Mudflap Girl, chapter 10: http://www.bikernet.com/pages/Mudflap_Girl_FXRs_Part_10_Suspension_Tuning_and_Le_Pera_Seat.aspx
I can’t make it to Sturgis this year. We are focused Bonneville builds, like mad starving dogs, and the two events are only separated by two weeks. Ray is tuning and I still don’t have an engine, but we’ll cover that later. The engine could be running today, in Richmond, Virginia, at Departure Bike Works.
Okay, so what’s a poor bastard to do, when he planned to make the run to the Badlands with his brother Hamsters? They ride out from the West Coast every year. Some of the members, including Arlen Ness are in their 70s and riding custom Victory bikes. Some rode from Spearfish, South Dakota, out to Mammoth Lakes, California, to ride back to the Badlands with their brothers. So, what’s the least I could do? Meet them at their first stop in Mammoth, just east of Yosemite?
The good doctor has owned several motorcycles, including a 1934 VL I helped get running, but one motorcycle stuck with him, a 1989 FLH. He had clocked over 200,000 miles when he decided to rebuild it. Bennett’s Performance handled the semi-stock Harley engine (the rebuild was covered on Bikernet). With a couple of thousand miles on his rebuild, and 50 on mine, (another 80-inch semi-stock Harley engine, assembled by S&S, with headwork by Branch O’Keefe), we rolled out of Los Angeles.
About 15 million folks know rolling out of Los Angeles is the biggest challenge to any weekend excursion to someplace less congested. It’s amazing, like no-man’s land at the front of any war zone. Just try to slip out of Los Angeles on a Friday. Try to peel by noon or before. If you don’t you could be faced with serious bumper-to-bumper malady, or a lane-splitting conundrum. We recently published a report about splitting lanes and the benefits. They actually made a case for increased safety in areas supporting lane-splitting.
I’ll make one case for the freedom to split lanes, maybe two. Well actually, the published study pointed out the benefits of keeping motorcycles moving during high-congestion back-ups. My point included any rider’s sense of alertness. When splitting lanes the rider’s acute awareness is on high alert. Even while putting past a myriad of parked cars, a brother never knows what could blink, so his senses are hot wired. He or she is aware of anything that moves, from a slight wheel shift, to a nod, or a turned head.
So, I split lanes as soon as I hit the 405 freeway, off the 110, the oldest freeway in the US. It runs directly into the heart of Los Angeles, downtown, from my digs in the Port of Los Angeles. As I pulled out of Wilmington, two concerns stirred my humble sense of motorcycling comfort. First, I discovered my rear chain smacking the Spitfire hand made oil tank. There was always a bothersome noise bugging me, and I finally discovered the treacherous origin, the rear left corner of the FXR-styled, rubber-mounted oil bag.
Fortunately, the Spitfire team had welded a threaded bung into the corner, and a tab off the frame. I ran across the problem during assembly and removed the tab for more clearance, but evidently not enough. So the night before the run, I removed the chain, cleaned the threads with a tap, and made a countersunk Teflon bumper to protect the tank, but would it last? Or would the chain disintegrate my protective barrier, cut a hole in my oil tank in the middle of the Mojave Desert, dump all my oil onto the highway, seize up the engine, and leave me to be tarantula bait, after I baked under the 107-degree blistering desert sun?
I also made one final adjustment to my Wire Plus speedometer sensor stuffed into the JIMS Screamin’ Eagle over-drive 6-speed transmission. I had tried everything. I was at a strange juncture. It’s been so long not working, if it worked I would have been shocked. As I pulled away from the headquarters, I wasn’t disappointed. It still didn’t work. Now, I have another idea. I didn’t connect the wire from the sensor to the speedo wire directly, but to a connection board. Maybe a direct connection would be the trick.
Somewhere in the sizzling desert, with the afternoon sun baking my feeble skull, the notion of this road test article was spawned. The Mudflap Girl FXR contained only 50 break-in miles so far; this 700-mile jaunt would be the iron test. I had followed the Eddie Trotter break-in regime, almost to the tee. With each longer and longer ride, I returned to the headquarters to make corrections, repairs, and adjustments. It was time for the acid test, a long road into one of the hottest regions in Central California, a total round trip of perhaps 700 miles in 2.5 days. That’s a big deal for this old guy.
There I was, splitting lanes across the LA airport toward Santa Monica and the good doctor’s office, where he was leaning over his knockout secretary and adjusting a tall tattooed redhead. Tough job. Sticking around his office near the coast, with a bottle of something, would’ve made my weekend.
Oh, one more concern disturbed my peace of mind. I started to write peach. I was still with the girls in the office. I hand-made the two mounts holding the single RockShox to the girder. My mind whirled with 80mph impact, a bottoming out shock, and the stress on the mounts. Would they last or toss me into the fast lane of a crowded Los Angeles freeway? Ah, for the days when we would build a bike, smoke a joint, down a shot of whiskey and ride some half-wired together chopper across town at breakneck speeds to her house. Hell, we felt so good, it didn’t matter if we made it our not.
While parked at the good doctor’s office, I inspected my Teflon pad. It was sliced severely, in just 40 miles, but the next 40 or 100 would finalize the experiment. My shock mounts hung tough, but what about the next 100 miles? We gassed up and peeled out onto a crammed 10 Santa Monica freeway. Splitting lanes and dodging merging traffic we weaved onto the 405 Freeway. It peels over the notorious Sepulveda Pass, into the San Fernando Valley, and beyond toward the 5 Golden State, high-speed direct link from Los Angeles to the bay area and San Francisco.
We just needed to cut across the 101, to the 5 for a five-mile stretch, and then off on the 14 toward the Mojave mile airport landing strip and land speed trials location. I felt every bump and groove in the crappy road as I leaned into the fast lane and poured the coals to this 80-inch beast. It ran sweet. I set up the dual-fire, Compu-Fire ignition according to instructions, and installed the Trock modified CV carb, but never adjusted any aspect of it, except the idle.
The week before we peeled out I rode to Bennett’s Performance and Eric popped the cap off the air fuel adjustment behind the float bowl, and adjusted it—it was too lean. Trock removed the cap, so the adjustment screw was operational. I rode the bike, noticed an intermittent cough, and called Eric. He recommended backing out the needle one-quarter turn. She seemed happy, and in Mojave we refueled and checked our mileage against Christian’s trip meter. We had covered 90 miles and I reloaded with 1.82 gallons for 49.45 mpg. It pulled well in any gear, even in sixth gear. The JIMS Screamin’ Eagle Overdrive transmission shifted like butter and never missed finding neutral. I geared it slightly high for a 6-speed with a 23-tooth trans sprocket and 51 on the rear wheel.
So far, we flew along big wide freeways through the Soledad Pass, Palmdale, Lancaster, and then into Rosamond. At over 90 degrees, the freeway started to die and turn into a two-laner along-side the Pacific Crest National Trail leading into the Sequoia National Forest. It looked sorta bleak and hot to me, as I pondered the welds that held my chopped Spitfire bars together. So far, the riding position was a dream. My legs were stretched out nicely. I could move around on the very comfortable gel-impregnated Saddlemen seat with the spine relaxing channel, and just a touch of lumbar support. The bike handled well, as I adjusted to the long bike vibe.
Another rambling rural 50 miles in the desert with only rolling hills in the distance, and the 14 Highway disappeared to be replaced with the well-kept Highway 395 in Indian Wells Valley. We passed more deserted truck stops, than active ones. They were extreme sun-dried out buildings. Chipped paint was sandblasted by desert winds, and busted windows gave the dilapidated structures, gradually turning to dust a war zone appearance. I set the bike up to be a chopper for the long road, with rubber H-D pegs, old styled thick rubber Knucklehead grips, and Custom Cycle Engineering rubber-mounted traditional dogbone risers. Since the drive train was rubber-mounted, it all worked to minimize vibration.
We followed one billboard to an old gas station turned into jerky sales headquarters. It bragged “Good jerky.” It was actually so-so, and small packages were priced at nine clams. I wanted to support their sticker-scattered cause. The smiling Hispanic broad behind the counter gave me the okay to plant a Bikernet sticker on the building, yet I couldn’t cough up nine bucks, plus tax for a bag of so-so jerky. We peeled out.
Just a handful of small towns peppered the highway with reduced speed signs, some as slow as 25 mph, perhaps a fund-raising effort. We rolled into Lone Pine and the Dow Hotel, which was packed with tourists and bikers heading to Sturgis. The Dow, built in 1923, was specifically constructed to house movie crews, since a large number of westerns were shot in the region. What a roll of the dice, but it paid off. We topped off and compared notes this time. We had sliced through 111 miles and I took 2.3 gallons, for 48.3 mpg. The doctor grabbed more fuel between stops, so he crossed 38 miles and took 1.2 gallons for 31.6 mpg. He was disappointed, and we discussed options for the future.
The good doctor noticed some drops of oil on the pavement next to my bike. My oil cap isn’t correct for the screw-in bag bung, so I found a press-in rubber cap, with a small dipstick. It worked, but loosely, and a small amount of oil seeped onto the roof of the Spirfire steel oil bag, then some trickled down the right side, onto the frame and dripped onto the pavement. I pressed the oil cap deeper into place and check the oil level, and then it dawned on me. I noticed a softening in my rear GMA brake action. That was the cause.
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I checked the Teflon pad, and it didn’t indicate any more chain damage, plus the tank was well clear of the carved edge. It appeared very secure, and my shock mount held fast. Vibration was minimal, and at every stop, folks confronted me about the Mudflap girl bike, the traditional chopper appearance, and almost every onlooker said, “Is it a rigid?”
The next morning, we faced just 99 miles for our meeting with the evil Hamsters at the Westin lodge in the heart of Mammoth lakes. The roads were perfect and our 80-inch Evos purred as the elevation increased from sea level to 4000 feet, and we were expecting another 4000 thousand and more pine trees as we cut a dusty trail toward the Sierra Nevada Mountain Range, just east of Yosemite. We stopped in picturesque Bishop for breakfast, but the two hot spots were jammed. We strolled into Whiskey Junction without a problem, then rode the remaining 40 miles to the Mammoth cut-off. I was expecting winding, twisting mountain roads into the mountain/sky resort community, but it was virtually a straight shot. My memory reminded me of a similar stop the year I hit a deer inWyoming.
We didn’t pop for the high-dollar rooms, but stayed down the street at the Sierra Motel, where the doctor pointed out a concern with his front wheel. We rode up the street to hang with the Hamsters as they rolled in as early as noon. Some rode in from Spearfish, but the Bay Area contingent, including Arlen Ness chose to fight traffic in slow lanes through Yosemite National Park. They weren’t scheduled to arrive until the early evening, so we returned to our digs to take a look at his front wheel. Under the backdoor hotel overhang, we found a massive cinder block, jacked up his FLH and removed the front axle. One of the bearings demonstrated serious damage and we attempted to remove it with the help of the Hawaiian biker handyman.
We easily had enough tools between my Bandit’s bedroll and the doctor’s tool bag. Concern grew as we discussed our issue with other riders, and Ted Sands, from Performance Machine. “Did you powder coat the wheel?” Christian scored a couple of late model Twin Cam, 1-inch axle mag wheels, powder coated them, and replaced the bearings with ¾-inch axle jobs, but there was some question about the internal spacer. The spacer needed to be solid against the inside bearing race, and that didn’t seem to be the case. The left bearing demonstrated serious wear. We started to make calls.
The Mudflap Girl bike handled the roads to Mammoth extremely well, although we are hoping to step up and buy another RockShox with at least 2-inches of play and a 250-pound rated spring for testing in the future. I’m sure with the correct resources, we can make this girder ride like a Cadillac. I ran into one problem with the Mudflap girl. The left stock H-D foot peg with massive rubber padding for comfort, wanted to slip off the stem and depart. I thought this bastard wouldn’t budge, but I continually fought it.
We called for local bikes shops, but it was Saturday night and resources were limited. Christian made a run on my FXR to an auto parts and bought a jug of bearing grease, a spray can for chain-styled foam lube, and a small container of Buffalo-snot glue for my peg. I actually needed rubber cement, but gave it a shot.
“The FXR Chopper is one great looking scooter, with just the right stance to have attitude, without being obnoxious,” said the Doctor. “Everyone twists their neck when she goes by.
We operated as best we could on the doctor’s wheel but could not remove the bearing to correct the inner spacer problem. We packed that bastard full of grease and called for a U-Haul truck rental in Bishop for the next morning. The final question: Could, would, should the good doctor risk riding his Bessie down the hill? We confirmed with U-Haul; the regional office would open at 7:00 a.m. The Bishop franchise opened at 8:00 a.m., and a 14- foot box truck was available with a ramp. We would need to score a batch of tie-downs.
We returned to the Westin to hang with our brothers, Buckshot, a Bikernet and Thunder Press contributor, and Marilyn Stemp, the editor of Iron Works. That’s when Ted Sands told us about the drawbacks of powder-coating the interior of late model hubs and the impact on bearing spacers—bad news. I rode the FLH, and it rattled like marbles in an empty tin can, but I didn’t sense any grinding in the bearings. I didn’t want to make a recommendation. This had to be his call. Then I mentioned the 40-mile distance to Bishop. He was thinking 100 miles to Lone Pine.
By the way, we gassed in Mammoth for another 98 mile run. My bike was feeling the pain of reduced oxygen at 8,000 feet, and the night would drop to 41 degrees, but she still ran well. I struggled to squeeze the nozzle into my tank and loaded it with 2.5 gallons (39.2 mpg), and the doctor refueled with 3.2 gallons (30 mpg). He will look into a jetting change for his S&S carb.
As we hit the hay, the doctor decided to attempt the slow ride to Bishop. We set the alarm for 6:30 and tried to sleep.
The weather was amazing, just a tad cool in the morning as the sun slipped between pine needles to warm the streets. We packed and rolled down the hill to the first coffee shop. We were gassed and ready for the 40-mile delicate, risky ride to Bishop, a town of 5,000 along 395 just below Mount Whitney, the highest mountain in the continental United States. We were so focused on surviving the Bishop run, we didn’t think about the cool breeze, my wandering peg rubber, or any distraction. I’m sure Christian was as tense as an over-tightened drive chain as we rolled serenely down the mountainside onto 395 south at 45 mph.
“Going 40 miles down the hill towards Bishop was a bit nerve wrecking, since the bearings were grinding and clackering like marbles in a bag being tossed on the ground!” Said the doctor.
The good doctor rode almost 20 miles, his hands, like vice-grips on his bars waiting for the bearings to scream and spit from their housing. The hefty front mag would wobble, then lock against the twin Performance Machine 4-piston front brakes and scream for relief, maybe locking up and tossing the doctor and his gear in the weeds. I asked him to ride on the right for easy access off the road, just in case.
“But after about 20 miles the sounds and noises started to be less and less,” said the doctor. “Once we got to Bishop it had subsided 80%!!!!!”
We arrived right on time, and spotted a women in the U-Haul yard. “They don’t open until 11:00.” Her husband arrived and confirmed the bad news. Disillusioned, we rumbled into town for a hearty breakfast at Jack’s and made a number of phone calls. If we could make it to Mojave, we could find another U-Haul, but then we would only be 100 miles from home. The Doctor could ask his girl to meet us there with a trailer. He called U-Haul, bitched and sought alternatives. None were forthcoming.
We said, “Fuck it,” and kept rolling. With each 50 miles, his confidence grew, but we remained at a mild pace of 60 mph, them 65. I finally got fed up with my spinning peg rubber and pulled off the side of the road and strapped it down with tie-wraps, pulling them damn tight.
“Do you want to cinch them down with a pair of pliers?” said the good doctor.
“Nah,” I responded. “We’re good to go.”
Yeah right. The sonuvabitch still squirmed and tried to escape. At the final refueling stop in Mojave, I broke out the pliers and pulled those tie-wraps as hard as I could. The bastard never moved again.
The doctor, comfortable with his FLH, resigned himself to flying into LA by himself. I would cut off at the 210 and dodge the rough, jagged, concrete 405, heading directly into one of the most congested intersections and construction zones in Los Angeles, the 101 junction, over the Sepulveda Pass to the 10 Santa Monica interchange. I could fly into the city on the foothill freeway against the San Gabriel Mountains into Glendale, cut south on the Glendale freeway for just 10 miles and pick up the 5 for one mile before I jumped onto the 110 south directly to my door through downtown Los Angeles.
As I peeled off the 5 at the 210, Christian gave me a final thumbs up and rolled into congestion for just another couple of miles, then cut off at the 405. It was just about 3:00, the bewitching hour, before a city of half-drunk yahoos, talking on cell phones and playing grab-ass with their girlfriends, headed home from barbecues, weekend camping beer-soaked outings, cantinas, bars, ballgames, you name it. This is the most notorious crew of inexperienced drivers, on unfamiliar freeways, buzzed, and distracted, heading home after too much fun. This group of millions, in tin overseas boxes and SUVs, with stereos blasting, is in contrast to commuter traffic, made up of professional, daily migrants, who know every inch of their incessant trips back and forth to work.
Both Christian and I have ridden LA freeways for over 35 years. We both rolled into our respective digs within 20 minutes of each other and checked in. Within an hour and after my first Jack on the rocks, I wrote some compliments and foreword thinking thoughts to Paul Cavallo, the Spitfire master, and he immediately responded:
“Hey brother, good to hear from you. Glad you had a great ride,” Paul wrote. “I have you covered on the oil cap. I just finished up a re-design on the girder trees that eliminates the shoulder bolts. I will update yours to the new gear.
“Bill Dodge rode his out from Kentucky for Born Free, and loved the ride, but after a 5,600 mile round trip, those little thrust washers wore thin. I doubled the strength of all of the pivot components, and machined pivot pins into the trees, and cross bars. I even designed a retro kit for all of the existing front ends.”
We discussed RockShox with increased travel, and I also mention raked trees for better cornering. The more you rake a bike, the more it wants to go straight, which hinders cornering. Bikers generally love to corner, and I discovered, with my blue flame that even a chopper can corner with adjusted frame geometry.
“When I update your front end, I will give you 3, and 6-degree links for it,” said Paul in his response. “The girder is so easy to change the rake on.”
There you have it. The first 700-mile distance test of our Mudflap Girl FXR. Scooter Tramp Scotty is right on: Evos Rule and Choppers never die.
Spitfire
D&D Exhaust
Biker’s Choice
JIMS Machine
MetalSport
BDL/GMA
Wire Plus
Branch O’Keefe
Bennett’s Performance
Custom Cycle Engineering
Saddlemen
Progressive Suspension
