The Situation...

Yesterday, I noticed that my carb pissed gas. After that long, wonderful ride, there was a beautiful slice of humble pie just waiting for me. 

No problem, right? Ring up motorwest, pick up a new float (which has stopped floating), and ride on!

Turns out, the float for the 250 is a popular item. It'd take, at best, six weeks to get one from Austria. Damn - was this it? Could I give up so easily? Would this be the end of the road?

Never. I had an idea...

Gas seeped into the float through at least 22 hairline fractures, killing the buoyancy. This would be no simple solder job. First, I had to get the gas out so I could work on it. Since it had crept in slowly over time, it would probably take a long time to seep out, so I had to cut some holes with a hobby knife to drain it. 

Next, I soldered the drain holes, and sanded down the rest of the float to prepare for what came next...

Then, party time...

A bath in POR-15 Fuel Tank Sealer that I had left over from another project! I figure this coating would seal the fissures and holes, restoring sweet, critical buoyancy!

Drip, drip. 

This morning, after sanding some of the drips and bubbles, I put it back in the bike. So far, so good. No leaks, the float floats, and the bike runs! I'd recommend this fix for anyone else suffering from a compromised float made from relative unobtanium!

Triumph against all odds

That title may tip the scales toward dramatic. But, so do my emotions. Last night, I rolled into the garage, expecting to roll out astride the Puch. Put some oil in, went back to the bench to grab the key...but it wasn't there. Quick look around, but I couldn't find it. 

Two and a half hours later, I couldn't find it. 

I've lost a lot of things in my life. Some I've found, some never. An ipod I found  an hour after buying a replacement, a moped, a lucky acron, my mind...

*I half expected the oddly shaped key to fall off my arse when I took a shower, like a quarter (or earring) left on my bed on a humid night. 

Today, I made yet another trip to Motorwest. Luckily, Puch keys are universal and can be replaced by a 10-penny nail in a pinch. Unless you're trying to steal my bike, in which case the nail WILL NOT work. Devil. 

Key in hand, the bike started right up. Helmet on, goggles on, and riding in the sunshine. I got a lot of waves and smiles as I rode across Milwaukee, followed by a could of white two-stroke smoke, and all of the trouble was worth it. 

The plan from here is to ride it around until a few detail parts come in from Austria. Then, we'll get to the second stage of the restoration:

• replace the pipes, tires
  
• shine the wheels 
  
• repaint parts of the frame
  
• replace the tool and battery box hardware
  
• repaint tank, fender and headlight shell
  
• recover seat
  
• replace side stickers, and do custom tank and frame lettering
  

Want to have that done before Rockerbox!

* I realized that I still haven't showered since last night, maybe the key is yet to be found!

BMW!

I have another bike. I'll probably never let it go. It's the first one I really tore into, and I've bled for it. I have more money and time into it, and more miles on it, than I bargained for. 

In 2005, I sold my 1976 Honda cb550, and bought a 1977 BMW R75/7. Saw it on Chicago Craigslist - and travelled down to the rockford area the next day. There is was. Ridden hard. Rough looking, but I loved it. Stan, the guy who sold me the bike, is an interesting guy. A graphic designer by trade - his father was a gymnast in communist Poland. The Family came to the US during some kind of trapeze tour, and defected. 

That's Stan on the left - a cold delivery day. Note handlebar tassels. Decent euro-heritage there. 

Ripped fork boot, some nasty extra bits, dent in the tank - but I just wanted to get it started. Found acorns in the air filter housing, a dead battery, and gummed ass carbs. Since January 2006, I've worked on or replaced every part of this bike save the transmission. What was to be a simple, sympathetic restoration transformed into a cafe conversion: The birth of Anne Frank's Revenge. 

First, a note on the name: It combines the name of dread pirate Blackbeard's ship, The Queen Anne's Revenge with the name of Holocaust victim and diarist, Anne Frank. Thus, Anne Franks Revenge is a nod my my Jewish heritage AND Bayerische Motoren Werke's history during WW2. Internal historical/ethnic conflicts aside, BMW makes awesome bikes with awesome engines. The bike had the bench seat and a seat from a BMW r100rs, which originally inspired the cafe direction for the project. Here are some pics from the evolution:

Broken boot there. Ended up taking the whole front end apart, and breaking a fork leg. And, 1am ebay!

Big tank dent. Tried to fill and paint on my own. Learning experience there. Messy. 

Paint job wasn't great, but it ran!. New tires, coils, front disc and rotors, rear shoes, pipes, boyer electronic ignition, carb rebuild, fork rebuild, many valve adjustments and some custom lighting...

AND a professional paint job...

Not so bad, eh? This was still a couple of years ago, and there's been much more work since. Custom headlight brackets, Motogadget tach/speedo which was a true chore, and all kinds of maintenance. The tank ain't as shiny anymore, but she's a fine machine indeed! But, she's big, and heavy. I love riding it, but wanted something lighter, older and weird. That was the birth of PUCH lust. 

Ah, yes.

After a few days, I got back at it. Another stop at Motorwest and I returned armed with a new clutch cable. This was a really simple job, easiest yet.  Barrel fitting at each end, and an easy adjusting screw, and it was all good! Adjusted the front brake a little, tightened up all the nuts and bolts, and affixed two new tank emblems....looking good...but...

No matter where I looked, I couldn't find the little pivot pin that attaches the clutch lever to the handlebars. Luckily, Matt was pulling a saturday over at Motorwest, and I got the part. While I was there, I also got to see the insides of Matt's Puch 175 racing machine, not bad inspiration at all. 

All together, and back on the road. I was tooling around the neighborhood...all through the gears, tapping into the twingle's powerband nicely. Just floating along, then...brrrp brrrrrrrp puff. No more. Just crapped out. What could it be?

I kicked, kicked, sweated, kicked, talked to the bike, kicked...nothing. What could be wrong?

Out of gas. Ah, yes...the details. 

Next day, back with gas and a hankering to put the BMW plate on the bike and roll. Gas in, some more oil. Kick - nothing. Kick - nothing. Adjust the choke - nothing, New plug - nothing...etc, etc, etc. No spark, at the headlight wasn't coming on, either. 

Every damn time I get a bike, it needs a new battery. I end up frying them, ruining them, running them dead. Why should this be any different?

So, today, a lunchtime trip to M.West, new battery, afternoon of charging...

One, kick, and...life. All there, lights a twinkin'....I was in such a good mood I could even afford the torture of working on the Range Rover, which now has a newly tightened and leak free exhaust, and a new fuel filter. 

Tomorrow: DMV. 

Cheers!

The littlest things.

Viewing anywhere closer than about 50 yards exposed two major flaws with my new Puch: Headlight ears kept together with little machine screws, mega-putty and what may be some kind of braze or solder. If your eye followed the fine Austrian design down the front end a little more, you'd also notice a severed fork boot. 

Two simple things - so let's get started. Turns out, to replace each of these dang things, you pretty much have to disassemble the Northern and Southern Hemispheres of the front end. 

Brilliant. About 2.5 years ago, a similar attempt with my BMW (more on that bike later) made for a poetic intersection between a long career of weightlifting, ignorance, a stubborn nature, and incompetence. The result was a badly bent fork leg. 

Knowing a little more, and suffering from a few years of work-induced muscle atrophy, I got at it again. This time, my cheerful Irish-American friend, Connor, was there to help. Even wee, tipsy-elvish hands come in handy! That's Connor below, right before we found out what a noble pain-in-the ass it is to change a tire by hand. 

Matt Q. at the Puch's North American Headquarters, or, Motorwest, sold me a great manual and the parts I'd need for the job. He also imparted exact details on how to get it done. Since this is something that *Matt, a professional with years of experience with this EXACT bike could do in less than an hour, I figured we'd bang it out in like, 90mins., no doubt. 

Took about 6 hours...

It was a litany of eff-ups. little ball bearings rained down from the TOP and BOTTOM races of the stearing head - but we caught them all, with a magnet-wand, and garage-mate Chad and Winter's quick eye. Bit by bit, it came together. I had it almost all there, when I realized something else:

That headlight bucket will NOT fit between those fork tubes. SO, off again with a tube. This is how it goes, and it was all love - well, the kinda angry, heartbreaking and frustrating kind. I noticed that the clutch and front break...well, all the cables were shot. So, they're on the way...and there she sits, ready for the next operation:

Ghosts of Motos-Past

I'd never spent a moment thinking about motorcycles until a conversation with my mother while away at school lit a smoldering and stubborn fuse. 

In the dorms in Madison - you could hear the buzzing din of scooters at any hour. Honda Metropolitans, Yamaha Vinos, all manner of brightly colored step-through convenience. 

I never thought much about the scooters. Sure,  the campus is far flung, and some scooters seemed cool. I don't remember if I brought it up casually up over that off-white clamshell dorm phone, but a routine conversation went fatefully awry one sunny afternoon. I remember this clearly, because it's a point of  fierce contention between my mother and I:

*Mom: "Why don't you get a moped or little motorcycle or something."

Me: "OK."

That was it - from the moment of that simple call and response my soul has become increasingly devoted to the hunting, grooming, and occasional slaughter of motorbikes. 

I like to think it was a chime, a bell ring that set off a resonance that awakened a deeply buried avocation. The blood is there: My grandfather, uncle and cousin are (or were) legendary, at least in my mind, as ingenious mechanics and technicians. My cousin is a professional mechanic who works wonders with ancient steel bricks commonly referred to as "Mercedes". Whispers of long gone BMW Isettas, 2002s, Jaguar XK150s and other impossible cars flickered about at rare family gathering. Over the years, their advice and wisdom  tossed me about like a trembling and confused little ship in the daunting and wild mechanical ocean, but they are to me, an oil-soaked pedigree. 

Within weeks of the conversation,  I had Batavus Starflite - a tiny, top tank yellow beast. Pedal start, 50cc, weighed as much as my leg. On the first ride, I had to use the pedals to help get up a steep hill on the way home. 

I could have left it alone, I should have. But I put a turbo pipe on it. I tried to find a bigger carb. I painted it black, then with brilliant color change paint. I probably ruined it with my triumpant march toward tack, but I loved it. Sold it on, and got a Tomos Targa LX. Bought it from a guy who rented them in the Dells. He told me his favorite job ever was as a bricklayer. Cheers to him. I remember installing the turbo pipe, fresh bought, in the grass outside scootertherapy in Madison. The girl working there came outside to watch - "I guess you want to go fast NOW, eh..."

eh indeed. 

And i did, until it was stolen. Then, Honda Twinstar, a Honda MB5. I ruined the MB5 and learned what a piston ring did all at once. p next on the block, a Honda cb350, I ruined that one with something that started simply - changing a headlight bulb. Never tracked down the problem with it. I loved it, and miss it. 

Soon, a Honda cb550. Big, Bad, Brown. Soon, it had a supersport tank, turned bright orange, earned clubman bars and a sparco taillight, a brilliant machine. 

I'd still have it, had Stan Tulmanowicz, son of a polish acrobat who defected to the US during a trapeze tour, decided to sell his BMW. To be continued...

* My mother can't bare the thought that her suggestion got me into bikes. As a mother, she's terrified over me riding. Even though she always wants to ride my bikes, and waxes about her past exploits on various cool bikes. 

Welcome to TwingleBlog!

Welcome. Twingleblog is all about the process of bringing an old motorcycle from tatters to twinkles. It's called "TwingleBlog" because our subject is a 1968 Puch 250 Allstate - sporting a rare and crazy "twingle" engine. We'll get more into what that means and how it works later (If I figure it out). 

I lack the knowledge or discipline to make this a step-by-step guide to motorcycle restoration. I can, however, share the thrills, disasters, tragedy, and with luck, glory that classic motorcycle stewardship brings to regular folk like me. Let's get started.