Category: Wheels

Cars, bikes, trucks, Hummers, SUVs, tanks, skateboards – whatever gets us down the road. Even Vespas, although I doubt it

GIVE TIL IT HURTS!

The EV fever (dream) has broken at last

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Welcome news indeed.

Report: Hemi V-8s Are So Back and Are Headed for Dodge Muscle Cars
Production of most Hemi engines allegedly resumes in August for Ram and Dodge products.

Ram truck fans got exciting news two weeks ago when a dealer in Wisconsin leaked details of an internal Stellantis presentation confirming the return of the 5.7-liter Hemi V-8 in the Ram 1500, which for the 2025 model year had gone six-cylinder-only. A new report claims other Hemis, including the 6.4-liter “392” and supercharged 6.2-liter “Hellcat” V-8s are also coming available again after a year off, and they’re not headed only to Ram trucks but also the new Dodge Charger, which launched this year in all-electric Daytona guise but with six-cylinder Sixpack models to follow.

(Okay, for sticklers, we should point out that the non-392 6.4-liter V-8 has remained in production for Ram HD models while other variants were discontinued for the 2025 model year.)

According to anonymous sources speaking with MoparInsiders, Hemi production will restart in August at the Dundee Engine Plant in Michigan, and it won’t be limited to the 5.7-liter V-8 as previously reported. If the sources are correct, the plant will build all Hemi variants, including the 392 and Hellcat engines. Whether that includes all variants of the Hellcat remains to be seen.

A separate report from the same outlet published a day later claims Dodge engineers are hard at work fitting the Hemi V-8 under the hood of the new Charger, which controversially dropped all eight-cylinder engines for this new generation, much like the Ram 1500. We reported back in 2022 this would happen based on information from our own sources, but Dodge denied that report and seemed to be committed to a Hemi-less muscle car future.

Read: a muscle-less “muscle” car future.

The initial report goes on to say the engines will likely be carryover designs, but that new enhancements could be in the cards. It also broached the possibility of a new Hemi variant with even greater displacement than the 6.4-liter engine already found in the Ram HD.

If you build it, they will come…and buy.

(Via Insty)

Free verse

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In the course of a phone confab with my friend Don just now, for some strange reason the hoary old English limerick that begins “In days of old/when knights were bold…” came up. The version I’ve always known best runs thusly:

In days of old, when knights were bold
And condoms not invented
We wrapped a sock around our cock
And babies were prevented.

Now tell me that ain’t just hi-larious, I triple dog dare ya.

Anyhoo, this memory inspired me to do a Luxxle search for the opening line after I’d hung up, seeing as how I knew there was any number of different iterations of this bit of bawdy doggerel. And sure enough.

In days of old when knights were bold
And women weren’t invented,
They all drilled holes in telegraph poles,
and came away contented.

And:

In days of old when knights were bold
and toilets weren’t invented,
they laid their load upon the road
and walked away contented!

And:

In days of old
When men were bold
And paper not invented
They wiped their ass
With blades of grass
And walked away contented.

Last but by no means least:

In days of old, when knights were bold,
And girls were not particular
You’d line them all against the wall
And screw them perpendicular

What can one say but: heh. I do love me some lit’ratchure, I truly, truly do.

I’m sure there are many other versions of this classic floating around out there; if you know any, please feel free to share ‘em with us in the comments section. Lord knows that, in these parlous times, we could all use a good laugh any time we can get one.

Update! Upon further reflection it occurred to me that, as fodder for public-restroom graffiti goes, the fine old poesy above ranks right up there with a couple of stellar examples I ran across in a Chapel Hill dive bar the band was playing at long ago, scrawled at eyeball-height above the lone urinal. To wit:

Flush twice—it’s a long way to Taco Bell

And then another, older but still legible graffito:

Why change Dicks in the middle of a screw? Vote for Nixon in ’72!

Good stuff, no? Then there was a pre-Innarnuts listicle enlivening the green room of CLT’s Park Elevator before it went the way of all nightclub flesh, which started off thusly:

REASONS WHY THE INDIGO GIRLS SUCK

  1. They aren’t really indigo
  2. They aren’t really girls
  3. Off limits pussy pie

The above listicle items were added to by various Sharpie-wielding band members over time until finally, two (2) entire walls were covered by ‘em, transforming the ever-expanding list from the ordinary misspelled, punctuation-bereft, and ungrammatical semi-bon mots into a bona fide epic of rowdy witticism. Sadly, the first three are all I can remember now, but I do know the BPs laughed ourselves dizzy the first time we saw it, and raced in to check for new additions each and every time we played the joint ever after; it quickly became our first order of business before we loaded in, set up, and sound-checked, even.

I know the Indigo Girls gigged there at least once before the decrepit Park Elevator building was torn down and replaced by a yuppie-puppie pancake house or million-dollar condos or some such shite, so presumably they must’ve seen the backhanded tribute at some point. Who knows, they may have even added to it themselves—provided that the Girls (not! NOT!!) could’ve scraped up even a facsimile of a sense of humor between them, that is. Never met ‘em myself, so I won’t speculate on how likely that might be.

Park Elevator also happens to be the place where I rode my stripped down, straight-piped, apehanger-bedecked 1971 FLH through the low freight-loading entrance and right onto the stage at the beginning of our set, parking up next to my guitar amp. My friend Joe followed me in on his hot-rod Sportster, parking over on Stage Left opposite my Shovelhead; both bikes were custom-painted white and had been thoroughly shined up beforehand so that they gleamed and glittered beautifully under the multi-colored stage lighting.

Who was it we were opening for that night—the Cramps, maybe? Somebody else? Or were the BPs headlining the show? Ahh, the hell with it; doesn’t matter now, it’s over and done with. The one thing I’m confident of is that nobody who was there to witness our spectacular stunt-entrance has forgotten it, nor will they.

Backstory of how the deal went down: upon arriving at Park Elevator I approached the owner, Tim, to inform him of my nefarious plans and also to confirm that the jerry-built PE stage could handle a total of approximately 1500 pounds of extra weight without collapsing and killing us all. Tim grinned sheepishly, shrugged, and replied, “I dunno; it’s up to you, man, I’m cool with it!” Which noncommittal response put before me a question I’d asked myself time and again before doing another reckless, risky, and altogether foolish thing: What would Jerry Lee Lewis do?

There was but one answer to that, which was clear as a mountain spring. So I fired that bitch up (kick only, natch), muscled the 20-inch apes (on five-inch straight risers) down and back enough to JUST clear the freight-ramp door at Stage Left, and rode on in—so far so good, no problem. Shut the low-slung Shovel down, gently leaned it onto the kickstand, dismounted, strapped on the git-fiddle, slashed that almighty first-position A chord, let that mutha ring until the tormented Marshall amp screamed in razor-edged agonies of feedback, and may the revels commence, baby!

And the rest, as they say, is rock and roll history. A pic of the ol’ gal as she was in days of yore:

As with guitars, amps, cars, and women, I never could seem to keep a bike around for more than four-five years max before losing interest and offloading it. The 71 FL, though, was special: I held onto that one for ten (10) years before dumping her and moving on. A whole lotta years, a whole lotta miles, a whole lotta smiles, two (2) girlfriends, and I don’t even know how many cars, guitars, and amplifiers over that unusually lengthy (for me) period.

Those ten glorious years saw:

Three (3) custom paintjobs

Five (5) sets of exhausts, the uncontested champeen of which was an HD two-into-one system featuring no-shit tuned headers—the stock factory system for one (1) year on certain late-70s FX models, a rara avis greatly prized among Those Who Know. Ugly as sin, excessively heavy, too quiet for comfort, that rig nonetheless made my Milwaukee Marauder run like a raped ape after me and Goose punched holes in the big, clunky baffle it came with, a mod which increases exhaust-gas flow while still retaining the back pressure highway and byway cruiser machines require to operate at peak efficiency all day. There’s a reason, after all, why HD straight-pipe exhausts are pretty much universally known as “drag pipes,” even amongst non-biker types who have never swung a leg over a Hog in their lives and know precious little and care even less about ’em: it’s because drag pipes only work well on actual dragsters that run at full-throttle all the time, for short but exhilarating bursts down a stick-straight quarter- or eighth-mile strip

Five (5) sets of handlebars/risers: buckhorns on pullbacks, drag bars, 16″ apes, 20” apes, these wide-ass dresser longhorns I could only put up with for a cpl-three months

A full-custom suicide shift designed, built, and installed by me and Goose; unavailable at any price back then, now offered by several aftermarket manufacturers

Two (2) primary drives, enclosed chain and open belt

Six (6) seats, with and without sissy-bar, from a horrible solo seat on springs to the near-perfect Mustang pillow-seat shown above

Four (4) detachable saddlebag sets, one a rare factory Sportster arrangement; two throwover leather bag sets, one all fringed and fancy, one plain-Jane; lastly, the fiberglass bags shown above, a set of aftermarket el-cheapos

As the above partial list shows, I expended a great amount of time and effort on re-imagining, customizing, and re-working that faithful, rock-solid murdersickle into various guises. All part of the fun of Harley-Davidson ownership—actually, one of the primary reasons crusty old gearheads like me get addicted to the blasted things.

Updated update! After extensive digging, I eventually managed to unearth a pic showing the OEM 2-into-1 exhaust I waxed rhapsodic about earlier.

1978 FXS Lowrider, that would be, a very well preserved example of a long-dead breed. Look close and you’ll see the points (!) cover proudly sports the Number One-American flag insignia from the AMF (Annoying Manufacturing Flaw) era.

Simple, rugged, uncompromising: to me, this is simply what a Harley Davidson motorcycle looks like. Not anymore, unfortunately. Check out the official H-D website and you’ll find page after tiresome page of bland, cookie-cutter mundanities that bear no resemblance whatsoever to the straightforward, classic machines  of yesteryear, which I think is a crying shame.

Yes, they leaked oil. Yes, they vibrated so bad they could make your hands go numb and shake your teeth loose on a long trip. Yes, they were so slow they could barely get out of their own way. Yes, they were heavy pigs. Yes, the inferior clutch, four-speed tranny, long-throw shifter, and loosey-goosey shift linkage could make changing gears a hit or miss proposition sometimes. Yes, the suspension, handling, and brakes were a good bit shy of adequate. What of it? All those shortcomings could be addressed with a little backyard wrenching and some high-performance components, which even back then were readily available.

No self-respecting biker I’ve known would think having to work on his own bike so as to get everything dialed in to his personal satisfaction to be a bridge too far. Hell, invite your bros and their ol’ ladies over and have ‘em bring a case or three of cold beer along, crank up some slammin’ tunes on the jambox, and have yourselves a blast. Far from being any kind of deal-breaker, it’s an integral part of the biker lifestyle.

See what I mean about that exhaust, though? Pretty it ain’t, but it performed superbly, at least on my FLH. Looks as if Harley-D went for Function and said straight to hell with Form on those babies. Note how the rear pipe curls around the nose-cone cover like a snake, which is what it took to make tuned headers out of the system. Tuned headers, for anyone who doesn’t know, are basically just header pipes of equal length and diameter, see. After the first foot, foot and a half from the manifold clamp, the rest doesn’t matter. Rare as hen’s teeth back in the 70s and 80s, 2-into-1 exhausts with tuned headers for Harleys are common as dirt nowadays—you can’t take two steps without tripping over the aftermarket ones, for Big Twins and Sporties alike.

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Hood ornaments? I gotcha hood ornaments!

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Schwingin’, mufuggiz.

Why don’t cars have hood ornaments anymore?
Safety, aerodynamics, and style all played a factor

LACK of style, more like. Truth to tell, the reason cars don’t have hood ornaments anymore is because, in the final analysis, nondescript modern-day plastic eggmobiles don’t deserve ‘em. Anyways. Onwards.

Hood ornaments started as a disguise for homely radiator caps more than a century ago. Once upon a time, radiator caps were featured on the outside of the car so drivers could keep an eye on the coolant water vapor temperature. Those caps weren’t particularly fetching as a design feature, so automakers started getting creative by adding “car mascots.”

Early cars were not equipped with coolant temperature gauges. One enterprising company created the Moto-Meter, a temperature gauge mounted on the radiator. As manufacturers began to incorporate coolant temperature gauges, the Moto-Meter disappeared, but the hood ornament remained for some brands. 

Today, only a few high-end manufacturers still offer these gorgeous hood jewelry, like Rolls-Royce and Bentley. What happened to these mobile works of art?

The Safety Nazis got ‘em, like most everything else in American life that had class, style, and a certain je ne sais quoi about ‘em. But like I said, ya want a hood ornament, here’s ya a gottdamn hood ornament, bub.

That there chrome spear is from Christiana’s old 56 Fairlane Town Sedan*, which she lovingly called “Lainie,” for reasons which should be obvious.

* NOMENCLATURE NOTE: For the non-Ford-geeks out there, if any: Town Sedan=4-door, Club Sedan=2-door—or, as my old 54-55-56-Ford guru and mentor Don Stickler liked to say of the Town Sedans, you can always tell ‘em when you see ‘em because they had, and I quote, “too many doors.” Pic of mine and C’s beloved rides parked up side by side and nose to tail at the Diamond:

Photo snapped not long after I’d sold my 56 (at left) to a CFD-firefighter pal of mine, Chuckie Inman’s older brother, who yanked the grill (beat all to hell and gone, rusty AF to boot) and hood (which was the wrong damned one, from an earlier model of unknown provenance, so never really fit right anyhow) off altogether and mounted dual-quad Holly carbs atop an Edelbrock manifold because hey, why not? He’s incorrigible like that.

My beautymous Fairlane Club ran the grand old 292 Y Block mill, whereas Christiana’s had a nice little 289 tucked in betwixt the fender walls—a very common, easy-peasy mod with these cars (you don’t even need to change the motor mounts; just find yourself a Pony-car engine somewhere, drop ‘er into the bay, and bolt ‘er right up). Somebody had caught wise to that little swaperoo long before the black Townie had become the apple of my late wife’s eye. How we got her old Ford down from NYC is a heck of a story in its own right, gotta remember to tell youse guys all about it here someday.

Bought my 56 off a guy just across the Alabama line from Jawja—the very first exit, IIRC—who had been Pro-Street drag racing it; when I went to check the sled out, ol’ boy had to remove the fuel cell from the trunk and re-install the boring old stock gas tank while I sat on a tree stump outside his backyard garage/shop and waited, the agreed-upon purchase price of all of 2 grand cash money burning a hole in my pocket the whole time.

Once the fuel-storage issue was resolved I jumped behind the wheel, fired her up, and cruised that classy old girl all the way back to CLT (what, five hours? Six, maybe?) with nary a single hiccup the entire trip. She ran like a sewing machine ever afterwards, nary a smidgeon of trouble did she ever give me.

Well, excepting the time one of the control-arms tore loose from the rusted-out front crossmember and drove itself several inches into the soft, muddy ground at the Harley shop, et-up crossmembers being another well known and all too common fact of 56 Fairlane life. This was due to a piss-poor factory design that had the radiator-overflow outlet pissing directly down onto said crossmember and then just sitting there in a puddle, gnawing away at the metal.

Me and my friend Calvin dealt with that minor nuisance using some square stock culled from the H-D shop scrap-metal pile. We cut said scrap-steel down and welded it into a reasonable facsimile thereof; painted our handiwork in multiple coats of rattlecan Krylon black; and finally welded the whole sordid mess to the frame using Mark 1-Mod 0 eyeball measurements.

Which improvisational scrounging/fabrication/installation project, I freely admit, was not just one hundred percent straight and/or perfectly aligned when we were done. The car kinda crabbed down the road, like a small plane trying to land in a strong crosswind does. Not that it bothered my jerry-riggin’ ass none; I assure you I was NOT dissuaded in the slightest, and happily drove the auty-mobile for many more years having to rassle that huge steering wheel to and fro all the while so as to keep it between the ditches. Of course, I bolted up a custom Bettie Page suicide-knob of my own devising to help out, which I wound up getting a lot of use out of.

You know what Mike’s Iron Law #187 says, folks: whatever the headache, issue, or obstacle may be, there’s ALWAYS a workaround, and any real, true-blue American is ALWAYS gonna find it. Far as I’m concerned, that can-do, never say die spirit is a huuuuge part of what made America great to begin with.

(Original article via Insty)

Update! Seeing as how I’m sitting around doing a whole lot of nothing much tonight, might as well tell the gripping tale of how Christiana’s Lainie made her way down to her new NC home after we got hitched and set up housekeeping together.

Lainie’s prior residence was out in Old Tappan, NJ, in the attached one-space garage of my mother-in-law Xenia’s palatial abode there. Before Christiana acquired her, some previous owner had reupholstered the interior, re-carpeted her, did the engine-swap or had it done, replaced the suspect crossmember and re-routed the radiator overflow outlet, and had the car painted. All in all, though the paint had lost its luster and faded down to almost a matte black, she ran and drove just fine. Every other week C would go out and visit her mom, take the Fairlane out and tool around a bit, wash it, etc. There was a trustworthy auto-repair shop a few blocks away where she’d take the car for regular oil changes and such-like maintenance.

When we got married, the question arose of how we were gonna bring Lainie down to live with us. Although I offered, driving a 1956 Ford twelve (12) hours to Charlotte from NJ was simply out of the question. Christiana did some checking around and found a local auto-transport outfit who would ship the car to their Pineville facility at a not-quite-ghastly rate, whereupon we could come pick it up at our leisure and drive her to her/our new home.

Which is what we did. Somehow, though, once we’d gotten Lainie into the roomy two-car garage at our house, she seemed to fall into something of a snit, stubbornly refusing to start even though she’d made it home just fine from Pineville only a cpl-three weeks before. It was a mystery; after taking several stabs at trying to see what was up, I finally threw my hands up in disgust and walked away.

To this day I still feel guilty about that; Christiana never stopped imploring me to please, please, pretty please get her Fairlane back up and running again, but what with one thing and another—working at the Harley shop, touring with the band, mowing the damned lawn, etc etc etc I never made time to walk downstairs to the garage and just do it.

And then she was gone from me, her beloved Ford still stone-dead out in the damned garage while I sat upstairs doing my utmost to drink myself to death so I might rejoin the love of my life wherever her spirit may have fled before it was too late.

It still haunts me. I would sit at the bar in Snug Harbor and weep loudly and inconsolably, slamming drink after drink, my friends Ned and Jason on either side of me, their arms wrapped tight around me trying to protect me from myself as best they could. They were de facto bodyguards; on the not-infrequent occasions that some unknowing bar patron would ask just what the hell was wrong with me anyway, Ned and Jase would run them off immediately with a no-nonsense snarl, leaving no room for error in anybody’s mind.

The pain of losing Christiana, stupendous as it already was, was compounded by the anguish of knowing that the one thing my beautiful wife had ever asked me to do for her I had foolishly not done. I had let this wonderful woman down for no good reason; I knew I had, and it was too late now to make it up to her. To this very day I still have nightmares about it.

I couldn’t bring myself to ride my prized 06 Sportster anymore; I no longer gave a tinker’s damn about any of the things that had always made life worth living. I could hardly even go into the garage at all; Her Car was in there, and I hadn’t the intestinal fortitude to so much as look at poor Lainie now.

Until one balmy, mid-summer Friday afternoon, my dear friend Joe Lemyre piloted his own Harley Big Twin down from Boone, got all up in my grill, and snapped me the fuck out of it.

First off, Joe informed me in no uncertain terms that tonight I WOULD swing a leg over the Sporty and go riding with him, if only a short putt through the neighborhood. After we’d done that, got back to my place, and un-assed our respective scoots, he laid holt of my wrist with a grizzly-bear grip, dragged me over to dusty, slack-tired, cobwebbed-over Lainie and told me that tomorrow, come Hell or high water, we WOULD turn to, get cracking, and put her back on the road again. No matter what it took, how long it took, or how much it cost, it by God WOULD get done.

And damned if we didn’t do it. Took several months of wrenching, replacing worn-out or broken parts, draining the tank and replacing the smelly near-varnish with fresh gas. We installed new plugs, plug wires, and a Mallory electronic distributor. We borrowed a brand-spanking-new, high-buck Quicksilver 4-barrel from a friend and took the battered, clogged Motorcraft one-lunger off, wrapped it in red shop rags, and shoved it to the back of my workbench to await further developments. We Windexed the filmed-over glass; we wiped down the vinyl seats; we re-inflated the sagging tires to spec.

When we finally did coax Lainie into coughing, farting, sputtering life again at last, the cheers, shouts, and raucous laughter which erupted from the five or six of us in the garage that night rang in my ears no less gloriously than the sound of choirs of angels singing. As she gradually settled down to a smooth, loping idle there wasn’t a dry eye to be seen, nothing but happy smiles on every grease-smudged face.

And that’s another thing I will never, ever forget.

Yeah, any yay-hoo wants to tell me that internal combustion engines don’t have souls is gonna have to go peddle that horseshit someplace else, sorry. Ain’t no market for it here.

Rolling abortion

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The late, unlamented Supervee.

The little engine that couldn’t: A short saga of the Super Vee
When it comes to motorcycles, I like the odd ducks.

I prefer ducks that are actually capable of moving under their own power, but maybe that’s just me.

I’m no match, though, for Paul and Joel at American Cycle Fabrication. You might remember Paul as the man who had those $35 Harleys we wrote about. Recently, I meandered by to see what the boys were up to and what curiosities I could turn up. I walked in the door, and sitting on a bench was the mother lode: a Super Vee.

Nothing gets me going like an abstruse piece of motorcycle equipment, so when I saw this engine parked there, I started pushing people and parts out of my way so I could snap a few photos. You see, I’ve heard of Super Vees, but I’d never actually seen one live and in color. The particular one I saw was a third-generation, the final design ever offered for sale — and the rarest. Approximately 45 were ever sold.

Now as a rowdy, uncut stripling, I read all the biker rags religiously: Iron Horse, my all-time fave under David Snow (CAUTION: Fakeberg link) and my dear departed friend Chris Pfouts; Outlaw Biker, for whom I would later toil thanklessly; American Iron, for whom my tight Pittsburgh brother Mike Seate ditto; Easyriders, the granpappy of ‘em all, and entirely righteous back before it began to suck dead donkey dicks (in its glory days, ER once ran a pic of the illustrious Traci Lords [link is related, just scroll down] on the cover, under the preposterous nom de slut “Suzy Softail,” IIRC); Biker Lifestyle, an also-ran publication about which there really ain’t a whole lot to say other than they always seemed to run more titty-pics than any of the aforementioned rags; last and probably least, Steve Iorio’s Supercycle, which eventually became little more than a vehicle for pimping Iorio’s useless PoS Supervee doorstops.

A pic of the monstrosity in its natural habitat: to wit, propped up on a workbench surrounded by the tools with which the poor schlub who got suckered into buying it would attempt to ascertain why the &^%@#%)*!!! it wouldn’t run.

The rest of the sordid story.

So what is a Super Vee?
In 1983, Harley was not selling whole engines to custom bike builders. Steve Iorio, who owned an outfit called Nostalgia Cycle, wasn’t really digging that situation, so the Super Vee concept was born. The idea was to create an engine using cheap, easily available small-block Chevy parts, that could power a Harley-Davidson motorcycle. By 1985, the engines were released for sale. Iorio was so bold as to suggest that he was going to unseat Harley and put them out of business. He felt Harley was putting the screws to the workin’ joe, and the Super Vee was the common man’s way to fight back: Engine parts could be had reliably and very affordably from any GM dealership or aftermarket auto parts house.

Articles published in Supercycle Magazine as early as 1983 helped get the project off the ground. The engine, though primitive, got rave reviews. Nostalgia Cycle even had a phone number customers could call and hear a Super Vee running! Heady stuff for the 1980s. Nostalgia put together a video (which is pretty funny) extolling the virtues of the new mill. Take a peek. (Bonus points for the first reader to count how many times the narrator says “American.”)

Everything seemed hunky dory, but there were a few problems. First, did you notice in that video that you never hear the engine settle into an idle? That seems a bit strange, right? Secondly, Supercycle was published by the same guy who owned Nostalgia Cycle, Steve Iorio. Steve had dabbled quite a bit in the motorcycle industry. Those initials may be familiar to some — he used to produce springers under the company name SIE, and hung out with Dick Allen, a motorcycle legend in his own right.

Ol’ Steve also went by a few aliases, including “Steve Nelson.” In fact, you can read a lovely article the Los Angeles Times wrote about him — using his fake name! The biggest, most glaring problem with Iorio was his character. The biggest, most glaring problem about the Super Vee was its near-universal reputation of being a complete piece of shit.

For those of you who have never purchased a crate engine, let me fill you in on how the process works. You buy the engine, and sometimes you have to install an ignition and a carb. That’s about it. Install it, and hit the starter button.

The Super Vee was different. It did not run well, if at all. Mating Harley-esque cases to a General Motors rotating assembly presented problems. Critical engine parts didn’t always receive enough oil, yet most Super Vees puked plenty outside the engine. In many cases, engines required some disassembly and some additional machining. Many of the engines required an overhaul simply because of awful quality control during manufacture.

The gruesome saga of Iorio’s exorbitantly overpriced bastard-baby carries on from there; it’s a truly gripping read for any dyed in the wool gearhead-type weirdo, past or present. Won’t do much to bolster one’s naive, childlike faith in the fundamental decency of humanity, I’m afraid. But hey, dem’s da breaks, laddie-buck.

Update! Another aspect of the Iorio melodrama I thought might be worth a mention: I also spent a fair few simoleons on Nostalgia Cycle parts for my trusty old Shovelhead FLH over the decade or so I owned and rode her, mostly at swap meets and such-like dens of iniquity.

I quickly learned that those Nostalgia Cycle (universally reviled amongst my fellow CLT-area scooter trash as “Nostalgia Psycho”) geegaws and gimcracks were without exception El Cheapo crap: flimsy, soft-rubber handlebar bushings; bolt-ons which couldn’t be bolted on thanks to mis-aligned mounting holes; “stainless steel” engine hardware dress-up kits that were neither stainless nor steel; points that didn’t fire, plugs that didn’t spark, filters that didn’t filter, external oil hard-lines without any holes drilled in ‘em; “high flow” oil pumps with no pump gear, etc. etc.

The chrome on all those fancy-shmancy covers—battery, nose cone, breather, primary, drive chain, coil, &c—would begin to blister, flake, and/or peel within no more than two (2) days of the first time it got wet. I was never much of a chrome-cover guy myself—I was more inclined to remove all that shit, box it up, and store it in the remotest corner of the garage. I vastly preferred the lean, mean, bare-knuckle brawler look, as exemplified by my stripped-nekkid, hellaciously fast, screamin’ demon 06 Sporty:

Custom Hot Rod Flatz paint in Desert Sand (hand-sprayed at the shop by Goose, hand-striped and -lettered by the legendary Eddie Brown, Fender motor-mount bottle opener by yrs truly); wrapped header-pipes; no front or rear belt cover; not a single extraneous piece of chrome anywhere that wasn’t factory-installed—what can I say? Except that I surely do miss that sweet, nasty little bitch.

Anyways. Every last bit of Nostalgia Psycho’s teetotal junk, mind, was made from pure Chineseum© in an era when such foreign-parts profanations were strictly verboten—taboo to any self-respecting Milwaukee Iron aficionado, for which unthinking sacrilege the Harley Gods would surely smite down the blasphemer with a quickness. Suffice it to say, after getting bitten like that a cpl-three times, my days of throwing money down the Nostalgia sewer drain were O-V-E-R over.

Updated update! Awright, awright, awright, quitcher crying, ya sissy-Marys; more righteous photos of my beautiful, decidedly non-shiny Sporty below the fold. Although I’ve described her verbally/textually here before, I don’t believe I ever did post any pics, for whatever bizarre reason.

Continue reading “Rolling abortion” →

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Webb’s ride

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Low-mileage creampuff, only ever driven by Webb Pierce’s sainted mother from Pasadena to church on Sundays, never driven above 30 mph, engine oil change every 500 miles whether it needed one or not.

WebbPontiac 1.

WebbPontiac 2.

WebbPontiac 3.

According to commenter greg over at Phil and CedrQ’s hang, this righteous lead sled was designed and built by the justly famous Nudie Cohn, he of Nudie suit fame. If you click on over to the ‘Nuckles joint, you’ll also see a cpl-three memes which will be showing up in tonight’s Eyrie meme post, if my internet connection will ever stabilize long enough for me to upload and post the damned thing. It’s gotten so dicey around here Intarwebs-wise that in the last two days, I’ve burned through almost all of my high-speed data allotment using the phone for a hotspot.

Re my opening used-car salesman schpiel above, here’s the video backstory for Webb’s baby.

LOVE that song, it’s one of my all-time favorites. Go Granny go Granny go Granny GO!

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Hit the road, Jack

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It’s already been noted by Barry and Kenny in the comments, and happily, it appears to be the genuine article.

Normalcy advocate Robby Starbuck makes Harley-Davidson do a U-turn on woke policies
Conservative boycotts evidently work wonders.

Conservative filmmaker Robby Starbuck announced on X Monday that under threat of boycott and amidst a concerted pressure campaign, the 121-year-old motorcycle manufacturer Harley-Davidson has scrapped various leftist initiatives.

“We did it again,” wrote Starbuck. “3 for 3. The left fears what I’m doing because it’s effective. The attacks will increase with the plan we have but we have a plan and it accounts for the arrows that will be fired at us. We won’t slow down for anyone.”

Blaze News previously reported that Starbuck and others blasted Tractor Supply, a company established in 1938, for mandating that its employees undergo “LGBTQIA+ training,” for funding sex-change mutilations through its health plan, and for sponsoring so-called family-friendly transvestite performances, as well as for other leftist initiatives.

The exposure was evidently too much to handle, as Tractor Supply announced on June 27 that it had taken the “feedback to heart” and would no longer volunteer data to the powerful LGBT activist group that calls itself the Human Rights Campaign; would ditch “DEI roles and retire [its] current DEI goals”; and would jettison its carbon emission goals.

When similarly targeted for liberation, John Deere similarly traded the LGBT colors back for the red, white, and blue, indicating it would “no longer participate in or support external social or cultural awareness parades, festivals, or events” and would be taking additional steps to shore up customer trust.

Last month, Starbuck launched his latest campaign: a boycott of Harley-Davidson, a once-beloved motorcycle manufacturer founded in 1903.

In a series of social media posts and videos, he provided fuel for a Bud Light-style boycott, alleging that the company:

  • supports legislation that would enable men to enter “girl’s bathrooms, sports and locker-rooms”;
  • required thousands of employees to undertake training on “how to become LGBTQ+ allies”;
  • was a founding member of Wisconsin’s LGBTQ+ Chamber of Commerce — a group that opposed a law that would have saved children from sex-change mutilations;
  • celebrated two additional “Months of Inclusion” beside so-called Pride Month;
  • worked on having “less White suppliers, dealers and employees”;
  • partnered yearly with “Pride Ride”; and
  • partnered with the Human Rights Campaign on non-straight activism, ultimately securing a 90/100 rating on the HRC’s CEI index.

Starbuck also highlighted some statements made and actions taken by the company’s German-born CEO, Jochen Zeitz, that might prickle customers, including:

  • his boast that his corporate activism had at least one peer calling him the “sustainable Taliban”;
  • signing of a joint letter to the COP28 presidency demanding an end to fossil fuels;
  • criticism of President Donald Trump for leaving the Paris Agreement;
  • committal of Harley-Davidson to the UN Global Compact; and
  • advocacy for DEI.

“I don’t think the values at corporate reflect the values of nearly any Harley Davidson bikers,” wrote Starbuck. “Do Harley riders want the money they spend at Harley to be used later by corporate to push an ideology that’s diametrically opposed to their own values?”

Whatever pressure Americans helped apply in concert with the conservative filmmaker appears to have been enough.

At noon on Monday, Harley-Davidson stated on X, “We are saddened by the negativity on social media over the last few weeks, designed to divide the Harley-Davidson community. As a Company, we take this issue very seriously, and it is our responsibility to respond with clarity, action and facts.”

Harley-Davidson claimed that pursuant to an internal stakeholder review initiated earlier this year, the company has kicked its supplier diversity spend goals to the curb and does not have hiring quotas. It noted further that its “DEI function” has been dead since April 2024 and the company does “not have a DEI function today.”

More yet at the link, all of it heady, enheartening stuff. Sincerest kudos and a hearty Yo Ho Ho for swashbuckling “Normalcy Advocate” Robbie Starbuck, who says he very much digs his new title, as well he might. I know plenty of CF Lifers don’t much care one way or the other about Harley-Davidson, which is their good right. Ultimately, though, the Motor Company being hauled off into Wokester oblivion would have been another resounding victory for the Goosesteppin’ Left—something we can ill-afford more of, greasy, grubby bikers and cage-driving squarejohns alike. So good on ya, Mr Starbuck sir, keep up the fine work.

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Hemi requiem

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Our blog-bud Eric Peters mourns the auto-destruction of a once-noble Detroit marque.

The End for Dodge?
Dodge is looking a little green around the gills all-of-a-sudden. Not just Dodge, either. Parent company Stellantis just posted “worse-than-expected” stats for the first half of this year.

“The company’s performance in the first half of 2024 fell short of our expectations,” CEO Carlos Tavares said in a statement that doesn’t quite convey the extent of just how far those expectations fell short. Stellantis’ operating income fell by 40 percent over the past six months – and “free cash flow” stands at “negative $400 million euros.”

Perhaps not coincidentally, this jibes with what is no longer available this year in all-but-one Dodge model (the Durango, which is a lingering last-call remnant) and no longer offered in Jeep and Ram truck models that used to offer it.

That being a V8 and specifically, the Hemi V8 that came to define the brands that no longer offer it.

Not that there is anything wrong, per se, with the new inline six that has replaced the V8 in the models that used to offer it. As Dodge and Ram and Jeep (Chrysler’s down to one model, a minivan, that never offered a V8) have said, the new inline six makes more power and is more efficient.

And that’s true.

The point is it’s not a V8 – and that’s a problem for brands that built their brands around V8s. Dodge especially. It’s analogous to what happened to VW when it stopped selling Beetles with air-cooled flat four engines; VW became more like all the other brands. That makes it harder to retain – and attract – buyers who wanted what those other brands didn’t offer but VW did.

This brings up a general problem besetting the entire industry, which is beginning to face real consequences for putting compliance rather than customers first. It was one thing for the latter to overlook or put up with being obliged – assuming they wanted a new vehicle – to accept seat belts and even air bags, which followed as inevitably as AIDs follows HIV. But what began as minor annoyances – and relatively trivial cost increases – has metastasized into a kind of cancer that is killing interest in buying new vehicles, not just those made by Stellantis.

As of last year – 2023 – the total number of vehicles sold in the United States had declined by 2 million, down to 15.5 million annually from the peak of 17.5 million in 2016. The figure is arguably more ominously suggestive than at first glance, too – because the population has increased by at least 10 million since 2016. If adjusted for that, the actual decline is probably closer to 3 million.

Some of that can be attributed to “the pandemic,” but that’s now more than two years in the rearview. What’s happened over the past two or three years is that a tipping point has been reached – and passed. The costs of compliance have driven the average price paid for a new vehicle to nearly $50,000 – and that was as of last year. It is likely to surge past that, this year.

As CF Lifers know—as Eric himself knows—only too well, Amerika v2.0’s power-drunk central goobermint considers this surfeit of trouble, misfortune, and woe a feature, not a bug. The carelessly-concealed bottom line here is that our FederalGovCo lords and masters don’t want Serf Class knaves driving any kind of car whatsoever—not even those feeble, useless, coal-powered Yuppie Puppie play-purties they’ve ordered everyone into, they don’t. Want/need to go someplace well outside easy walking distance from home, you cavil piteously? Work; grocery/hardware/pet supply/Big Box store; Happy Hour to chillax a while with friends (sorry, my bad, Happy Hour’s been outlawed); the kids’ Little League game; hospital/emergency room/Doc In A Box/pharmacy/dentist’s office; the gym; Gramma’s house, perhaps? Spit on your ass and slide, peasant.

Y’see, there’s a damned good reason why personal automobiles (and Harleys, natch) have long been hailed as “the great American freedom machine”—because that is exactly what they are. Unfortunately, individual freedom of movement—a/k/a the freedom to travel as, when, and where one pleases unmonitored and unmolested, empowering one:

  • To schlep the fam off to the beach, mountains, or lake for vaycay
  • To attend a movie, play, or concert
  • To visit a restaurant for dinner out
  • To grab a carton of milk, loaf of bread, pack of skid-paper, and/or bag of cat litter
  • To just joyride aimlessly way out in the sticks, windows down and radio crankin’, on a pleasant early-April afternoon unburdened by twelve (12) pounds worth of signed, dated, and notarized Official Authorization Application forms neatly filled out in quintuplicate by hand (black ink ONLY, mind; use of non-black inks or pencil will result in applicant’s immediate arrest on charges of Felonious Non-Compliance, Aggravated Meandering, and/or Unlawful Insurrection, among others). Completed forms must be duly submitted and registered with the Proper Authorities no fewer than eight (8) weeks in advance of intended date of departure; sloppily penned, smudged, and/or misspelled submissions will be rejected and shipped to a local facility for recycling. Applicant may submit a new form for review and evaluation after the required six (6) month cooling-off period has passed. A lawful maximum of three (3) submissions over no fewer than ten (10) years is permitted for each applicant

—is something They™ simply cannot, will not, abide.

You think I’m only kidding about this? Hyperbolizing, exaggerating for effect? Overstating the case to make a more general point? Would that it were so, my friends. Of all the rights and liberties They hate—which is, y’know, ALL of ‘em, actually—individual freedom of movement is probably the one They hate more ferociously than any other. It gnaws at Their vitals like a horde of termites on a floor joist: keeps Them awake nights, disrupts Their digestion, leaves Them feeling all achey, listless, and out of sorts.

So Stellantis finally bites the big one after decades of struggling to comply with arbitrary, unattainable FederalGovCo standards for auto emissions, fuel economy, and passenger safety? Big fuckin’ whoop. That makes it one down, three to go for Detroit’s once-mighty Big Four, then. For A) grabby, preachifying ProPols; B) scuttling bureauweasel lickspittles; C) innumerable Überstadt Enforcement Komissariat doorkickers humping a full combat-patrol loadout, including det-cord, flash-bangs and fraggers, select-fire battle rifle plus four (4) 30-round backup mags, Level IV body armor, and helmet-mounted NODs; D) climate “science” “experts” purchased wholesale by FederalGovCo out of Ivy League credential mills; and E) miscellaneous dreadlocked, damp-drawered Eco-tard cultists whose dorm rooms (and persons) exude an emetic miasma of patchouli, cat urine, spilt beer, unwashed asscrack, high-octane sinsemilla, and rancid bong-water—seriously now, what’s not to like?

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The Bicycle Menace

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An oldie but goldie from the late, lamented PJ O’Rourke, via Ed Driscoll.

A Cool and Logical Analysis of the Bicycle Menace
And an Examination of the Actions Necessary to License, Regulate, or Abolish Entirely This Dreadful Peril on our Roads

Our nation is afflicted with a plague of bicycles. Everywhere the public right-of-way is glutted with whirring, unbalanced contraptions of rubber, wire, and cheap steel pipe. Riders of these flimsy appliances pay no heed to stop signs or red lights. They dart from between parked cars, dash along double yellow lines, and whiz through crosswalks right over the toes of law-abiding citizens like me.

In the cities, every lamppost, tree, and street sign is disfigured by a bicycle slathered in chains and locks. And elevators must be shared with the cycling faddist so attached to his “moron’s bath-chair” that he has to take it with him everywhere he goes.

In the country, one cannot drive around a curve or over the crest of a hill without encountering a gaggle of huffing bicyclers spread across the road in suicidal phalanx.

Even the wilderness is not safe from infestation, as there is now such a thing as an off-road bicycle and a horrible sport called “bicycle-cross.”

The ungainly geometry and primitive mechanicals of the bicycle are an offense to the eye. The grimy and perspiring riders of the bicycle are an offense to the nose. And the very existence of the bicycle is an offense to reason and wisdom.

PRINCIPAL ARGUMENTS WHICH MAY BE MARSHALED AGAINST BICYCLES

1. Bicycles are childish
Bicycles have their proper place, and that place is under small boys delivering evening papers. Insofar as children are too short to see over the dashboards of cars and too small to keep motorcycles upright at intersections, bicycles are suitable vehicles for them. But what are we to make of an adult in a suit and tie pedaling his way to work? Are we to assume he still delivers newspapers for a living? If not, do we want a doctor, lawyer, or business executive who plays with toys? St. Paul, in his First Epistle to the Corinthians, 13:11, said, “When I became a man, I put away childish things.” He did not say, “When I became a man, I put away childish things and got more elaborate and expensive childish things from France and Japan.”

Considering the image projected, bicycling commuters might as well propel themselves to the office with one knee in a red Radio Flyer wagon.

2. Bicycles are undignified
A certain childishness is, no doubt, excusable. But going about in public with one’s head between one’s knees and one’s rump protruding in the air is nobody’s idea of acceptable behavior.

It is impossible for an adult to sit on a bicycle without looking the fool. There is a type of woman, in particular, who should never assume the bicycling posture. This is the woman of ample proportions. Standing on her own feet she is a figure to admire-classical in her beauty and a symbol, throughout history, of sensuality, maternal virtue, and plenty. Mounted on a bicycle, she is a laughingstock.

In a world where loss of human dignity is such a grave and all-pervading issue, what can we say about people who voluntarily relinquish all of theirs and go around looking at best like Quixote on Rosinante and more often like something in the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade? Can such people be trusted? Is a person with so little self-respect likely to have any respect for you?

3. Bicycles are unsafe
Bicycles are top-heavy, have poor brakes, and provide no protection to their riders. Bicycles are also made up of many hard and sharp components which, in collision, can do grave damage to people and the paint finish on automobiles. Bicycles are dangerous things.

Of course, there’s nothing wrong, per se, with dangerous things. Speedboats, racecars, fine shotguns, whiskey, and love are all very dangerous. Bicycles, however, are dangerous without being any fun. You can’t shoot pheasants with a bicycle or water-ski behind it or go 150 miles an hour or even mix it with soda and ice. And the idea of getting romantic on top of a bicycle is alarming. All you can do with one of these ten-speed sink traps is grow tired and sore and fall off it.

Being dangerous without being fun puts bicycles in a category with open-heart surgery, the war in Vietnam, the South Bronx, and divorce. Sensible people do all that they can to avoid such things as these.

4. Bicycles are un-American
We are a nation that worships speed and power. And for good reason. Without power we would still be part of England and everybody would be out of work. And if it weren’t for speed, it would take us all months to fly to L.A., get involved in the movie business, and become rich and famous.

Bicycles are too slow and impuissant for a country like ours. They belong in Czechoslovakia…

5. I don’t like the kind of people who ride bicycles
At least I think I don’t. I don’t actually know anyone who rides a bicycle. But the people I see on bicycles look like organic-gardening zealots who advocate federal regulation of bedtime and want American foreign policy to be dictated by UNICEF. These people should be confined.

I apologize if I have the wrong impression. It may be that bicycle riders are all members of the New York Stock Exchange, Methodist bishops, retired Marine Corps drill instructors, and other solid citizens. However, the fact that they cycle around in broad daylight making themselves look like idiots indicates that they’re crazy anyway and should be confined just the same.

The list goes on from there, all perfectly true and accurate to the nth detail, finishing out with perhaps my personal favorite, Number 7 (“Bicycles are good exercise”), although Number 5 is pretty damned good too. Then PJ realizes that the Bicycle Menace is another of those felicitous problems that, eventually, solve themselves.

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Short, definitely not sweet

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CF Lifer hhluce has a brief Substack post following up on my own “Yeah, no” jeremiad from a cpl-three days ago, which he commended to our attention in the comments and I felt was worth a main-page mention here as well. Go ye and read of it, for it is…well, damned disturbing, actually, if you own a car manufactured in the last five years.

“A devastatin’ blow to our antiquated systems”

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One of the all-time greatest scenes in the history of the cinematic art.

A blazing campfire way out in the boonies; a handheld camera shooting from the back seat of a scarlet 68 Chevy Impala ragtop purchased specifically for the purpose, rolling along at no more than 25mph so as not to jostle the cameraman overmuch; gorgeous, gleaming, one-of-a-kind Harley Panhead choppers; joints with actual, no-shit weed in ‘em for purposes of artistic verisimilitude; three immensely talented, daring actors improvising the dialogue in real-time, as they went, unscripted and unrehearsed.

Folks, it just don’t get much better than this.

The Captain America and Billy bikes were designed and built by the somewhat unlikely team of Cliff Vaughs and Ben Hardy, which is a great story in its own right.

When The Easy Rider concept was quickly made into form, Peter Fonda set out to get him a couple of bikes for the movie. There’s lots of controversy about who built these bikes. Some say Dan Haggerty, who was in the movie. The guy who painted the bikes, his son says it was him (his dad, that is). Some say it was Peter Fonda.

But the guy who built them was a guy named Ben Hardy. Ben was an African american man who knew Harleys, and knew what he was doing. When Cliff Vaughs was asked by Fonda to oversee the building of the bikes, Vaugh’s turned to Hardy who was well known (if you were black) in Los Angeles as the go to guy to build a killer bike, and do it right.

Peter had only one thing he wanted on the bike. He wanted Captain America to have a flag on his gas tank. Beyond that, the design was left to Vaughs. I gotta think tho…Peter was an experienced rider, and Dennis hopper wasn’t. That had to have come up in the conversation somewhere, because the Billy bike was a much easier bike to ride. I had a fat boy that was really close to the same configuration, and my brother has a friend with a Billy Bike replica. They’re easy bikes to ride. The captain America bike? Cut that steering head off and rake that bitch out like it is, throw in those long forks with no front brake and see how you fare. You don’t give that kind of bike to a beginner.

It was Cliff who actually first offered the name “Easy Rider” to Fonda. It was a term he used in the day. Whats an Easy Rider? that depends on who you ask. In the 1900s it meant a freeloader. A guy who mooched off you. To Dennis hopper, it meant a man who lived off the money of a whore. He got it from an old Mae West movie. Whatever cliff meant by it, I’m not sure. All I know is he redefined the word. To this day I think it is associated to Harley riders. Maybe because of cliff, but most definitely because of the movie. When you say Easy Rider, I think of the movie. I think of Harley’s.

Vaugh’s quickly took the idea to Ben Hardy. Peter bought four 1950’s panhead police bikes from auction, and got them to Hardy and Vaughs. Jim Buchanan fabricated the frames, the engines were built by Hardy, Dean Lanza did the paint (his son is adamant he built the entire bikes). 2 bikes were for filming, 2 were for the final sequence of the movie, which I’m fucking assuming you know about, otherwise you wouldn’t be here reading this. Hardy went to work, and the rest is history.

It is at that, it surely is, and not just biker history alone. A pic of Hardy, and of his LA shop.

Ben hardy Easy Rider Bike.

Ben hardy shop-1.

The shop is still there as of the writing of the above article (mid-2012, that would be), in the same location, albeit with a new name and under different ownership, seeing as how the great Ben Hardy passed away in 1994. Betcha didn’t see all that coming, now did ya? And I truly hope you didn’t think for a moment I’d leave out one last cultural lodestone immortalized in the film.

For whatever it’s worth, I always dug the minimalistic, cut-down lines of the Billy-bike bobjob way more than the near-parodically stretched, raked, and extended 60s chopper archetype represented by the Captain America machine. Two beautiful bikes, two completely different stylistic approaches, brought together in one unforgettable movie masterpiece. Taken for all in all, Easy Rider is as 100% all-American as apple pie, hot dogs, and hog-leg Colt .45 wheelguns; it could never have happened in any other time or place.

Nitpicking update! One decidedly trivial flub-up from the early part of the movie that has always irked me disproportionately is when Billy chides Captain America for being incautious about gassing up his bike, saying “Man, all the money we have is riding inside that peanut tank.” No, gawddammit, it is NOT a “peanut tank,” Billy boy. That’s the nickname for the original Sportster gas tanks, like thus:

As any fool can see without half trying, the American-flagged receptacle adorning Wyatt’s bike is actually a Mustang tank, to wit:

The Mustang tank is so-monikered because of its origin—namely, on the pioneering Mustang mini-motorcycle, a cute li’l thang that went the way of the dodo back in 1965 after a tragically abbreviated nineteen-year run during which it somehow never found its market niche, despite a plethora of innovative technical advances such as being the first American motorcycle of any size or type to feature the now-ubiquitous telescopic-fork front suspension.

The noble Mustang name lives on in its beautifully understated fuel tank, an unforeseen legacy that’s still available for most makes of big bikes from various aftermarket companies today. It’s been a go-to favorite with more discriminating and tasteful Harley customizers since the 60s. Myself, I’ve run a Mustang tank on every Sporty I’ve owned except for the first and last ones—what is that, three of ’em, four? Whatever, I absolutely adore the things, have ever since I first got hipped to their existence by an ad in the once-glorious Easyriders magazine.

For one thing, the Mustang has a much higher capacity than the stock Sporty “peanut” go-juice tank, which holds a measly gallon or so—some .9, others 1.3, depending on the year. That translates to no more than ninety miles or so before you have to make a stop for a refill. Which, actually, was just jake with me, since an hour and a half of having your teeth rattled and your bones jarred by those old Ironheads on a daylong putt with your local wolfpack was quite enough for anybody, thanks. By the time you’d gone through your peanut tank’s capacity and switched the petcock (Pingel Power-Flo, of course; no shoddy stock PoS will suffice) over to reserve (14-15 more miles at best), you were good and READY to climb off and unkink your aching legs and back a little.

Yeah, while you glided to the nearest pump sucking fumes the Big Twin ironbutts’ unwieldy 5-gallon fatbobs would still be well over half full, so you could count on catching the usual ration of good-natured shit for your “dirt bike” or “woman’s” bike’s short legs from them. But who the hell cares what those Geezer Glide pricks think anyway? Let ‘em snigger, let ‘em chortle to their hearts’ content; their ol’ ladies will be pestering you at the bar later on for a leg-wettin’ thrill-hop packing on the p-pad (“p” for pillion, although some mischievous wags swear it actually stands for pussy, and as all Sportster riders know, neither side is entirely wrong) of your fleet little speed-demon, and everybody knows it too. When some horny, sexy biker bitch is reaching around from behind you to fondle your throbbing erection through the thin fabric of your worn, grease-stained jeans as you rip down a lonely back road, the last laugh will be yours.

Ask me how I know. Never mind, don’t, I ain’t gonna tell ya.

For another, the Mustang tank’s curvaceous good looks simultaneously offset and complement the rest of the Sportster’s no-frills, bareknuckle-brawler savagery, making what was for me a perfectly irresistible aesthetic combination. Plus, back when I bolted on my very first prized Mustang the tanks had fallen so far out of contemporary vogue as to be downright rare; almost nobody who saw mine in those days—be they old-school scooter trash or cake-eating-civilian cager—even knew what the hell it was, although they all liked it. Or they said they did, at any rate, which was good enough to suit me. I certainly did, and as the builder, owner, and rider, my opinion was the only one that mattered.

It still is, I still do, and if I had a Sporty today there would almost certainly be a Mustang tank, in flat-black rattlecan sprayed on by yrs trly etc, perched saucily on the upper frame rail between the top triple-clamp and the stiff, uncomfortable nut-buster of a seat. Or there soon would be, you betcher. Even though I’m too old for that sort of thing nowadays, hey, that’s just how I roll, people.

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4

Yeah, NO

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Oh, I freely concede there’s some killing needs to be done right enough. Plenty and to spare of it, in fact. But not the kind that’s done with any silly switch, by God.

The Kill Switch
Soon the government might shut down your car.

President Joe Biden’s new infrastructure gives bureaucrats that power.

You probably didn’t hear about that because when media covered it, few mentioned the requirement that by 2026, every American car must “monitor” the driver, determine if he is impaired and, if so, “limit vehicle operation.”

Rep. Thomas Massie objected, complaining that the law makes government “judge, jury and executioner on such a fundamental right!”

Congress approved the law anyway.

A USA Today “fact check” told readers, don’t worry, “There’s no kill switch in Biden’s bill.”

“They didn’t read it, because it’s there!” says automotive engineer and former vintage race car driver Lauren Fix in my new video. The clause is buried under Section 24220 of the law.

USA Today’s “fact” check didn’t lie, exactly. It acknowledged that the law requires “new cars to have technology that identifies if a driver is impaired and prevents operation.” Apparently, they just didn’t like the term “kill switch.”

No, they wouldn’t, would they? But a kill switch by any other name is still a kill switch, and I say it’s the bunk.

The kill switch is just one of several ways the government proposes to control how we drive.

California lawmakers want new cars to have a speed governor that prevents you from going more than 10 miles per hour over the speed limit.

That would reduce speeding. But not being able to speed is dangerous, too, says Fix. If “something’s coming at you, you have to make an adjustment.”

New cars will have a special button on the dash. If you suddenly need to speed and manage to find the button when trying to drive out of some bad situation, and it lets you speed for 15 seconds.

For all these new safety devices to work, cars need to spy on drivers. Before I researched this, I didn’t realize that they already do.

The Mozilla Foundation reports that car makers “Collect things like your age, gender, ethnicity, driver’s license number, your purchase history and tendencies.” Nissan and Kia “collect information about your sex life.”

How? Cars aim video cameras at passengers. Other devices listen to conversations and intercept text messages.

Then, says Mozilla, 76% of the car companies “sell your data.”

Finally, Biden’s infrastructure bill also includes a pilot program to tax you based on how far we drive.

 “A mileage charge seems fair,” I say to Fix. “You pay for your damage to the road.”

Oh sure, “fair”—as long as you leave the road-use taxes FederalGovCo (and states as well) rakes in on every gallon of gasoline you buy out of your calculations. Jackass.

One thing you can be sure of: if our Masters are letting the word get around about these supposedly “new” spy-snitch-and-control devices get around, then they’re already in place and functioning, likely have been for a good-ish while now.

Speaking strictly for myself, I’d never even dream of buying, owning, or operating a new(er) car. Not that I could afford to anyhow, natch. But still. At present, the Hendrix automotive stable consists of

1) An extremely rare 2012 Focus SE hatchback skinned in Blaze Yellow Metallic* with some minor performance mods to the peppy little 2.0L i4 under the hood, which mill I’ve personally clocked at an honest 39 mpg. Low-slung, stable, almost shockingly responsive and nimble, the Focus corners like it was on rails, betraying its race-car design heritage at every least twitch of the leather-wrapped steering wheel. The schweet little Focus has never failed to leave a huge grin on my face every time I’ve driven her, she’s hands-down the most just plain fun automobile I’ve ever owned; and

2) A battered, raggedy but dead-reliable old 1994 Burick Century and a Half** Grampamobile for backup

Both of which cars, to the best of my knowledge, predate all that goobermint jiggery-pokery. I’ll stick with my two strugglebuggies until I find out otherwise, thanks, at which juncture I’ma have to either get cracking on some serious uninstalling, or unload ‘em for something older and less personally intrusive.

From my cold, dead hands, you perfidious bastards.

* Factory paint color, 2012 model year only, obtainable exclusively via custom-order through a duly-licensed Ford dealership. I have it from an impeccable authority that there were just over 400 Focus hatchbacks in that color with the also custom-order-only 17 inch alloy wheels delivered across the entire Southeastern US that year. Who knows how many are still on the road or in driveable condition today; a great many Focii get converted into race cars and run on the flourishing, popular Compact-class circuit. So yeah, rare as hen’s teeth. Unfortunately, it’s still only a Ford Focus, of which type there’s a blue million out there, so not all that valuable or collectible, then

** Equipped with the rock-solid Burick L82 3.1L v6 renowned among mechanics as “the Indestructible Six,” and for very good reason; a smidge over 155k on the odometer, which is damned low for a car that age. The two previous owners are close, close friends and/or family, so the Burick’s entire history is known to me, which is always nice. That said, though, the piss-poor 17-18 mpg the big battlewagon clocks in at is a bona fide lifestyle-changer, sadly enough, especially at these vampiric Bidenflated petrol prices…which, cushy, plush, and mechanically solid though the car is, fortunate as I’ve been to have the use of it while the Focus has been down for extensive repair/refurbishment, nonetheless explains why I’ll always think of it as the backup ride

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New car club

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The Wylde Blogger Wrecking Crew CC, perhaps?

I turned eight in 1954, but I was no different than Randy Honkala, (and is that a mid-western car kid’s name or what?) maddened like every other boy I knew (except for the suspicious weirdos), breathlessly counting the days before the sheets covering the main windows of the major local car dealerships came down in the fall to reveal their glittering trove of chrome and jewel-painted treasure.

I never really got over it, either, and by the middle 1960s my lust for the splendors roaring out from Detroit reached an apotheosis just about simultaneously with Detroit’s own steel climax. You might say we came and went together.

Ten years later, all was rust and ruin, shitbox VeeDubs and Jappo tinfoil cars ruled the American roads, and guys my age were more concerned with whether we’d make it through until Nixon extracted us from Vietnam (the Ukraine meat grinder of its day, although not a patch on our current slavic murderfest).

But those cars. Most of my most beloved vehicles were built in the period from the early 1960s to the mid-1970s. And like Randy, I too Have A List, although not nearly as extensive as his.

Well as I’ve known my old friend and colleague Bill Quick, for as many years as I have, I’ve never really thought of him as a car nut. His taste in lead sleds is impeccable, starting with this shot of a 1959 Impala like the 58 he owned in his misspent youth:

Now as y’all know, I’m a diehard Ford man from a long line of Ford men on my dad’s side. That said, the 59 Impala is one of a handful of exemplary Chevy iron I always really dug, others being the 58 Bel-Air:

And basically, every model of Corvette ever made, up to and including the criminally underappreciated early-mid 80s body styles, known to automotive historians as the Third and Fourth Generation ‘Vettes. Shown below: the breathtaking 1954 Corvette C1.

Ahh, those swooping, curvy lines; the vivid paint in some other color besides nondescript gray, silver, or charcoal; that toothy chrome grill, the stainless body trim! Folks, they just don’t make ‘em like that anymore, and that’s a crying shame if you ask me.

What with anonymous plastic eggmobiles and graceless, chunky SUVs ruling the road nowadays, no wonder America’s long love affair with their automobiles has finally guttered out, except among a steadily dwindling number of mulishly unevolved fans of the vintage Detroit steel who still bitterly cling to the old ways. No esthetics; no gut appeal to anything besides pure utilitarian practicality; no soul, no spark, no romance: seriously, who could possibly fall in love with and take pride in such uninspiring machines as are on offer these days?

Bill’s post moved me to leave one of my infrequent comments in response, to wit:

Gawd DAMN, but that Impala is gorgeous! One of the small handful of Bowties I do actually like. The death of the car culture—premeditated murder, more like—has robbed American youth of a hell of a lot of cross-generational tradition, joie de vivre, and good, old-fashioned fun.

I’ve lamented that grievous loss here before more than once or twice, so no need to belabor the point further right now, I don’t think. To be perfectly honest, I just wanted an excuse to run a few cool car pics, really. My thanks to Bill for providing me with one.

Update! Man, I’m thinking in my munificent spare time I might just try to Gimp up a patch design for our notional blogger CC cutoff, maybe. We’ll see about that; I know at least Bill and Phil over at Bustednuckles would find such a project interesting, if nobody else did. Too bad Randy Herring is gone; if he was still with us, I could get him to draw me a really good ‘un up in a heartbeat. In fact, knowing Randy he very well might’ve done one on his own hook a long time ago, without ever being asked.

Updated update! For Barry, whose comment-section contribution brought it to mind.

Great tune, great cars, even if they are fuckin’ Bowties.

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EV news

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Amusingly, it’s all bad. As per usual, Buck Throckmorton has it all gathered together in the usual handy, dandy, and convenient spot, closing out this edition’s festivities with a pluperfect example of what sane sorts are talking about when they make sport of those “unintended consequences” brought inevitably on in the wake of shitlib presumptuousness, arrogance-in-ignorance, and mulish disregard for the real-world consequences of their disastrous policies.

Electric vehicles are significantly heavier than their gasoline-powered equivalents, up to 50% heavier in some cases. Aside from damaging roads and putting parking garages at risk, the force of a moving EV is also more than many guardrails can withstand.

“Crash tests indicate nation’s guardrail system can’t handle heavy electric vehicles” [AP – 01/31/2024]

Last fall, engineers at Nebraska’s Midwest Roadside Safety Facility watched as an electric-powered pickup truck hurtled toward a guardrail installed on the facility’s testing ground on the edge of the local municipal airport. The nearly 4-ton (3.6 metric ton) 2022 Rivian R1T tore through the metal guardrail and hardly slowed until hitting a concrete barrier yards away on the other side.

Barriers along the medians of divided highways serve to keep out of control vehicles from crossing over into oncoming traffic, thus preventing high-speed, head-on collisions. That simple safety mechanism has saved a tremendous number of lives. Thanks to the “EV transition,” we’ll just have to get used to mangled cars and mangled bodies due to head-on highway collisions again.

Ooookay, then. Gotta admit, as steadfast a derider of the most recent iteration of the recurrent CPC (coal powered car) pipe-dream as I’ve always been, even I never thought of that one before. But hey, saving Mommy Gaia from the planetary havoc inflicted by those horrible, terrible, double-plus-ungood “fossil fuels” (which are created in the course of Her own natural processes, by the by) is worth any price we must pay, right, idiots?

I mean, otherwise shitlibs might have to own up to being backasswards and wrong yet again, and the grown-ups might smack their hand, tell them to shut up, and make them go sit in the Naughty Kid corner and think things over for a few hours. Why, it’s just so darn UNFAAAIIIIR!!! Can’t have that, now can we?

Knucklebuster blues

Posted on      by     

Well, although I’ve longed ever since having a limb or three chopped off two years ago to be able to get up and turn a wrench again, I never dreamed my return to the ranks of the Most Honorable and Exalted Order of the Gearhead™ would involve working on a blasted…wheelchair?!?

No shit, folks, Memezapoppin’ is delayed tonight due to the fact that I have just spent the last two hours re-installing a wandering hex-head shoulder bolt that somehow worked itself loose from the left backrest riser—without, thankfully, backing out altogether, hitting dirt, and skedaddling off to someplace betwixt here and Timbuktu.

I guess the stupid thing musta rattled out of its assigned threaded orifice because of excessive vibration from the high RPMs the stroked-out big-block Cobra Jet engine installed on this contraption that I…oh God, I can’t even joke about this shit, that’s how not fuckin’ funny it is.

Yep, it’s a long way from banging up my delicate concert-pianist and guitarslinger hands on Harley V-Twins and beater-classic Fords to rasslin’ recalcitranrt wheelchair hardware, all of it straight down. Mind you, the chair I have is actually a no-shit, for-real racing model: Clinton River’s Tailwind, a sweet $800 dealio which was taken off the market years ago ‘cause some doctor fella got hisself hurt in one, sued the company for 8 million simoleons, and won.

How I got mine was, a close friend of mine is always scouting around at the wheelchair store in CLT—his mom has MS and has been locked down in a chair for as long as I’ve known him, which is a lotta years—and happened to see my Tailwind sitting out by the dumpster in back of the store one day, waiting to be hauled off and scrapped. Shane looked it over real good—knowing a thing or two about a thing or two concerning such things as he does—was aware that I’d be in the market for one once I got out of hospital durance vile, and tossed it into his pickup to bring home for me.

I like the thing, actually; the battery-assist never has worked, since the strange-o battery packs have long since gone the way of the dodo just like the chair itself has. Also, it has no brakes on it of any kind, which has taken a great deal of getting used to and requires much careful forethought and attention.

That said, though, it also has quick-detach main wheels and the seat-back folds down flat, making it a lead-pipe cinch to break down, toss into the back seat of the car, and motor on off when the walls here at home begin to close in on me and I just GOTTA get out and go somewhere…ANYwhere. Which is usually about once a week or thereabouts.

The no-parking-brake thingie, though downright dangerous when it isn’t just an ordinary pain in the ass, admits of a blood-simple, inexpensive workaround which I’ve already worked out in my head and plan to implement as soon as possible, transforming this already-rare wheelchair into a true one-of-a-kind custom build. Someday, it’d be nice if I could figure out a way to do away with the heavy electric motors on each of the main wheels and lighten this little jewel up a bit, but since that’s where the splined shafts of the detachable wheels go in and attach, I haven’t got that one figured out yet in such a way that wouldn’t require full-machine-shop access and some serious fabrication.

What can I say; once a gearhead, always a gearhead, I guess.

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COOOOL!

Posted on      by     

If it’s gonna be done, it’s gonna have to be Musk that does it.

180 Days for a SpaceX Starship Moonbase
There is a proposal to use the SpaceX lunar starship as a rapidly deployable moonbase. It could be completed 180 days after the SpaceX lunar Starship lands on the moon.

The payload area of the Starship is about 1000 cubic meters. This proposal would tip over the lunar Starship and cut it open to use three times as much volume and enable it be buried for radiation shielding.

NASA and Thales Alenia just rolled out their first Moon Base concept for the Artemis project. Why do we need a tiny module when we have over a thousand cubic meters in Starship? Does this base have any use at all?

Does it really matter? It’s nothing but pie in the sky, a pipe-dream. NASA can’t even get a man into low-earth orbit anymore.

Via Insty, who quips: NOW THIS IS MORE LIKE THE 21ST CENTURY I WAS HOPING FOR. Heh, indeed. Now about those Jetsons-style flying cars we’ve all been waiting for, Elon…

Which reminds me of a humorous incident from a cpl-three weeks ago. I was trying to access a shopping-center wheelchair ramp blocked by one of those damned Teslas, see. Thankfully, the driver was still in the driver-seat—her BF/husband/whatever had dashed into a restaurant to grab their go-order while she waited, it soon developed. Anyhoo, as she backed out of the way for me the car made that burbling beedle-beedle-beedle noise originally produced by the Jetsonmobiles in the classic old Hanna-Barbera cartoon. I just about fell out laughing at that, and I’m still laughing.

I solemnly swear to you here and now, that Tesla sounded so exactly, precisely like the above I have to conclude that Musk must have licensed a recording of it to use in lieu of the exhaust note typical of an ICE. Good going, Elon!

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