Captainkirk's Duster project

Chapter 21

“Awakenings”

Question: Which came first, the chicken or the egg?
Answer: Who the hell cares, as long as we get breakfast and dinner out of the deal!

So, which came first, the motorcycle or the screw?
Actually, it was the motorcycle.
My younger brother had gotten the motorcycle bug from me at a very young age, as had I, but never conquered it. I don'’t believe he ever DIDN'’T own a motorcycle from the time he got his driver’s license. He started out with a Honda MiniTrail 50 (remember those?) and ended up owning Captain Dave’'s Turtle Chaser Honda XL125. He then bought a year-old Yamaha Seca 550 while doing a stint as a motorcycle mechanic for a local dealer. He proceeded to flog this poor steed mercilessly for nearly 40,000 miles and across three states (he made numerous trips from Mudville to Fargo and back, while attending school there!) until 1998, when he decided to get a little newer bike with a little more, ummm, get up and go, shall we say?
He did. He bought a year-old, 1997 Buell M2 Cyclone.
For those of you not acquainted with the M2, it’s basically…...how can I describe this?…...a motor with a seat attached. Scratch that; a BIG motor with a seat attached! 1200 cc’s of Harley-Davidson V-Twin Sportster motor, massaged and tweaked by Buell to pump out 70-something HP and 70-something foot-pounds of torque. By my own definition, it's a two-wheeled Hemi ‘Cuda.
Naturally, after riding something like that, the Yamaha goes to the back of the garage and begins to collect dust. And become a homeless shelter for down-on-their-luck mice. That is, until Big Brother works a deal with Little Brother.
And so it came to be, early in the spring of ’99 that I found myself busting knuckles away from work voluntarily. For years, the thought of wrenching out in the garage after wrenching on aircraft all day just didn'’t trip my trigger. It’s like eating too much pizza. I mean, how much pizza can you ram down your craw before you say, “Enough!” It doesn'’t mean, I found out, that you no longer like pizza. You just save some for later! First I did the carbs. Complete strip and clean, with new carb kits. (and you thought Holley parts were expensive!). Homeless mice had been at the air filter, leaving little bits of fuzzy paper mixed with mousie turds, topped off with the pungent aroma of Eau d’' mousie; …liquid form, of course. The battery was, of course (of course!) junk. So, a couple weeks, a couple hundred bucks and, ……Houston, we have ignition!
Now, if you'’re wondering why this guy is prattling on about bikes in a car story, I'’ll come right out and tell ya. It’s about the speed, brother! The need for speed! I re-discovered it that summer, not in the heavy thunder of Mopar Muscle, but rather, in the screeching banshee wail of four Mikunis stuffing atomized fuel and air through a Gemini four-into-one exhaust with a four-cylinder motor sandwiched like aluminum-flavored Oreo filling in between. Never mind it wasn'’t that fast compared to so-called “modern” bikes…..it was a 14-second missile of fossil-fuel rebirth, and the feelings that I long feared dead and buried burst into flames like a peat bog fire long believed to be extinguished…. NOT!
I attacked this new curiosity with relish …and Flitz. When I brought the bike home, it was rather, shall we say, neglected? Corrosion and dirt covered the wheels and frame. Aluminum surfaces were dull and lusterless. (Little Brother was a rider, not a cleaner.) Nothing a good bath and a can of Flitz couldn'’t handle, though. I remember the first time when my brother came over to go riding after I’d cleaned it up. I wheeled it out into the sunshine, polished aluminum and paint glinting in the bright sun, and said, "“Well, whaddya think?”" After a long pause, he mumbled "…”I think I sold it to ya too cheap."” Now, that, folks, is a COMPLIMENT!
We did a lot of rides that summer. A lot of rides. And all the time, there was this rumbling in my soul…..this whispering in my ear; incomprehensible babble that I couldn'’t understand or comprehend, but urgent, nonetheless. It was like the gunfighter who, horrified and haunted by his past, changed his name and identity, moved far, far away and became a farmer, swearing to himself to put it all behind him and start a new life. And then one day, by chance, he comes across a gun. Quite by accident, you understand. He picks it up; his fingers unconsciously caress the cold steel, and it feels good; natural in his hand. And then, as if by magic, it comes to life in his sweaty palms; wheeling and darting back and forth, like a snake, dancing; his thumb unconsciously cocks back the hammer and naturally as a newborn baby drawing a breath, he points it at a tree, or a leaf; the gun barks and thunders and bucks in his palm and the object of it’s deadly destruction lies blown to bits and mutilated, drilled dead center, without intention, without will, without malice, without thinking……. Naturally. As if meant to be. And his trembling hand recoils and drops the gun in revulsion and horror, unable to fathom the idea that this cold slab of wood and steel becomes a living, breathing thing in his grip …and his alone. It is a part of him that cannot be denied, no matter how hard he tries. Oh, Lord, how he tries!
You could say it was like that. Yeah, you could.


I knew I was in trouble the first time I whacked that throttle open hard against the stops and heard the wailin'’ of the banshee trumpeting out through that Gemini four-into-one. Just like that gunfighter-turned-farmer, I knew. Thought I could put it all behind me; forget it with the help of time, live a quiet, sedentary life without the need for speed. Not hardly.
And then came The Big Turn. It started out as a simple ride. Me and my brother; he on his Buell, and me on the Seca, with my 14 year old son on the back. It was innocent enough; a simple, easy country-road ride. My brother was a good riding partner; he led the way but never pushed, never forcing me to overextend my abilities; his were far beyond mine at that point. That particular day he’d flagged me on ahead to the lead position. I had no idea where we were going; I just followed the road. Then, out of nowhere, he swung out around me, that Vee-Twin thundering out it’s hemi-reminiscent song, pulled in front of me, signaling a right turn with upswept left arm and gloved hand, leaned the Buell deep into a side road right apex, and simply……. vanished!
I barely made the turn.
It was if he had been abducted by aliens; gone, vanished, went Bermuda Triangle on me.
I found him waiting patiently at a stop sign, several miles down the road, taillight winking a friendly “hello!”
“I WANT ONE OF THOSE!” my mind shrieked.
I'’ll see what I can do, said the gunfighter….

The gunfighter was true to his word. Early in '‘02, I rolled my own M2 off the trailer; a ’99 with less than 7000 miles on it. The ‘99's boasted 91 HP and 89 ft/lbs of torque…..all right where you need it; down low. It came with the Buell Thunderstorm heads and pistons (a true hemi-head design) and a lightened crank. There was no wanting for torque on this monster. But the real difference was in the handling; if the Seca was an athlete, then the Buell was an Olympic ballerina on steroids. “"Flickable"” is the word Buell used. Un-freakin’-believeable is the word I used. Nimble and graceful are some other words that come to mind. Just a nudge on the bar ends and it was leaning peg-deep deep into the turns; whack on the throttle on the exit and it would stand right back up like one of those Weebles and lunge out of the corners like a tiger springing on a gazelle! This was one scary-fast machine. It sounded mean as well, the vee-twin giving off a low, guttural growl. At idle, the whole bike would shake, much like a drag car in the pits, rumbling out it’s baritone hemi-thunder.
True to form, I immediately made a wish-list. My brother’s bike was far from stock; he'’d upgraded the cams, carb, intake and exhaust, with an oil cooler to boot. He’'d also replaced the pistons with Wiseco 10:1s and installed the Thunderstorm heads. This all made for a pretty potent package.
Not to be outdone, I began searching eBay for my own entourage of performance goodies. I ended up finding everything I wanted by patiently waiting, watching, and buying the parts I was looking for. I ended up with all the components used in the Buell race kit including race header and muffler, carbon fiber K&N air filter kit, and race ignition unit…...for less than half the retail price. To this I added a Mikuni flat slide HSR carb and Andrews N8 cams. In the fall of ’'04 I put it up on the lift and, with some trepidation, dug in.
I say with some trepidation, because frankly, the bike was running like a dream. It started and ran well, idled lumpy, but evenly (like any good Harley), had great throttle response, and leaked no oil. Well, I had a small rockerbox leak, but nothing serious. But what I was doing was pretty major surgery for a low-mileage, great-running bike. Honestly, I just couldn'’t help myself. I had to do it. And so, I rolled up my sleeves and dug in.