cold ride

Shadows shroud
the road ahead
my eyes stare down the mist
and cling it does
to clothe and skin
“keep moving,” i insist

Blinding white
glares back at me
the covered moon so cold and still
but move i must
this cogent notion
tethered only by my will

This heavy shroud
hides the dark black top
adding cold and dismal tones
and strains my eys
and wets my cheeks
and chills me to my bones

Branches bend
toward this road
as if a blanket heavy soaked
were to cling
to each dark limb
adding to this darkness cloak

And as they strain
against the midnight moss
arching down toward my ride
sparse shadows dance
and strain my sight
as if my quest they must deny

Deadened echoes
by the covering cold
never more than as now so alone
move on move on
into this night
ill at ease i now have grown

Where moving forward
feels too fast
but to stop brings cold to creep
ever more
into this moore
being home is the warmth i keep

Homeward bound
this warmth i keep
in my mind the hearth does glow
awating me
abating this
to that determined i must go

From this steely sweat
and clenched tight grip
to ardor at my door
i’ll shuffle stiffly
from this trip
to a glow that thaws my core

At last this ride
will be done
the porch light to break this night
and off my ride
to rest at last
warm compassion within my sight

I’ll shake off
the wet and cold
and as i reach toward my door
i’ll keep in mind
what got me here
what my mind said i have in store

And so i stare
at the door
still locked as i approach
but as this ruse
did get me home
the truth now does encroach

I am here
I have arrived
i am safe and i am sound
i step in
turn on the light
and i look around

As it was
this place i live
where behind i leave the day
and to this house
again i’ll ride
this is where i stay

©Lance Marafiote 02/05/2010

slow motion

I keep hearing that I should expect things to be as slow as they are. After all, if something has to go first, it’s usually the toys. And I shouldn’t be surprised if things come to a dead stop.
Right. Thanks for the reality check.
And so it seems, the counter, as far as I can remember has never been so slow; the traffic in the store as a whole so low.
As much as I’ve seen the paradigm shift in what is considered a “biker” as compared to what was an enthusiast at that same time, I still see that very same spirit every once in a while.
Just as I begin thinking times, long before I became a partsguy, when it was nothing to hear some saddle tramp proclaim, “come hell or high water before my Harley goes anywhere,” someone walks in a drops whatever they can to keep their baby running.
And then there’s some positive chatter back in the warehouse. Whew!
Yeah; things are slow. But, hey, it’s still motion.

‘ didn’t realize

I just spent the day at a pretty big swap meet.  OK; no big deal right?  Except, this time, I was there to sell things.

It may not seem like such a big thing to most, but I’m one of those who prefers to not work my job when I’m not at work.  In this case, hawking motorcycle parts.

But, after over 40 years of being interested and around motorcycles, 30 of them with Harley-Davidson, it’s hard not to collect odds and ends pertaining to the industry.

And being a pack-rat doesn’t help in keeping the shelves clear, either. 

So it came to be that a buddy of mine and I decided to gather our collective “stuff we no longer want or need,” which, by the way is not so easy to admit, pile it into a trailer and trek to the swap meet grounds at 530 in the morning in – 39 degrees, no less – unload our wares and hope for the best.

It didn’t take long before I realized that what I thought is self evident isn’t.  I greeted just about everyone I could and asked a question or two… about anything.  Anything to get at least some sort of acknowledgement.

People would look at what we had, and I’d offer information about it.  Including price.

My buddy, on the other hand – who is not professionally involved in my part of the industry – said little.  And negotiated less.  At the beginning, anyway.

Being a quick study, I guess he realized that getting a few bucks for something no longer wanted is better than packing back up and taking it back home.

I found that I was moving parts around; reorganizing them, if you will as parts left the tarp we had spread on the groung.  Yup: “remerchandising.”  What the…? 

Offer.  Counter-offer.  Be ready to let them walk away, but only if the next offer gives you a sinking feeling.

Create a little value.  give the part a little history.  Ask them what they believe the thing is worth.  Counter-offer again.  Or add something to sweeten the deal with something I’d just as soon see it go away asap.  Presto.  Win-win.

As far as taking tests go; I suck. 

But put in a real life situation and, like anyone else, you’re bound to find out just how much you really know.

After today’s, uh, performance, I didn’t know how much I know.  I just didn’t realize.

free time

I remember in the not so distant past of my mind, when I took a job in a field that I had been active in as a hobby for quite a few years.
I didn’t listen to the stories I’d heard about how those wonderful, great things can become a burden to the point of burn-out and no return when whatever it is becomes a profession.
…I haven’t worked on a car for just for fun since 1979.
I do remember times where I was too tired to make dinner after work, so I’d grab a quick something at some fast-food joint and somehow find the energy to tinker on my bike, and work all hours into the night.
Working for a bike shop had always been a dream of mine, but I wasn’t so sure it would happen after I left a shop I had opened with a friend some years before.
But, here I am, after over a decade working at a franchise.
Yeah, I feel burned out often enough after I get home from the grind to where I have little interest – no, make that “motivation” to step into my garage. And sometimes I can here that voice telling me, “I warned you.”
The writing might be on the wall; a good portion of the people who work at my place of employment don’t ride, ever owned a bike, or seem to have any desire to. (Granted, times do change – today’s biker establishments are nothing like they used to be…).
But, I’ve come to realize that sometimes all it takes is a little time. Spell how you will, a few days off is all it takes and I’m back in the garage. I don’t know if this post has a time stamp on it but if it does, count this as evidence that the “all day to late night wrenching” is still very much alive and well in me.
If only a could get more of this free time…

the only thing that doesn’t change

Like it or not, we’re in a retail market. Harley’s always been in the retail market. And said market is not only about the product, but about it’s ability to stay alive in it; to grow; to remain fresh and new to the potential cusomter, be he (or she) new or seasoned.
The heart of the machine has been, for the most part, through the majority of HD’s history, the 45 degree V-twin engine. Many era’s throughout Harley’s history, can be and often is defined by the name of big twin engines. “Flatty,” “knuckle,” Pan,” etc. But, even then, year by year, within any given era, HD made outward changes Of course. There’s the different models that changed in color, or different logo’s on the fuel tank, frame changes, sheet metal or what have you, but the engines still remained until something significant changed.
As the years go by, we see that, as much as things had changed, many things didn’t in that parts were quite interchangeable. The “package” may have changed, and even the substance may have improved, but there were still ways to retrofit and modify by mixing and matching parts from one year to another, or even from one era to another.
In the spirit of change, though, recent years have become quite proprietary: This era’s machine rarely cross-refernces to the past, making room, of course, for things like light bulbs, and footpegs.
In the name of improvement, HD, it seems, for whatever reason, has moved away from their past machines to the point where new parts are hardly recognizable to those who have been dedicated to the old machine they ride.
Not only are parts changing, the numbering system to ID parts has changed. How is it that one might be able to ID a part for the year it was introduced? No longer will it be possible with the new numbers that are to take over for the old system – the legacy system as it’s now called.
Change can be good, but is it still good at the expense of those who want to keep there “old” machine running?
Of course HD needs to maintain it’s financing to keep running, but to alienate the past for the sake of change? Pricing aside, HD is leaving itself at the mercy of the entire of market to pick up where HD discards. Litigation be damned, change is nothing more than closing a door to open another.
And the aftermarket sector will be, and is already poised to take full advantage of what Milwaukee decides to turn it’s back on.
And the die-hards who would prefer to frequent the HD franchise for genuine HD parts will be forced to take care of their pride and joy by means other than HD.
Improvements? Sure. EPA? I understand.
But I’m really going to miss the people who work on their own bikes because they don’t want anyone else touching it unless absolutely necessary.
Things change, and there’s no stopping it, really.
Yeah; it’s inevitable, and it’s going to happen.
And that is the only thing that’s not going to change.

total recall

So, I get to work, get set up for the day and just about to head to the coffee pot when the GM calls fof me to answer some questions for a customer.
“No problem,” says I.
Off to the service bay where a customer stands mumbling and my GM with somewhat of a belwildered look on his face.
I thought it was just because it pre-coffee in the A.M. …I was wrong.
The customer is having one hell of time explaining to me that all he wants is the screws that hold the exhaust on to heads of his stock shovelhead.
But wait: there’s more!
He says there’s 2 per head. “Aftermarket?” I ask.
“No.”
Oh, boy; this is going to be interesting.
The store is not yet open, but I lead the guy to the parts counter, turn on the lights and break out a parts manual.
“Ummmm, yeah, that looks like it,” he says.
1st, he says it an ‘83 fxls: a shovelhead with rubber mounts. Right: an FXR.
I prove him not wrong, but rather, me right, that the bike is indeed an FXR AND that there IS only 1 screw per head per header.
OK.
That mission is accomplished.
My day is starting off wonderfully.
Then he mentions he needs 3 screws to bolt his fender to his front forks.
“Three?”
“yeah; 3.”
Actually, he did need all 4, but he forgot.
After 20 minutes and $4.49 in sccrews and washers, the deal is done.
He’s gone.
I’m already tired.
All this and it’s not even 8:30 AM, yet.
Fast forward to 3 PM.
I have a call.
Guess who?
Right.
“I can’t figure out what size bolts I need for my fender,” says the stuttering, voice on the other end of the tele line.
“The rear fender?” I ask using my awesome power of memory and prowess in the process of elimination.
“No. My front fender.”
“U, didn’t you buy 4 bolts from me this moring for that?”
“Ummmm, what?”
“Yeah; I showed you in the book, right?”
Silence.
“Do you have the invoice or receipt (one in the same)?”
“eah, that’s how I remembered who to call. I called the number here on the… Oh, damn! I see them here on it.”
….So he rambled for another 5 minutes, thanked me, and that was it.
I went back to my desk thinking not bad stuff, but feeling sorta sorry for the guy.
My memory isn’t what it used to be, especially when I have a lot going on at the same time (after all; this is at the job I’m talking about), but, man, if space is the final frontier, this guy went above and beyond.
But humility plays out in funny ways.
Not but a couple of hours later, I’m asked about a windshield to which I say, “sure, I have one,” drag it out looking right at it and it’s for another model.
I knew that.
… Really.
I’m sure I’ll be getting a call to help build the aformentioned shovelhead across the phone lines and over the counter soon enough.
But this time, I’ll remember that recall is not just for those who think they can remember.

quick stop

I’ve been getting emails lately about intersection cameras that bust people who run red lights.
That’s not such a bad idea, if you leave the Orwellian aspect out of it.
Hopefully it’ll decrease the number of throttle jockeys getting hit at intersections.
What worries me, though, is that now these cameras are also busting drivers for rolling on to the white line. That’s not a safety issue, it’s a money issue.
Why do I think it’s not a safety issue? It’s bad enough that not all yellow lights are timed the same, therefore, at times having to slam on the brakes, but now, decreasing the margin to come to a complete stop increased the likelyhood that the vehicle behind you might come to a complete stop… against the back of your machine. I don’t know about you, but that doesn’t bode to well for any machine with only two wheels.

time away

Vets day. Thanks to all who served (and to those who realize the power of their support). I’ll plug Applebee’s here: thanks for dinner. Served to all vets and active members of the American military. Last year, the first year, I thought was a hoax. Nope. This year, I went. Sat down with friends and had meal and a beer. It was good. Talked to the store and regional manager; and that was good. Made a suggestion about recognizing each party as they were called in for the branch they served – if that’s why they were there – instead of just calling their name. We’ll see how it goes next year.
Back to what I was doing: just having some chow, a beer or two with very good friends (one of whom happens to be my brother), and no shop talk.
Sometimes, just getting away is the best way to realize that what you do everyday for “the man,” isn’t so bad when you look from outside the frame and realize that maybe, just maybe, what you’re doing is a choice. And that choice – that freedom to choose – is accomplished and kept only by those who fight for it.
Thanks to all who fight, in the way they choose to, for the right to choose.

plumber’s pipes

Ya know, the old maxim about the plumbers pipes always leaking seems to no more true than in my own garage. Not that there’s anything leaking, but at work, while I’m able to know where things go, in what order, how they’ll fit on the shelf, or rack or what have you, I can’t find a damn thing in my garage.
People tell me I’m so organized. They should be me and then try to find their mind.
It’s probably under the drawer in my toolbox where I keep my wrenches. And if you can locate my 7/16 box-end, let me know, I need to tighten up a couple of bolts on a project I started last week.
…let me know if you find that, too.

That’s THE sound

An old shovelhead. FNG in service dept. “Get the old guy in the parts dept.” Ok; no problem. O…M….G! This bike is a disaster. I say, “where do you think you should start?”
Over a period of a few months, and a few quips about that “old stuff” from the other techs, the FNG comes through. He’s a tech AND mechanic to boot. I know it even if it is me, and the old FNG against the majority youth and the cynics in the shop.
And a sales guy says, as the old shovel takes off for it’s first official trip on the test circuit, “there’s nothing that sounds better. That’s the way a Harley *should* sound.”
After all I’ve heard about that bike since it’s arrived, that was music to my ears.