a complicatedly layered sound experience. It does not need to be loud for me, just rhythmic, harmonic...

Fakery: Good engine noise holds such an allure for some that new, more efficient (and still powerful), quieter engines have sound "piped" in for the driver to hear:

Fake engine noise has become one of the auto industry’s dirty little secrets, with automakers from BMW to Volkswagen turning to a sound-boosting bag of tricks. Without them, today’s more fuel-efficient engines would sound far quieter and, automakers worry, seemingly less powerful, potentially pushing buyers away. 

Softer-sounding engines are actually a positive symbol of just how far engines and gas economy have progressed. But automakers say they resort to artifice because they understand a key car-buyer paradox: Drivers want all the force and fuel savings of a newer, better engine — but the classic sound of an old gas-guzzler. 

“Enhanced” engine songs have become the signature of eerily quiet electrics such as the Toyota Prius. But the fakery is increasingly finding its way into beefy trucks and muscle cars, long revered for their iconic growl. 

For the 2015 Mustang EcoBoost, Ford sound engineers and developers worked on an “Active Noise Control” system that amplifies the engine’s purr through the car speakers. Afterward, the automaker surveyed members of Mustang fan clubs on which processed “sound concepts” they most enjoyed. --Washington Post

Scrubbed clean of almost all internal corrosion.

Analog, not digital: When my CB360 runs, the sound will be authentic. It will not be deep like a Harley; it's a small-guy bike. It should sound and feel exactly like the time it is from, the early '70s. Attitude will trump muscle and feel like Steve McQueen looks in The Great Escape. The sound will speak to me in slap/tap/click. And I will listen patiently... Once we get it to run, then we can attend to the niceties of shifting, and stopping, and seeing in the dark...

Someday...: Therefore, eventually, I will need the pistons to move and compress, and plugs to spark brightly, and fuel to be mixed properly with the right amounts of air. But before we attend to all this (and it is in the works already in Kevin's garage) I need to establish the most simple of elements, a reservoir to hold my fuel and a transit system to deliver the fuel to the carburetor (where the cool stuff starts happening)...

Plastic Liner Product

“ANYTHING will burn with enough gasoline and dynamite.” ― Robert A. Heinlein: The 2.9 gallon fuel tank was filled with rotten gas and gobs of flakey rust when I brought it home. The long story of cleaning the tank takes place over weeks of treatment with different acids, abrasives, shaking, sloshing, and back-wrenching tank gyrations. It is about frustration and a worry that "no tank" means "no bike" and therefore a dream deferred. A new tank can run hundred of dollars (not a number range to be uttered near the "project bike" budget-meisters).  The shorter story of cleaning the tank goes like this: after several vinegar soaks with sheet rock screws for shaking agitation, "Iron Out" with pea gravel as an agitator and funny looking lint-trap brushes for scrubbing, and an unknown "etcher" chemical that most likely causes cancer if ingested (only in California though), the tank came clean. The end. 

Clean Kreem: We finished the tank clean-up and restoration process with repeated applications of a plastic lining product called Kreem. Impervious to all fuels and man-made products except Methyl-ethyl-death, the Kreem liner should keep my 42 year old dented fuel tank doing its job well for the rest of the bike's life. The total cost of all acids, chemicals, and liners came in under $75. Add to that a new gas-cap gasket to replace the completely rotten old one and... hope restored.

Dirty Petcock

"That's been one of my mantras - focus and simplicity. Simple can be harder than complex: You have to work hard to get your thinking clean to make it simple. But it's worth it in the end because once you get there, you can move mountains." --Steve Jobs: The second part of the tank clean up was to address the petcock (fuel cock) valve that drops from the underside of the tank, allowing fuel to be pulled from the tank to the carburetors. It is a simple device with two intakes, one for regular operation, and one for low-fuel "reserve" operation. The latter is a screened tube that offers an initial filter to keep any tank-junk from getting into the combustion system. There is a second, finer filter that treats all fuel leaving these two inlets before moving through separate fuel lines to the dual-carbs. Not a complicated device, but essential that it can filter the fuel and allow it to flow properly. This was a job for a can of parts cleaner solvent. 

The 350 and 360 parts both clean but with no reserve filter.

Oh, to be clean: There's nothing like taking a long soaking bath in something that strips away all the gunk that years of use and neglect can cause... The same can be said of motorcycle parts. Parts cleaner solvent made quick work of all the rust, grime, caked fuel... everything... including any "shine" that was left on the metal. And the old part still looks aged, but no longer gross. Simple and functioning. Beautiful...

Old is sometimes better than new: In addition to my CB360 (blue) tank, I have a CB350 (orange) tank that is locked shut, and filled with more shellack and rust than air. Thus I have two petcocks and hoped between the two of them I might get one really nice restored one. A new fuel valve of this type costs $35. So if I am able to get the old ones happy, I save a little money to put toward rubber or cables, and I keep the 1974 look on one more part on this bike...

Clean, working, filtered petcock.

A little creative thinking: The reserve level filter was completely destroyed in the cleaning process. It is part of the unibody construction on the original so there are no spare parts out there. I scoured the interwebs for makeshift push-in plastic strainers that might work... to no avail. Small engine fuel filters that had nipples the right size were too bulbous above. I needed a straight line with mesh construction. The answer lay in a roll pin hammered into the old filter hole and a need for something to keep the gunk from getting into the fuel line. Kevin, my primary guide in this bike repair, helped with a small circular mesh screen that he artfully folded to cap over the roll pin. A little solder and my filter was all set. $10 of new fuel line and eventually an inline filter for added protection and the tank-to-carburetor part of the project is done. No profound symbolism here. No deep understanding of life beyond the simple, clean need to bring fuel from a reservoir to power the machine that takes the man down the road to keep wind in his hair. Onward to the moving parts...

It was born in the last quarter of the Internal Combustion Century...

"Each machine has its own, unique personality which probably could be defined as the intuitive sum total of everything you know and feel about it": We love to anthropomorphize our means of conveyance... give them names, attribute quirky characteristics to them, talk to them as if they can actually hear us... It's human to look for the humanness in other things around us, in the things we make sometimes in part of our own image. And it is in our mechanical machines that we invest so much of our efforts. It's hard not to be a little in awe of the simple complexities of our machines that were born of our cleverness and desire to create. Somewhere between the horse drawn cart and the self driving cars of today lies my 1974 Honda CB360. In my head it rolls, it conveys, it consumes, it breaths... It does have electronic components, but no circuit boards. It does have gears, and I have to shift them. It might move forward, but only if I roll the throttle and giggle a little at how cool that feels... All the "thinking" done in the engine is mechanical. It is just complex enough that I am overwhelmed by my 170 page shop manual and all the systems it describes, and just simple enough that wrenches, screwdrivers, pliers, and hammers will be most of the tools I need to make it run again...

No, my motorcycle doesn't have a name yet. I do not talk to it, nor does it have the ability to exhibit any personality traits as it sits dormant and noiseless. But I have found myself telling people that I wish to "breathe life" back into... (why do I keep thinking "her"?). The keychain that arrived with the bike was from the owner before the owner that I obtained the bike from. (Its history will be looked into if I can get it running.) That keychain from the 80s that accompanied the bike reads "Joe". Maybe my bike's name can be Joe. We'll have to wait and see...

"We’re in such a hurry most of the time we never get much chance to talk. The result is a kind of endless day-to-day shallowness, a monotony that leaves a person wondering years later where all the time went and sorry that it’s all gone": So I have a support team helping me, and videos on-line, and books on the shelf, and pages and pages and pages of shop manual... but at the center of this project is my friend Kevin. It's Kevin's garage, Kevin's tools, Kevin's patience, and Kevin's knowhow that is making my project feel possible... probable. I take direction from Kevin. I have relied on Kevin tremendously already. He clearly is the master-wrench in this relationship, and I his novice-apprentice. We get to talk while we turn our wrenches. We get to find the moment that lies between what happened and what might yet be. The moments just are, and for that I am grateful for them. For that I am grateful for Kevin. "Where do we start?" Answer: the engine. If we can't get the engine to run, there is no reason to invest in chains, pads, wiring, shocks, rubber, etc. Let's not worry about those things until we tackle the engine first. Start with the heart of the machine...

So I removed the seat (and made note that the lock needed to be fixed, and maybe a new cover for the cushion), removed the petcock (which had rock-hard cracked and brittle hosing and needed a serious cleaning), and pulled the gas tank (which smelled of shellac and was crazy-flakey with rust). I took off the air filters, loosened the battery cage, and removed the carburetors. All stripped of these parts, my motorcycle looks bare and kinda cool nonetheless. I was eager to play with replacing and repairing these parts, but we had to start with the engine...

"A motorcycle functions entirely in accordance with the laws of reason, and a study of the art of motorcycle maintenance is really a miniature study of the art of rationality itself": Kevin has the gauge one uses to check for the pressure created when the piston pushes up in the cylinder. If there is no compression, the seals (or worse) are broken and the engine would need to be opened and worked on. With a good compression test, we could bypass work on the engine and move on to other parts of the bike. The good news was that we got a 150 psi test in the right cylinder. The shop manual says a compression of 170 psi is perfect. 150 will do. The bad news was that we found that the left spark plug was the wrong size and the threads were stripped. No spark then no ignition. No ignition then no heartbeat. No heartbeat then no life... I felt a splash of anxiety rise and a little hope lost as I imagined my inexpensive project either spilling into costs I could not justify, or ending prematurely... Kevin quietly took over, patiently explained his processing, and for the next hour and some, carefully worked a properly sized plug in and out of the damaged threaded hole... successfully!

To have a combustive moment in the engine there needs to be a properly portioned mix of air (O2) and Fuel (C8H18) compressed and sparked. The fuel drops from the tank through the petcock (a valve and strainer) to the carburetors. Air is pulled in through the air filters to the carburetors, and the mix passes into the cylinder where the spark plug lights off the mix. The explosive force is captured by parts in the engine to drive the chain, which rotates the tires, and moves the man down the road with wind in his hair and a smile on his face...

So by the end of the first week or so we had the dirty petcock in the parts bath for cleaning, the tank filled with acidic vinegar to start removing rust and shellac, carburetor rebuild kits ordered and on their way, and new plugs in an engine that had whispered just a little at 150 psi...


Quotes from Robert M. Pirsig's Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance: An Inquiry Into Values

And so I acquired a motorcycle...

“The Master says: At 15, I set my heart on learning. At 30 I know where I stand (my character has been formed). At 40, I have no more doubts, at 50, I know the will of Heaven, at 60 my ears are attuned (i.e. my moral sense is well-developed), at 70, I follow my heart’s desire without crossing the line (without breaking moral principles).” --Master Kung

I have no more doubts: So I am in my 40s and I still have doubts, a lot of doubts. I may be behind on Confucius' time table toward the wisdom achieved with old age, but I am making progress. I feel I am touching upon the territory where wisdom lies, but understanding it is still a ways off. By understanding I mean engaging the wisdom I have in my life beyond a mere intellectual knowledge of it. Such is the life of reflection and getting older I guess...

1974 Honda CB360: Dormant but not dead.

I know the will of Heaven: And so in December I acquired a motorcycle... I am a computer nerd with a long love of sci-fy and a new found love of graphic novels. I am a game player who has been on one video game system or another since Pong was eating cathode ray tube TVs. I love to take things apart and try to put them back together, but I have never learned to turn a wrench on anything other than to adjust the brakes on my 10 speed Raleigh Technium 440 in high school. When I moved from the city to the country in '99 I had never started a generator or run a chain saw. My dad's lawn mower and weed whacker were the only small engines I had ever used and had no clue how to service them. I joined a fire department after 9/11/01(where we use a lot of motorized tools) and had to explain how I could be so experienced at cleaning up a hacked computer but didn't understand what a choke was. It's been a steep learning curve. And so in December 2015 I acquired a 1974 Honda CB360 (and a partner CB350 in parts for parts) motorcycle that has been sitting in a garage for over a decade. God knows how long it has been since it actually ran. I'm told this is what people call a "project bike"...

CB350 in parts in the dirt floor garage with a leaky roof.

My ears are attuned: I know what I do not know! A month ago I knew nothing about four stroke engines, drum brakes, dual carburetors, or alternators. I didn't know that master cylinders have slaves, and I would have thought a trochoid oil pump was a made-up term to make people like me feel they should not even question other statements such as if the boots need replacing or if the suspension is adequate for 150 pounds. I knew I needed guidance before engaging in this journey. I sought council from many, and have read online forum threads, and I have downloaded manuals. I have talked to students who have become experts and I purchased Zen and Art of Motorcycle Maintenance (to be started as soon as I finish Heller's Catch-22). I've lined up a team and dove right in despite the dropping temperatures and the prospect of working in an unheated dirt floor garage with no tools...

Naked without it's Rusty Gas Tank and Ripped Unhinged Seat

I follow my heart’s desire without crossing the line: And the planets aligned... and fortune found me... and the gremlins were warded off... A friend offered me better garage space with tools and guidance... My wife has encouraged me to find my way to my dreams and bought me some guardian bells to ward off the evils that can harm motorcycles and their riders... My father even called me from his New Year's festivities with advice from his friend on gas tank restoration. And so I am embarking on an adventure and am learning something new. I have guides to help me, fans to cheer me on, and I have a life-long desire to ride a motorcycle... to make me want to breath life back into a piece of dead parts from 1974... to eventually ride cooly up the street on something tinkered with and valued despite its dents and rust. New parts added to an old frame with an engine at the heart which still has all the goods despite being neglected for far too long. How's that for a metaphor?...

Guardian Bell, Joe's (?) Space Shuttle Keychain, 1974 CB360 Key

At 15, I set my heart on learning: When I was 15 I had not yet set my heart on anything much beyond my own appetite and ego. I was able to set my heart upon learning several years later while in college, when I also found my best friend (and later wife)... I have been learning since... and growing... and have grown proud of my progress as a learner. By the time I was in my early 30s I had started a family with roots and perhaps knew where I should be standing even when I wasn't fully sure of where I stood... So although I still have doubts in my early 40s, perhaps I am not too far behind Master Kung's timetable... the bike is just a project... the bike is just a metaphor... the bike is just a dream... But for keeps I am listening for the will of Heaven, attuning my ears, and readying myself to follow my heart's desire...