DEBRIS.COMgood for a laugh, or possibly an aneurysm

My motorbike has succumbed to the cold, wet weather. I needed to ride it downtown last week, but the motor wouldn’t turn over. Typical thing: the battery had run low. Combine that with stale gas, from not driving for a couple weeks, and the result is a 500 lb sculpture that looks remarkably like a motorcycle. “Look, the tires are real rubber!”

My recovery plan called for bump-starting the bike. This involves rolling the bike down a hill to gain momentum, and then shifting into gear and releasing the clutch. The plan brought a logistical problem — my garage is at the bottom of what a software engineer, such as myself, might call a “nontrivial” hill. In fact it’s a huge hill, from the top of which I can see, I think, Boston.

With a running start I managed to push my bike about ten feet up the hill. I realize how pitiful that sounds. It cast doubt on any ideas I might have had about my strength or fitness. The only reassuring aspect to the whole black comedy is that I had the foresight to sweep away the pine needles before trying to manhandle the bike up the hill… otherwise I could have easily slipped, pulled the bike down on top of me, and slid beneath it to a halt by the garage. I had visions of punctured lungs and road-rash.

Perched on the side of this virtual cliff, astride the bike, I executed a 17-point turn to aim the machine back down the hill. This gave me about 30 feet of rolling space before I’d run out of driveway… just enough time, I hoped, to push off, run full-tilt for two seconds (while sitting on the bike, Flintstone style), shift into gear, pop the clutch, and brake to a halt before slamming into a chain-link fence.

A half dozen skid-marks later, amid heavy, ragged breathing, I determined that all was perhaps not well with the engine. I called the local service facility and was reminded that motorcycle folks are invariably friendly, helpful and supportive. I would love to spend more time with those sorts of people, if spending time with them didn’t mean dragging one’s knees around right-angle turns at 80mph. The technician suggested a remedy and offered to teach me the procedure if I stopped by the shop.

I had no way to get to the shop, though, given the condition of the moto-sculpture in the garage. So I embarked on the draining of the carburetor float-bowls alone, working without a proverbial net, or more to the point, without a drain hose.

The task involves opening two valves to drain whatever gas is in the carburetors. This gas goes bad quickly, making the engine difficult to start after sitting for even just a few weeks. Draining the bowls is a typical first step in prepping a bike for storage, and (I’ve learned) an essential first remedy when the bike wasn’t prepped for storage.

Getting to the screws is a problem. With experience, the right tools, and small hands, this is probably not a difficult task. But I have no experience, the wrong tools, and big hands — big enough that squeezing them between frame rails to manipulate micro-miniature Allen wrenches is an exercise in pain, frustration, and blood.

And then there’s the issue of where to put the gas. Given three feet of plastic tubing, I could have easily drained the carbs into a suitable container on the ground. But I had no tubing, so I was relegated to fitting a small cup into the engine compartment, beneath the drain valves, to catch the gas as it dripped out. Impatience with the process overcame any effective scavenging strategy, so I returned to the garage with two options: a plastic drinking cup and a styrofoam drinking cup.

Experienced mechanics and anyone who has read the Anarchist’s Cookbook can probably see where this is going…

The plastic cup didn’t fit, so I broke off the top third of the styrofoam cup and wedged the rest inside the engine compartment.

A few more minutes’ worth of cursing and knuckle-scraping opened the first valve. It drained beautifully, dumping about a quarter-cup of gasoline into my styrofoam cuplet. Then it took me a few minutes to close the valve, after which I picked up the foam cup to dump it out.

“Hmm, it doesn’t weigh as much as it should,” I thought, and then, “Aieee! The cup dissolved!” I should have remembered this: styrofoam dissolves in gasoline. My foam cup of gas was now a foam ring with no gas, and no bottom. The gas in question had run out underneath the bike, leaving a trail of foam/gas sludge on top of the transmission, which fortunately wasn’t hot, because styrofoam plus gasoline equals napalm. I’m not looking forward to my next long ride, I can tell you. If any traces of jellied gasoline remain, I could be in for a Darwin Award nomination. (Think “fireball.”)

Finally I had to jump-start the bike from my car battery, which with its inherent risk of a hydrogen-gas explosion brought an anxiety-provoking conclusion to a dismal afternoon’s work.