How To Read A Motorcycle Magazine

Read at your own peril.

   Okay, I know this is a motorcycle magazine. I know you are reading it. Obviously, you know how to read a motorcycle magazine. But, if you are one of those who (like me) is truly obsessed with reading everything and anything connected with motorcycles (especially in the winter months), you have probably begun to suspect that there may be certain hazards, certain pitfalls, associated with your habit. So with apologies to the publishers of all those magazines to which I’m hopelessly addicted, let my scribblings be a warning of what you, the pitiful slave of all things bike, can expect:  

1. The Blank look. You’ve seen it. At parties. Around the watercooler, the bar, or just about anywhere you talk to people not of our persuasion. Their eyes narrow, possibly dart back and forth as if looking for an escape route. Hard as it may be to believe, some people just aren’t interested in a comparison between the dyno ratings for the 2003 vs. 2008 Hayabusa. In fact, you may have to explain what a “Hayabusa” is, and unless you mention the connection to Ben Roethlisberger, their sudden need to call the babysitter might lead you to suspect they don’t really care what it is. Who can begin to explain the lack of enthusiasm for a spirited debate on the true origin of BMW’s roundel or the initial shear rate of Castrol vs. Mobil 1? Being unable to resist injecting motorcycling analogies into conversations isn’t going to help: “Oh yeah, the adjustment to the prime rate, well, that’s just like the time I tried to remap my Multistrada after hanging on that Akropovic, kept getting that surge around 2,000 rpm’s…” (Listeners begin giving each other knowing glances of desperation.) And of course there’s no better way to wind up talking to the tropical fish at a party than to fall into one of your tirades about road hazards: “The driver never even looked, except at his cell phone!” (Listeners offer a quick prayer that their cell doesn’t choose this moment to ring.)

2. Over/understatement. I don’t want to say that magazines aren’t always truthful, but any seasoned reader would probably agree that just about any article should be approached covering the front brake lever of skepticism. For instance, when reading a review of a new bike in a mag that accepts advertising, it might be wise to remember who’s paying to keep the lights on, the word processors booted up, and that article in your hands. Also, when a writer is testing a bike (already feeling generous for having the whole day to tool up and down Highway 1) his opinions may be, let’s say, shaded. A line like “the ergos weren’t quite right for my height” may be translated as “The first of my 12 chiropractor appointments began shortly after my run to San Simeon.” Or: “Some riders may have an issue with the heat issues emanating from the left manifold.” Translation: “Aerostich voided my warranty, stating their suits should not be worn while welding.” Also, In a bike review, cliches like  “a rocket on steroids” sound much better to readers (and marquees) than lines like “capable of getting you a speeding ticket in any state in the union.” (Incidentally, any prospective writer for moto-magazines should know “on steroids” can be attached to just about any noun for an always startling effect. For instance, “A tankbag—On Steroids!” or “a keychain—ON STEROIDS!”)

3. Ads.Those girls and guys in the ads for leathers, helmets, and pipes? No, sadly, they aren’t included in the purchase price, and, no, you won’t even see them at the dealership, nor will you begin to even faintly resemble them if you buy the product they’re hawking. Which of course raises the question of the need for the mysterious, oft-advertised pheromones, and, is there any relationship between them and pervasive ads for radar detectors and that stuff that makes your license plate hard to photograph? I have to admit I’m a gadget junkie of the highest order, but do I really need chartreuse flames for my fuel tank? Well, probably. A multi-tool/flashlight that translates my voice into morse code? Why not? Color-coordinated reservoir caps? Of course! Can I possibly continue to make my seven mile commute to work on County Trunk B without hearing a bluetooth update on my tire pressures every seven seconds? No, obviously I can’t.

4. Becoming a one percent-er. Be aware that, of all the information you absorb from reading bike magazines, ninety-nine percent may turn out to be totally useless. Forever. So, let’s say after all these years, you finally discovered the definitive last word on the bore/stroke ratio of that 1975 Honda CB200 you used to own? Not only that, but you breathessly read how both plugs fired on every upstroke. How could you have not known that before? The fact that possibly none of this information may come up in Trivia Pursuit or even Jeopardy may leave you asking, “Who’s writing those questions, anyway?”

5. Lest we forget. And, of all the countless bits of useless information you absorb, rest assured 98% has a respectable chance of being forgotten. And of that remaining two percent, let’s face it, if memory retention studies are any indication, at least 75 percent will be remembered incorrectly. Ever pick up a two year old copy of your favorite bike mag? (Don’t stop to wonder why you’re saving them.) Did you read that travel piece about Nova Scotia before? The pages are crinkled, the type’s a little smudged, hmmm, didn’t you resolve to ride to Halifax once? How could you forget first reading about the switch from female-slider front ends to male-sliders and the subsequent rise in the natural flexural frequency of clavicle wear?

6. The Wishing/Buying Continuum. Not only will you spend much of your time reading information you’ll never use, probably forget, or remember incorrectly, but many of the bikes you intently read about have about as much chance of sitting on a cycle stand in your garage as Tiger Woods practicing chipping on your front lawn. Don’t get me wrong, I never miss a story about any stunning one-off museum piece meticulously-hand built by little old men in Milan or a fire-breathing board tracker from the deep south hand-hammered out of an International Harvester combine, but in my heart I know I’ll have to be satisfied with a bike that starts every time, runs as long as I ask it too, and leaves me just enough in my checkbook to make the house payment and take my wife to dinner.

So, am I against reading motorcycle magazines? Hardly. In fact, it’s no accident that the end of each month finds me hovering around the mailbox, waiting for the next new issue. But notwithstanding my wife’s puzzling suggestion to, in her words, “get a life,” I must admit it’s a curious and remotely dangerous compulsion. You have been warned.

#####

Yes, April Can Be Cruel: The Danger in Raking

   “That dead, dried grass,” my dad would say intently. “We’ve to get the old stuff out and give the new a chance.” He was no lawn care fanatic, but appearances (at least in regard to the front lawn) were critically important to him for reasons I still can’t fathom.

   Now, all grown up and a father myself, I lean on a rake on my own lawn (a worn expense of anything that gamely volunteers to come up) and gaze out across the valley of corn stubble and marsh in front our house. An April wind slices through my sweatshirt, and I allow myself a few minutes to reminisce some more, back to a similar morning when I was only 12.

   Twelve seemed to be a watershed age in our house. At 12 you stepped from the brink of kidhood into the shadow of the valley of adulthood. You could no longer cower under the covers if there was a bat in the house at night, but had to grab your own badminton racket and join the fray. Sleeping late on Saturdays was no longer allowed. There were now “chores,” and you weren’t just “helping Dad,” you were out there in the elements by yourself, shoveling snow, mowing the lawn, turning over the garden, raking.

   Spring raking was one of those chores I was always going to do next weekend, but on this particular Saturday morning I was trapped. I had slept in past nine, enough of an excuse to make my mother pour on the guilt.

   “You can do a few things around here, you know.” My mom’s inevitable understatement. Didn’t she realize I was doing just about everything a 12 year old boy could do? Who was going to watch Mighty Mouse save Krakatoa Katie over a bowl of soggy Frosted Flakes? Who was going to crawl back under covers and finish reading Booth Tarkington’s Penrod and Sam or go down to the river and throw rocks at carp?

   “And drink your milk, all of it.” My mom said, noticing my forlorn face. “It’ll help you in the long run.”

   That was hard to swallow. Evidently this “long run” loomed somewhere far ahead in my future. Could this single, rheumy glass of milk really make any kind of difference? I had a vision of my friends’ cleats in my face as I pitched headlong into the cinder track of the long run. They all drank their milk.

   After a suitable, leisurely hour of preparation, I went out into the cold April wind to face the front yard. Rake the dead grass in the spring, cut the live grass all summer long, rake the elm leaves off the grass in the fall, and pile the snow on the grass in the winter. The grass and I were tired.

   No matter how much of the full candle power of my 12-year-old ingenuity I brought to bear, there apparently was only one way to get that damn grass. With a stupid rake. This was an implement Neanderthals probably left leaning in a corner of some French cave. I begn to rake with a vengeance as I fantasized huge, jet engine-powered lawn vacuums, or gleaming metal robot lawn workers, outfitted with rocket packs and gattling guns. Anything would make raking more interesting.

   I wasn’t getting much dead grass that day because as soon as I had a wispy little pile it would start to blow away. What I did get I would put in our old red wagon and haul to the back yard to be burned later. My family actually believed in torturing the grass.

   As I toiled away I wondered, was this really necessary? Or was this just some task my parents had dreamed up to teach me the value of honest labor and responsibility? Possibly they were just aiming for one Saturday I wouldn’t be looking for trouble with my buddies down by the river, where I’m sure my dad figured it was only a matter of time before I fell in and drowned myself. Were they afraid I wouldn’t be ready when it was time to strike out on my own? As far as I was concerned, at the crusty age of 12 I knew pretty much all I needed to know, except for maybe how to drive a stick shift.

   When I finally got a wagon’s worth I started to consider taking my first break. My fingers were pink, my nose was running. It seemed justifiable. I started to pack the grass down on the pile in the wagon when suddenly it happened: the rake broke.

    Now, this could have been great, since we only owned one rake, and I could have rejoined Daffy Duck, Bugs Bunny, and Pepe Le Pew free of parental reproach; however, when the rake handle broke, the force of my push made my body pivot sharply. This would have been okay, too; however, my left foot, planted firm on the frozen turf, did not pivot. My foot stayed exactly where it was, leaving my knee to wrench with a sickening crunch I heard as much as felt.

   In a second I was on the ground, dying, I thought. The pain was incredible, practically paralyzing my leg, and my brain was caught in a tornado of swirling thoughts: “EIGHTEEN MONTHS IN A CAST!”, “STANDING ON THE SIDELINES ON CRUTCHES!”, and, in Doctor Johnson’s solemn voice, “He’ll always have a limp.”

   But after 20 minutes of solid agony and not a little self-pity, I realized I couldn’t just lie there. Cars were driving by, some possibly containing girls, I looked ridiculous. So, with Spartan courage, I grabbed what was left of the rake handle, and, driving it into the unyielding ground, I started to drag my crippled body toward the house. The scene was heartbreaking, but I soldiered on, the runny nose and tears results of grim determination, not crying.

   Luckily, I had left the door to our screen porch on the back of our house open. I groped up the two stairs and then rested. The pain was still terrible, and for some stupid reason I kept thinking I would never walk again. Destined, I thought, to go through life pulling myself along with a broken rake handle. I tried to call my parents. “Help” at the top my voice seemed appropriate for the situation. It was crazy. By pushing myself up, I could just see my parents through the living room windows, my dad consumed in his daily mound of newspapers, my mom ironing pants I would probably never need again while she listened to the TV blaring The Wide World of Sports. I feebly tossed the rake handle at the windows and missed. Now, without my trusty stick I was helpless, so I started to squirm infantry-style to our kitchen door on my own.

   We had a funny kitchen door. Through some architectural miscalculation, probably on my dad’s part, the porch addition left the kitchen door’s threshold raised about 14 inches from the porch floor. If you ever find yourself with a broken leg at a funny inner door like this, you’ll have to do what I did to be heard. Raising myself up on two hands, I began to beat my forehead against the door. One caution: this cannot be done very long.

   I’m positive a conversation then went on in the living room, something like this:

 Mom: “Is that someone knocking at the kitchen door?”

 Dad: “Who would knock at the kitchen door? ”

Mom: “I don’t know. It sounds to me like someone’s knocking.”

Dad: “No one knocks at the kitchen door, they’d knock at the back door.”

Mom: “It stopped. No, there it is again. Somebody’s knocking. Can you answer the door, Dick?”

Dad: “Where’s Ron?”

Mom: “He’s supposed to be raking the front yard.”

Dad: “I thought he was going to do that last weekend…”

etc., etc.

   For some strange reason, my Mom finally put down her iron and came to investigate. I had just discovered that banging your head against something hard does make you forget any pain coming from somewhere else.

   “What did you do?” my mom asked.

   “IT HURTS!” I cried. I admit wasn’t very articulate at that age.

   “What hurts?” My dad had now joined the scene.

   “MY LEG!”

   “Your leg?” Though either were my parents.

   “MY LEG!” Were we speaking the same language?

   “What were you doing?” What was I doing? What did it matter what I was doing?

   “THE RAKE BROKE!” Okay, that was a mistake, because I knew then the broken rake would immediately become the main issue.

   “You broke the rake?”
   “I FELL DOWN!”

   Finally satisfied, my parents retreated for a consultation. “I’m worried—Should we call Dr. Johnson?—Do you think he broke it?—the rake?”

   I was by then lying half in the house and half out, but actually I was feeling a little better. I knew somehow I would soon be back in the safety of my family. I could relax, Mom and Dad would take it from here. Dr. Johnson would make a house call. I might even be lying on the couch, watching Looney Tunes again shortly. There might even by a new copy of Mad Magazine in it for me.

   Back in the present, my son rouses me from my reverie by scratching away at the sparse grass in front of me with a little tin rake. He pulls intently at the grass for a few moments, then pauses. “Why are we raking now, Dad, there aren’t even any leaves.”

   I look back across the valley and think of my mom and dad. “The dead grass, we’ve got to give the new stuff a chance…but, be careful.”

#####

 

Pushing the Envelope

To Ride Or Not To Ride, That Was The Question…

By Ron Davis

   I was torn. I had a four day weekend and an offer from my son to guide me to some of his favorite early season trout streams. He lives in La Crosse, Wisconsin, on the Mississippi; I live on the other side of the state. I could take the pickup and really load up on gear, even throwing in a care package for him, OR take my F650 which would mean barest essentials, great mileage, and well, you know, more fun. So what was the problem? It was Wisconsin. It was March 18. The weather man looked uneasy. The steel gray sky looked like snow.

   I hemmed. I hawed. I piled my gear in the garage. I decided, well, why not load up the bike, just to see if it’s even feasible? Two travel rod tubes, waders and boots, fishing vest, net, rain gear, one change of clothes, camera, three granola bars, a second-hand copy of Gierach’s Trout Bum, toothbrush and deodorant, plastic. Packing looked do-able. I looked at the sky again, old oatmeal gray. The dash-mounted Formotion thermometer was nudging 35 degrees Fahrenheit. It was 1 p.m., not going to get any warmer. I could call and see what my wife thought, but there certainly was no mystery there. Better to call her after I arrived. I threw on the tail bag and opened the Givi’s. I was committed.

   How many times have you started a trip thinking, “Is this really wise?” And “What exactly am I trying to prove?”  It was one of those. I shifted up tentatively. I rolled on the throttle, countering, “What’s the worst that could happen?” I suppressed the persistent image of me and a shiny red motorcycle sliding off a banked turn into some snowy pines.

   I had, after all, done stuff like this before. When I was in college, tired of being wheel-less all winter, I had hitched home to get my Honda 350 out of dry dock one March. I had to set out on the 100 miles back to school by six the next morning to make my 10 o’clock news writing class with Dr. Polk. Everything was covered with a heavy frost. My mother looked doubtful, my dad appeared smug, as if convinced his initial suspicion about me had finally been confirmed: I was, indeed, an idiot.

   Either I was dumber then, or the gear wasn’t as good, because, despite duct tape around my face shield, a winter parka, and sorel boots, I began shivering almost as soon as I got on the highway. I started pulling over every 20 miles or so to pry myself out of the saddle and beat my arms together. Windshields were for sissies then, fairing didn’t even exist. I’m sure I considered hitting the coffee shops or even turning around, but Dr. Polk was legendary for accepting no excuses short of hospitalization, not to mention holding students who cut class up for public ridicule. By the time I coasted stiffly into my apartment’s parking lot, I was shaking violently, but at the same time feeling strangely peaceful, detached, and more than a little confused. (“Hypothermia” hadn’t entered my vocabulary yet.) I stopped, put my feet down and just stood there, straddling the bike as it continued to run, trying to remember complicated things like how one would go about turning off a motorcycle, or how, having turned it off, one would get off the bike without having it fall over on top of oneself. I looked down with wonder to see the inside calves of my rain pants melted to my jeans, the result of hugging my legs in so tightly to the headers.

   As if trying to move through heavy syrup, I remembered the function of the sidestand, silenced the engine by stabbing at the kill switch, and began fumbling for my apartment key. Making a trail of clothing to bathroom, I turned the shower to hot and curled up on the floor of the stall. A half-hour later I was still shaking, but could sort of remember who I was and why I wasn’t going to get an “A” in News Editing 255 anymore.

   But now, something like 300 years later, things seemed positively luxurious compared to that jaunt on the Honda. I was snug in layers of fleece, gore-tex, and Kevlar, and heated grips and grip guards kept the feeling in my fingers. A 17 inch windshield lifted the wind chill up to the crest of my helmet. Had I gotten softer or smarter?

   But there were still those clouds, those clouds. Wispy threads of what I knew were snow squalls were feeling their way down, lower and lower. At the 70 mile mark I felt I had earned a piece of homemade pie and a couple cups of black coffee at Connie’s Country Café in Babcock. I was the only one in the little place, which was fine since my pants, coat, helmet, backpack, gloves and other gear took up two tables. I’d recommend the apple ala mode (they warm it up for you without asking).

   Suited up and outside again, I pressed the starter and simultaneously flurries appeared. “Flurries I can deal with,” I said into my helmet, as I settled in for the 60 mile dead straightaway down 173. I screwed down the Throttlemeister at 62 and settled back. Straightaways like this one foster a certain Zen-like state for me. You’re trapped with your own thoughts, forced to get reacquainted with someone you may have been neglecting for a while. Among other revelations, it occurred to me what a change in roles this weekend presented. My son would be the host, feeding me, shepherding me around, saying things like, “Fish here” and “Do you need to take a nap?” Basically, he would be more like the parent, and I the wayward kid, showing up on his improbable motorcycle.

   At Sparta (a fitting coincidence) things got a bit more, well, spartan.  Big, fifty-cent sized flakes came down in a sheet. My windshield and arms turned white, but I was able to keep my face shield clear as I eased down to 35. At least the flakes were still melting as soon as they hit the road. I soon started getting the “What was he thinking?” look from oncoming drivers. That was a pretty good question, I thought, but then a convoy of Humvees out of Fort McCoy rumbled by, and I had the feeling some of those guys would have gladly traded places.

   What was I thinking? Was this some kind of challenge, some kind of meaningless mid-life charade to stave off early bird specials and senior citizen discounts? Was pushing this envelope going to prove I was as tough and daring as any kid half my age? Maybe I was just desperate for a good ride on a motorcycle. I plodded along to the first convenience store and daintily steered in to re-evaluate. I looked miserable, but realized I felt pretty okay. I munched a Butterfinger, ignored the smirks from other customers, and waited for the squall to pass.

   I must have passed through three or four more snowy sections in the final thirty miles of my trek, but having chosen back roads, I could take it easy or pull over whenever I needed to, and even in these less than ideal conditions I still could enjoy carving into Wisconsin’s “coulee country.” I pulled into my son’s driveway feeling tired and happy. I turned off the engine, swung the sidestand down and leaned back on the tailbag to savor a moment that I think only a rider knows. The old man still has it, I thought. Just then my son pulled in next to me, home from work. He gave me a blank look of resignation and shook his head. Dad would never grow up.

######

You never forget your first love...

To Every Time, There Is A Motorcycle

   It started when I was 16. I had to have a motorcycle. My friend’s brother, Kurt, just happened to have a ’65 Honda S90 for sale for fifty bucks, including a sparkling, metallic purple helmet and an oil-soaked cardboard box, full of unidentifiable parts. Well, second thought, let’s say it was sort of a Honda S90. You see, Kurt was something of a custom bike builder. He had raked and extended the front fork of the little cycle, added ape-hanger handlebars, a sissy bar, a rocket-shaped muffler, and a grape purple, metallic flake paint job to match the helmet. The “Chopper 90” (which my friends affectionately called it) was about as implausible a looking vehicle as anyone could imagine.

   It had a number of idiosyncrasies, most notably a stripped kickstarter spindle, which meant that in order to start the bike, one had to run along, pushing the bike with the clutch in, hop on, drop the clutch on second gear, and bump start it. It, as a rule, never started on the first try, probably due to my forgetting to set the choke/open the fuel petcock/turn the key/put it in second gear/etc. The second attempt usually offered the best odds of bringing the little motor sputtering to life since I was still hopeful and fairly fresh, but with the third and fourth, optimism, speed, and my ability to impress girls would steadily deteriorate. I’m sure there were times when I had run halfway to my destination before the bike fired up (or I gave up completely). When I did get the bike running, I remember I was very reluctant to park it any distance from a good hill, even if that meant stopping blocks away from my destination. Thinking back, the ten block route to school really might mean me riding only three, but somehow that was still worth it.

   On the other hand, once started, that Honda had the little engine that could. A tank of gas seemed to last forever, and, at 33 cents a gallon, running it was practically free. The Dixie cup-sized piston could rev to scary heights forever, and the crankcase never leaked a drop of oil. Granted, on hills the bike kept you busy downshifting while trying to sustain forward motion, and I also learned to wait for lots of lead time before pulling out on a highway, but that Honda could pull you and your girlfriend just about anywhere, as long as you didn’t care how long it took. We didn’t.

   Although Kurt the customizer obviously had been big on cosmetic changes, he apparently wasn’t too interested in details like the electrics. The tail light, for instance, shown brightly with the bike parked, but seemed to cut out as soon as the bike started to move, which, along with a flickering headlight, could make the Honda virtually invisible from the back at night. The brake light worked though, which, on the nightly rides home from my girlfriend’s, often left me frantically tapping the brake pedal and redlining the engine in an attempt to escape the semi that always seemed to be bearing down on me.

   A little about the girlfriend: she loved riding on the back of motorcycles (even the rolling joke I rode) but hated helmets (which at the time were legally required). She said something about freedom and the feeling of her hair blowing in the wind (it was, after all, the 60’s). She also always wanted to go faster, and had a way of persuading me, which, well, I can’t really describe in a family magazine. Fortunately, my top speed for the S90 hovered around 47 mph. I should mention that same girlfriend lived at the end of a two mile sand road. In it’s original incarnation the Honda could have frolicked off-road, but as a pseudo chopper, it shimmied and squirmed so much through the sand that I had to slog the entire two miles with both legs out to prevent putting the metal side down.

   Preposterous as it was, the S90 lasted through high school and a year of college, whereupon I finally decided to sell it and move up to something more respectable, a souped up, red and white CB350, but that’s another story. The guy that bought the 90 planned to restore it to its showroom state, and I hope he did, but I never saw it again. Many different bikes and adventures were to follow the “Chopper 90,” but, looking back, it had done exactly what a good bike should do: it perfectly suited my bank account, skills, common sense (or lack of it), and lifestyle, all the while getting me to where I wanted to go as fast as I needed to, well, most of the time anyway…

#####

Ron Davis, Master Mechanic

How To Change Your Oil

 

Why pay those uppity mechanics to do something you can easily screw up yourself?

 

 

By Ron Davis

 

   Satisfaction, Pride, Accomplishment. What can possibly compare with the feelings that surround doing a bit of motorcycle maintenance yourself? Well, probably nothing, except maybe the desperate feelings of anxiety over whether you’ve done something wrong that will leave you stranded on some desolate stretch of highway…at night…with no bars on your cell phone…in a downpour…but, other than that, wouldn’t you like to know how to change your own oil? Yes, you would.

   Let’s get started. First, you’re going to need some tools. A hammer, of course, is essential. Everyone knows you always need a hammer; in fact, I’ve heard that the original title of Pirsig’s famous book was actually “Hammers and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance.” And, those flimsy, cylinder cooling fins that get broken off so easily? They’re basically just cosmetic anyway.  

   You’ll also need a special BMW oil filter socket wrench attachment, part #GN-555-3398YK2-brgrdn~88Q59-nN-CIA007. Why do you always need some special tool to do anything on a beemer? I imagine there are conversations going on all the time at BMW Research and Development that sound something like this:

    “Hey, Hans, how are they going to get this dinky, little bolt off, if they, say, have to replace this little light thingy in the blinker deal?”

   “Oh, Helmut, they can use any kind of vise grips or pliers, maybe with a hammer, that’ll work just fine, yah.”

   “Ach Du Lieber, Hans, did you forget we need more overtime this week? Let’s make it so they will need this U-shaped, titanium, powder-coated, blind Torx head driver I’ve just drawn!”

   “Ummmm, could we make it metric, Helmut?”

   “Of Course, Hans!”

   “Oh Helmut, You Rock!” (German version of high-five)

   You can get this nifty tool from a dealer, or you can spend a week on ebay and save yourself at least two or three dollars (before shipping, anyway). Or if you’re the gambling type, just use your trusty hammer to drive a screwdriver into the side of the filter. Then you can either simply crank out the filter, or, that failing, trailer your bike to your nearest dealer and try making up a story about how the bottom half of your oil filter got torn off. (Like, they won’t already know.)

    In addition, you’ll need something to catch the oil drained from your bike. Now, you can spend your hard-earned money on a specially designed, galvanized steel drain pan, or you can take the more thrifty route like I did and purchase one of those foil, turkey roasting pans which will work just fine, at least until you actually need to use it,  in which case you’ll find the way you bent it up to fit in your side case has resulted in pinhole leaks you won’t notice until the hot oil starts spreading over your garage floor, but rest assured you can feel good about the fact you have saved another five, maybe six bucks.  

   To remove your drain plug (to use the technical term) you’ll need something called an Allen Wrench, a tool taking its name from the famous German toolmaker, Reinhard Wrench. If you can’t remember where you put yours after you used it trying to unplug that pesky garage floor drain, you can always substitute a big screwdriver, vise grips, and of course, the hammer.

   Warning, don’t start hammering on your bike until you’ve also picked up some oil and a new oil filter. Don’t get me started on what kind of oil to use; recent research shows that 95% of all BMW rally altercations involving fists and specialized BMW tools have begun with seemingly innocent conversations about oil. Really, you can get oil anywhere, just make sure the label says something about “visigosity,” has a seal from the United States Bureau of Standards and Measurements (USBOSM), and above all make sure it has an anabolic-transfat rating of at least 39.5 millibars. If not, you’re in for big, big trouble. You’ll need at least two extra quarts since obviously one will get knocked over, and the other will be placed in your side case for emergencies, but will be lost after you remove it one day to make room for bananas, milk, bread, and olive loaf.

   Now you’re pretty much ready to begin the process:

Step 1: Run the bike until warm, but consider that just running it in your closed garage may not get the oil circulating as freely as it should.

Step 2: Find hammer. (It’s probably still out in the lawn where you hit it with your mower last week.)

Step 3: Remove “drain plug.” Oh yeah, when you pick up the oil filter, part #SN543-UV30-R1600-GARM-?-BRTWRST1, they’re probably going to try to talk you into buying something called a “crush washer.” This is a needless expense, just dreamed up by corporate fat cats in the nuts, bolts, and washers cartels. If you give in and buy one, you’ll find it’s going to get crushed just like your old one.

Step 4: Slide turkey roasting pan under the hot oil stream now pouring onto the garage floor. (If you slide it under there before you begin, the drain plug will fall in there, and, you know, that oil can stay hot for a long time...)

Step 4.1: Frantically start pulling off reams of paper towels to form mini-booms around the spreading oil spill headed for your clogged garage floor drain.

Step 4.2: Begin cursing your yellow lab who, suddenly tired of licking your face, has decided to walk through the growing oil puddle on her way into the house.

Step 5: Grab nearest aquamarine towel to try wiping up paw prints on carpeting before wife gets home.

Step 6: Remove oil filter, burn self, drop filter, spilling contents on garage floor.

Step 7: Replace “drain plug.” You’ll find that in a real service manual for your bike they will give you mysterious directions such as, “Tighten drain plug to 45Nm.” The “Nm” is a meaningless abbreviation mythically referring to torque force, but in actuality it simply means, “one or two light taps with hammer.”

Step 8: Remove oil filler cap and pour in one quart of oil.

Step 8.1: Grab more paper towels to clean up the new quart of oil on the floor since you forgot to replace the oil filter.

Step 9: Replace oil filter after applying a thin coat of oil to the gasket (that rubber part). Note: If it hasn’t happened already, this would be a good time to kick over an opened container of new oil, since it’s going to happen at some point anyway.

Step 10: Continue pouring in oil until the oil reaches the proper level in something called the “sight glass.” There are different schools of thought on exactly where the proper level is. You should probably spend the remainder of the day on one of those online forums to check the indicated levels for your latitude, longitude, elevation, distance from the sun, day of the week, moon phase, time of day, mental disposition, etc.

Step 11: Almost done! Take bike for a shake down cruise. You’ll notice I did not say replace filler cap, since, if you’re like me, you neglected to do that once on your F650 Funduro and had the hot oil spurt up all over your face shield and your new Hi-Vis yellow touring jacket, and from now on, well, that step obviously goes without saying.

Special Note: Upon returning your bike to the garage, make sure to park it out of all that oil spill you spilled, but don’t worry about standing in it yourself. This will allow your feet to slip when you’re putting the bike back up on it’s centerstand, which will cause the bike to fall over on it’s right side, which will necessitate calling your neighbor Wally over to help pick up the bike, which will prompt him to all the while make cruelly hurtful remarks about your prowess as a mechanic. On the upside though, Wally will most assuredly throw his back out.

 

You did it! To sum up then, let’s compare…

 

Oil Change at a Dealer:

Parts, lubricant: $35

Labor: $30

Tax: $3.50

Total: $68.50

 

DIY:

Five Quarts Oil $45

Kitty Litter (for oil spill) $4.98

Foil Turkey Roasting Pan $3.29

Carpet Shampoo $9.97

Dog Shampoo $3.79

Paper Towels (1 cs) $11.99

Aquamarine Guest Towel $10.50

Oil Recycling Fee: $5

Gas (for miscellaneous trips to town for paper towels, guest towel, shampoo, kitty litter, recycling, etc.) $20

Wally’s 12 Chiropractor Appointments: $360

Total: $474.52

Your savings:

 

Well, rather than thinking about savings, best to think about the intangible benefits of changing your oil yourself. The pride, the sense of accomplishment, the humility, the pain, the exasperation, the anger, the marital discord…well, just remember: YOU DID IT YOURSELF!