Friday, July 29, 2011
Wednesday, July 27, 2011
Tuesday, July 26, 2011
The bug rant...
“…So folks, it certainly is buggy out there today….(crowd yells in unison – and how buggy is it Johnny?…
Well it’s so buggy I had to upgrade my tennis zapper from lithion–ion to fuel-cell to pocket nuclear fusion to naked singularity...
It’s so buggy the deer flies sucked the bambis' down to venison jerky…
It's so buggy my pet echnida had to go in for lap band surgery..
It’s so buggy the mosquitos buzzing in my ear gave me tinnitus..
It’s so buggy that when IBM tried a point data cloud scan of the flying object around my head…Watson went up in smoke..
It’s so buggy every runtime compiler on the planet has decided to interpret instead...
It’s so buggy the salient feature of my landscaping is a sand trap filled with Terra ant-killer granules...
It’s so buggy the truck rolling down my driveway is not because the brakes failed— the ants are carting it off for candy in the glovebox...
It’s so buggy the spiders have come down with type II diabetes and have to jog around their webs…
….poof…
Well it’s so buggy I had to upgrade my tennis zapper from lithion–ion to fuel-cell to pocket nuclear fusion to naked singularity...
It’s so buggy the deer flies sucked the bambis' down to venison jerky…
It's so buggy my pet echnida had to go in for lap band surgery..
It’s so buggy the mosquitos buzzing in my ear gave me tinnitus..
It’s so buggy that when IBM tried a point data cloud scan of the flying object around my head…Watson went up in smoke..
It’s so buggy every runtime compiler on the planet has decided to interpret instead...
It’s so buggy the salient feature of my landscaping is a sand trap filled with Terra ant-killer granules...
It’s so buggy the truck rolling down my driveway is not because the brakes failed— the ants are carting it off for candy in the glovebox...
It’s so buggy the spiders have come down with type II diabetes and have to jog around their webs…
….poof…
Monday, July 25, 2011
Sunday, July 24, 2011
Thursday, July 21, 2011
Sunday, July 17, 2011
Saturday, July 16, 2011
Friday, July 15, 2011
Thursday, July 14, 2011
Tuesday, July 12, 2011
Monday, July 11, 2011
Sunday, July 10, 2011
Friday, July 8, 2011
ROADBURNER
The rise and fall of the British motorcycle in America
There was a time in America when many people championed a certain kind of motorcycle. They eagerly bought them by the thousands. They avidly rode in them in squadrons. They immersed themselves. It was a magnificent obsession that rivaled that of today’s internet surfer, day trader, marathoner.
But it was also a craze apart. For this movement did not center on heavyweight cruisers – American built or inspired. This was no Harley mystique. Instead, it espoused motorcycles imported from an unlikely homeland – the British Isles. And instead of today’s selection of smooth, sophisticated, streamlined cycles, this was a lean, hairy horde. It was populated by dozens of obscure, colorful, tempestuous types. Their unique, often quixotic designs became overnight classics. Their brand names drew from a rich palette of English ancestry – Celtic lore, Greek mythology, Norman influences, Anglican pride. They demanded a commitment and an involvement that was embracing, endearing, even enthralling.
From the late nineteen forties to the mid nineteen seventies, a cult of enthusiasts bought, rode, indeed lived these British bikes. As a group they earned the endearing nickname of “Brit iron”. And, for a quarter century they appeared on these shores in a profusion and variety never seen before or since. It was truly a golden age for all things with two wheels and a Union Jack on the gas tank.
Yet now, just thirty years later, the classic British motorcycle has largely vanished from the roads and the minds of America. One by one, fabled brands that had persisted for most of the century fell by the way side within a few short years. The story of their rise and fall of is a slice of life from the tumult wrought by worldwide war on the economics, culture and technology of all participants.
The First British Invasion
War set the stage for the ascendancy of the British motorcycle. And its ambassador was none other than the American G.I. For, with Europe occupied and the Pacific empty of land, the British Isles were our home-away-from-home for most of World War Two. Conscripted and dispatched to the European Theatre of Operations, many American soldiers spent their leaves in England. There, they encountered a kind of motorcycle most had never seen before.
At the time, the domestic offerings from Harley Davidson and Indian were large, cumbersome and utilitarian. They rolled on heavily-fendered, large sectioned tires. Their wide footboards and low ground clearances inhibited spirited cornering. Their hand-shifting and foot gear engagement relied on a rube-goldberg assortment of linkages and awkward assists. These were arrangements that gave rise to well-earned nicknames like “suicide clutch” and “mousetrap”. Suspensions were similarly primitive – sprung seat, rigid rear, springer front forks. For the most part, these American motorcycles looked and rode like the farm implements they often shared a barn with.
The motorcycles encountered in England were a startling, refreshing change. They were light and agile to handle the curvy roads of the English countryside. Trim, thin aluminum fenders and svelte tubular stays replaced cobby steel mudguards. Foot shifters and cable-operated hand clutch controls made gear changes lightning fast – a snick instead of a clunk. Tall sporting tires and fully damped hydraulic suspensions converted sportive riding from an impossibility to a pure pleasure. And their engines were the centerpiece. Novel layouts ranged from one to four cylinders in sloping, transverse, inline and even square configurations. Heavily developed to increase power and reliability, they bristled with technical innovations like aluminum cylinder heads, aircraft-like high camshafts, and one carburetor for each cylinder. In short, Americans discovered the charm of British design, craftsmanship and industry. It was the same national mindset that gave the world the revered Spitfire aircraft and Jaguar automobile. It was form-follows-function applied to two wheels. And as G.I.’s and then civilians returning stateside, Americans took to it in droves.
In the 1950's and 60's this whole stampede of steel stallions roamed American roads. For this era was the heyday of the big British roadburner. The same innovation, industry and intrepidity (!?) that won the Battle of Britain in World War II now benefited riders worldwide. Out of factories, workshops and assembly plants from "across the pond" came a rich profusion (like proliferation, like confusion, only more!) of English motorcycles. These machines had designs that looked like miniature oil refineries -- intricate, precise, complex. And the fact that some leaked like same only added to their appeal.
For, riding British consumed endless happy hours of weekend wrenching, tinkering and jigger-pokery. It meant your mount excreted a macho oil dropping wherever it had been -- like a wolf marking its territory.
It gave riders an opportunity to snivel good naturedly about Brit bike electrics. Whereas we American Joe Hunt was praised as the "sultan of spark", riders reviled Englishman Lucas as the "prince of darkness."
Between Brit and Harley riders, mutual insults of "hawg" and "limey" were exchanged so often that the terms became endearing nicknames instead. Magneto ignitions made that rare first-kick start especially sweet. And, the names on the gas tanks of these vintage vehicles had magic to match: Ariel; AJS; BSA; Matchless; Norton; Panther; Triumph; Vincent-HRD; and more.
VINCENT -- VICIOUS & REVERED
Among the big boisterous British family of motorcycles in the post war era, there was a black sheep brand. It was expensive, difficult to operate, demanding to maintain and exceedingly powerful. Its followers approached it with a reverence that bordered on religion. Its design sparkled with quirky, quixotic details in spades. In short, the Vincent HRD ( and later, simply Vincent) was the ne plus ultra of all British bikes. And the Vincent factory at Stevenage, Herts., U.K., did little to dispel the image. The dubbed their models with dark, dangerous sounding monikers like "Black Shadow, Black Lightning, Black Prince." The Lightning was rarest and fastest of all, literally a factory-built racer with oodles of special goodies. Very few were built, but clever Vincent aficionados upgraded their standard bikes with those special parts, giving rise to the description of "White Lightning" - truly a wolf in lighter sheep's cloak!.
Doing the ton, or exceeding 100 miles per hour, was the standard of excellence for most British motorcycles. Vincents, on the other hand, effortlessly topped 125, right off the showroom floor. And with a few modifications available from the factory, Vincents set records in the 150 miles per hour range. In tacit recognition, some later models came equipped with a gargantuan speedometer five inches high. The 998cc twin cylinder engine was so potent it could fly literally, for it successfully powered an aircraft drone known as the Picador. The two cylinders were arranged in a "vee " configuration, one behind the other.Each motorcycle was assembled by small teams of dedicated workers, virtually by hand. In a throwback to times before the industrial revolution, parts were specially selected to fit their mating parts. Alas, this glorious and quixotic marque fell to earth in 1955 when the company went out of business. But happily today, bolstered by an active and worldwide Vincent HRD Owners Club (voc.uk.com) and a dedicated cadre of parts suppliers, these dark and ancient monsters still breath fire on many a beckoning curvy country road. Don't blink or you'll miss them!
ROYAL ENFIELD -- THE QUINTESSENTIAL ROAD BURNER
In the heyday of the big British roadburners, the Royal Enfield was one of the biggest and baddest vertical twins to hit American macadam. It always near the peak of the pack in pure performance. Their models carried handles like Bullet, Interceptor, Meteor -- and their speed made you think you were riding one.Yet throughout most of the fifties, this marque was virtually unknown in the colonies. It was sold under the Indian name after the demise of domestic designs from this brand — and did a not-too-shabby job of filling in. While other British bikes with two vertical cylinders (side by side) of the day gave you 600cc (Norton) or 650cc (Triumph or BSA) as the standard of performance, the 1958 Enfield came out of the crate with almost 700 cubes (692cc, actually), a tall, long-stroke engine with massive cylinder-head finning and skimpy exhaust muffling that made it look and sound twice as big. That big stroker twin cylinder motor with stump-pulling torque made low-end acceleration the Enfield's strong point. At the time, only a Harley Sportster could match it over the length of a city block, and in the quarter-mile few stock bikes could touch it.
And the Enfield was as reliable as it was fast. Main bearings in the engine were huge (3 11/16 inches in diameter, as I recall). Both heads and cylinders were separated into individual left and right castings to promote cooling and reduce distortion in the head-gasket area. But the main reason for the Royal Enfield's superiority was that much of it was actually the product of an aircraft company, Enfield Precision Engineers, Limited. The engine was produced in a factory carved out of solid rock hundreds of feet below Coventry, England, the same factory that had built complex multi-row radial engines for the RAF's fight-ers during World War II. The factory was buried not only for protection from Nazi bombing, but also because the consistent below-ground temperature made it easier to hold tight tolerances on engine parts.
In 1958, the Royal Enfield finally came out of the closet, as far as the United States was concerned, wearing its own badge on the tank sides. (Before that it had been imported through the Indian Motorcycle Company and had sported the Indian label.) The engines were soon enlarged to 736cc, with higher compression ratios for high-octane American gas, and finally dual carburetors in the fearsome Interceptor model. Detail improvements continued, culminating in the introduction of the Series II engine in 1970 that incorporated an alternator, oil cooler, redesigned crankcase, and other changes. But late Enfields retained the massive good looks of their predecessors and the small but special details that always made them stand out A good example was the neutral-finder lever on all Enfield transmissions; when depressed, it auto-matically put you in neutral from a higher gear, and saved untold hassles at stop lights.
Because of its late formal introduction into the U.S. market. Royal Enfield never gained the loyalty of a large following as did the other British twins: Norton, Triumph, BSA. Also, the economic and market forces that were slowly grinding down all the British brands took their toll on Royal Enfield. It vanished from the scene after only a few years of Series II production.
In recent years there has been a revival of sorts. A factory in India now makes the smaller R-E 500cc single cylinder models today. And you can buy one right here in the USA, at http://www.enfieldmotorcycles.com/
And if you want a bigger Enfield motorcycle based on two 500 cc cylinders in a vee-twin, you even have a choice. One is being produced in Australia cf.. http://www.carberryenfield.com.au/.
And another is under development in the USA cf. http://www.musketvtwin.com/
It looks like Royal Enfield is a roadburner with nine lives!
THE "SQUARIEL" -- ARIEL SQUARE FOUR
My first encounter with a “Squariel” was in the mid-1960’s. I was not yet 20. I lacked enough money to buy a car. This was a problem. Because I loved fast and powerful machinery. An airplane was out of the question. But I devoured magazines like Hot Road, Car Craft, Motor Trend. I learned about things like horsepower, nitromethane, supercharging. Effectively, I took an amateur crash course in Gearhead 101.
Then I happened to discover something that was just as fast and powerful as any car. But a lot less costly. A motorcycle. And not just a little Honda 90 and Jawa 125 that some of my high school chums (with more liberal parents than mine) were buzzing around on. But a big bike. A machine with an engine size in the 500 cc range and more. My reading material gravitated to Cycle, Cycle World, Modern Cycle and others.
It seemed almost too easy. You could get a motorcycle license or virtually just your say-so. No one wore helmets because it was not yet the law. Motorcycles were so few and far that seeing a fellow biker on the highway was an event. Riders waved to each other. In a few years, the Japanese and the masses would begin to discover the joys of big-engined motorcycles. But for the time being, I and a few others lived some kind of charmed, largely-undiscovered, uncrowded and unhampered road life.
My first bike was German. It did not always run, but when it did, it was a marvel of Teutonic efficiency. It appeared elegantly simple and clean in construction. It would gobble up road miles by the score with little effort.
But soon I was introduced the perhaps dark, definitely Byzantine, often quixotic realm of the British bike. “Limeys” as they were often called, were the raucous Cockney louts of the motorcycle world. They roared and rattled and shrieked engine noise. They leaked oil generously. Their electrical systems primarily were from a manufacturer, Joseph Lucas Ltd., who was often called “the prince of darkness.’. With good reason. Brit iron had personality. The brands acquired endearing monikers. The Triumph 650cc Bonneville was known as a “Bonnie.” No doubt from the hit song, My Bonnie lies over the Ocean. BSA? It earned the verbal badge of Beezer. And then of course there was the Ariel Square Four. Which was dubbed the “Squariel.”
My first encounter with a Squariel, running or not, happened on a spring Saturday afternoon at Pete Andrews’. That was the man’s name, but also in effect the name of his shop. It was a large, primarily foreign motorcycle dealership in Boston, Perhaps the largest in New England. It was the motorcycle shop of legends. A snarley ill-tempered curmudgeon of a proprietor, dark grease-soaked wooden floors, parts and accessories crammed into every nook and cranny up to the rafters, new and used bikes cramped cheek to tight jowl. Best of all, a dark dimly-lit rat-infested basement held a treasure trove of old rare and unusual motorcycles, parts, and pieces not identifiable as anything remotely earthly or human. If you buttered old Pete up for months, he might just grudgingly let you delve into the mysteries down there.
The streets and alleys surrounding Pete’s shop were at that prime time of the year, a beehive of activity. Bikes being worked on. Engines coughing and sputtering and staring in a roar. Machines coming and going like ants in a colony. Young men cursing and talking and sweating and laughing. Things got even more animated when a “ bird”, usually young pretty and blonde, alighted from a passenger seat to become an audience of one or two.
The tone of the engine cacophony from outside the shop was quite uniform, because almost all Brit bikes had vertical parallel twin cylinder engines. This was years before the influx of four cylinder motorcycle from the orient. A lot of bike were just singles. The bigger ones were twins. The two cylinders sat side by side under the gas tank. Those two hot cylinder heads just below gallons flammable fluid in a thin sheet mental enclosure made leaks an interesting proposition!
But on this afternoon, I heard a sound quite a bit different in the mix . More complex and yet more smooth. It was coming from the alley and it sounded more like car than bike. It had a multi-cylinder gravely throb like an MGB or an Austin Healy Four. Obviously someone was tinkering with a sportcar in the midst of all the bikes. I went outside to investigate.
What met my eyes and ears as I rounded the corner was truly amazing to me at the time. There, pouring out of the exhaust pipes of a motorcycle was the most heavenly motor music I had ever heard. It sounded as if somehow the soul of a four cylinder British automobile engine was entombed inside this large dark red motorcycle.
Well of course, it sounded like a four cylinder engine because it WAS a four cylinder engine . In a bike known as the Ariel Square Four. The Square Four had this huge cubic block of finned aluminum that was its engine. And everything on the bike seemed outsized to match. Big deep fenders. Wide tires. A massive and wide gas tank. A ponderous looking headlight cowl. The Square Four took the standard engine layout of its smaller Brit bike brethren and effectively doubled it. Instead of two cylinders in a single row across the frame, you had two cylinders in TWO rows. One behind the other. You had 1000cc instead of 500cc. The crankshaft for the rear two cylinders was connected to the front through two very large gears. So that the rear cylinder pair had to run backward. It was in effect, two twin cylinder engines grafted together as one. It was a wonderfully crazy set up only the British could dream up – and then actually make work.
Those four cylinders arranged in a square was unique in the industry and it had a unique sound. And big and heavy as it was, this pretty-much two-engined bike was blazingly fast in acceleration. And it could easily exceed 100 miles per hour on a good road.
The old hot-rod saw, “Speed costs money’ certainly applied to the Squariel, It was ex-pen-sive. Few ordinary motorcyclists could afford it. And by the time this then-novice college boy had arrived on the soon-to-burgeon motorcycle scene, the Ariel marque had gone out of business, and with it the Square Four. The last to roll out of the factory were built in 1959. Consequently, even in those days, few of these Fours plied American highways.
Today I encounter one every now and then at vintage and classic motorcycle meetings -- where they are usually presented with care and affection reserved for jewelry – or royalty. I usual find an excuse to wait around so I can hear one these pleasant monsters come to life with a splendid roar that is still somehow exotic, even alien in the two-wheeled world. It is tinged with a fetching memory of a time when I was young and the world seemed young and new.
If there were an American Idol for motorcycles, the Squariel would out sing all comers.
to be continued....
“Corners Like a Matchless”
Oil refinery chic
The Quintessential Roadburner
A Big Bore from Small Arms
My Bonnie Lies Over the Ocean
Big Single
From Pest to Pestilence
Tuesday, July 5, 2011
Monday, July 4, 2011
Sunday, July 3, 2011
Memo from Far-off-istan
Most ax-cellent aydoorable Amurican buty,
You knew we have been done compleat to correspond for many long thyme and eon epoch era. Me myself I do arrive to conclude love schizofriendily for your selfsame identity backside.
So here now in this pagial territory I maintain to further describe such notations which I may entertain to cause visage improvements on lo that female Goddeuse, which I content your identity is identical wid.
Meine large abuse of Anglican linguage I hope not levee to our communism-ication. I depreciate in most extreme greatitude all your fur bear ance.
It be mite chillie hear in little doggie tent on Pluto. But me have blue tooth to send out computer lectrons… Also so cold I have blue tooth in mout. Ha he hi ho. See I can machine-pun Americanski
Big offset here twoday. We all discover gastrological god determine Pluto no longer planet. Now only mutt of Mickey. Now only bread stuff in flight around Solar thermosbottle-nucleer gas bag. Bimmer.
Nokay, so now I update palm to you what perspires in my magazine-breakfast-cereal Life. I have made renderings to de-arrive leave home ice ball and sune will co-aless to you! Even here I detach a sameness of my trouble pisspot so you can countenance my sam-seer detentions.
But wretchedly, it now happened to cause that my pet gilda monster consume vast quantity of rocketplane ticket. No tickee no flitee no leavee
So dear madame can you please forthwith kindly transit via Western Union, wire transfer, bank rout or Vulcan mind meld the precise sum of $500,000,000.00 America dollars USD or equivalent in local currency. Note how my diction amazingly clears when sums of money are involved.
Sum how meeracle of gud verb-barrage ee-merge when muny info has a need for which to communi-miserate. Yo thunk…
Me pearlogize for humus-among-us amount bescreeched, but now at this juncturate in tempor-all clothesline, Americanski congress blow-hards backyard barbecue burger buns in place of dasterdly derby of debt destriction dealing. So greenback fade to footnail fungus yellow and worth only Pluto poop.
Me here stand and weight with meat on fish hook breath for US Treasury hay bail two shift orbit!
Sinfully yers,
Alekssandr Racoonianskiov
Friday, July 1, 2011
Mourning becomes Electra
What happens when the time-of-day machine becomes an Lockheed aircraft factory?
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