Meet Vin

 

What does a well loved machine look like? Not just maintained, but loved. Used for its intended purpose, not pampered, not preserved. The best course of action taken from every lesson learned, every point of failure rebuilt beyond the original spec.

This 1999 F250 was built to tow. A gooseneck hitch, exhaust brake, transmission locker, all manner of redundancies in cooling and filtration. It has turned nearly four hundred thousand miles, I'd have to imagine most of them spent pulling another eight thousand or so pounds all over the American West. After more than twenty years of service, it came into my possession this year. I was on the hunt for a Ford Transit Connect or something similar. A work truck with the absolute smallest footprint for easy parking on crowded Seattle streets. Then I got a call about an eccentric family friend looking to downsize a little bit. After a day's drive to meet with him and an extensive tour of all the work done over the two decades of ownership, we did the deal.

So far, I've done very little. Oil, filters, new tires. It starts every time and hauls me and my tools all over town, lumberyard to jobsite to dump. No smoke, no burnt oil, 17 mpg no matter the conditions. I've never owned a diesel before, though I spent some time working in a Caterpillar truck engine shop. As I continue on my new career path as a carpenter, I'll add maintaining a 7.3 Powerstroke to my growing list of fresh experiences.

R100GS

It rides like a sewing machine on the road. Meditative on the switchbacks, brake, lean, throttle, repeat. The air-cooled twin has no opinion, just thrumming along irrespective of gear. I catch an occasional glimpse of my old man up ahead, fighting to keep the front wheel down, reveling in the drama. I just keep whistling to myself, alone in my helmet, rhythmically tipping into the corners. Catching glimpses of the high desert vistas that no camera phone can do justice,

After lunch in Jerome we head out past the copper mine. At first I'm cramped, standing on the rubber foot pegs, hunched over the bars. After a few miles I settle into a gentle squat, loosening my hold on the bike, letting it float over the washboard. The texture of the road cycles through all the hits, gravel, sand, rock, red dust. The formerly sedate 980cc boxer twin wakes up. The sewing machine becomes a chainsaw, eager to spit a roostertail. Twisting through cut red rock, visibility hundreds of miles, Sedona, the San Francisco Peaks, all the way to the Grand Canyon.

Sliding around bends, blasting through ruts, this analog machine feels in its element. Awake and eager after years of coffee runs and garage slumbers. It shakes the creaks out with a broken mirror, an oil leak, and a little extra clack-clack from the dry clutch. The bike feels loose underneath me. More agile than a 600lb wet-head computer-controlled spaceship. I'm sailing over the top of everything, plastic panniers rattling, big twin purring, going where I'm pointing and nowhere else.

Two-Five Cooldown

Average speeds in Seattle hover around 30mph. The streets, while full of hills and curves, are consistently in rough shape. Potholes, patches, giant steel grates covering ditches. I keep forgetting that third gear exists. Blast up to 45 or so, short shift to fifth, coast back down to around the speed limit.

A couple weeks ago, rather than slog through the Sunday bus schedule, I drove the E86M to work, braving Capitol Hill street parking and rain. Heavy hydraulic steering, stiff suspension, shitty visibility. All less than ideal ingredients for a city car, but its small footprint and the urgency with which it responds to inputs make up the deficit.

I took the long way home and just before crossing over the 15th Ave W overpass, I slid in behind an E46 wagon with a roof rack. From the stop before the bridge, he launched hard, spitting spray and road grime. Still without much heat in the tires, I gave chase, keeping smooth inputs as a mantra. The S54 howled its call and we ducked away from the arterial to the industrial side streets. The rain and spray from the wagon's tires kept the wipers at work. We whipped our way past yachts, working boats, and marine supply yards. When the wagon peeled off onto a side street, I dropped the window and gave a wave, slightly unsure if we had been playing or I had given them a scare.

These moments, small vignettes of fast driving, like the flash of an empty on-ramp, that bump the pulse up and zero in focus, remind me why I love motoring. It's easy to forget in a city like this, sitting on a bus or worse, working the clutch foot in bumper to bumper traffic. There are others like me, sometimes I just have to go looking.

Light This One Up

 

Staying in another part of town for a few days has led to commuting by car, rather than bicycle.  Best on-ramp ever after every shift.  165 degree left-hander followed by a 1/4 mile, slightly banked, sweeping right.  So glad I bought those Nittos.