Thursday, September 20, 2012

Beer Joint Breakdown

What seemed like the longest day of my life.

9 hungover hours out on a bar patio, fixing my chop.

Tore apart my carb, cleaned it out with a entire can of carb clean, and buttoned it back up - messing up my throttle cable in the process. Took my carb off, and like a dumbass, didn't disconnect the cable. So, after taking my sweet-ass time spit-shining the insides, I had another issue to deal with.

Let me tell you, other than unlimited water, beer, tacos, and good music - a bar ain't no place you wanna fix your bike at. With a handful of guys who annoyed the shit out of me as I got more and more frustrated throughout the day, there were just as many great people I called friends when I finally rode off that night.

As the day went on, the booze kept flowing, along with the foot-traffic at the bar. Had to call Rich a few times for sound advice and a little peace of mind, felt like taking my boot-heel to my bike on more than one occasion. In all, I learned more about my chop and myself I guess. As much of a headache my day was, I would do it all over again if I could. I will, next trip I'm sure. It's always something out on the road. Riding alone, my chop never fails to teach me a thing or two(or ten) every time I leave the Rocky Mountains. If mechanical issues aren't appealing to you, don't attempt long-distance rides...

Thanks to Craig for breakfast and for being a great bartender, Damien for the spark plug run and a couch to crash on(even though your x-wife showed up at midnight, making me feel like I was on an episode of cops), the night bartender for playing outlaw country music, Fatty and Jeff again for allowing me to use their patio as my personal shop, Mike W. for hashing it out with me for hours trying to figure shit out and for making multiple trips home for supplies/tools, old-timer Nick for being one of the coolest guys I've met in quite some time, and Irish Rich for putting up with me from 700 miles away.

Carb, hanging from the throttle cable....moron.
A fraction of my tool kit. I bring everything, except for what I really need on any given trip.
Knox, the bar drunk. Every bar's got one.


  1. Mate, what a trip . . . sometimes it's not about the journey or even the destination, it's all the shit in between, great tales from the blacktop, cheers muchly for the window.