The Big Red Box

Twenty-five years ago in June, my father gave me what still ranks as one of the best presents ever.

When I graduated from high school and set out for Florida in an old Camero, dad thought it would be in his son's best interest to be properly prepared.

Unlike many things in my life, the tool box has remained a constant. It kept my car, my friends cars, and numerous bicycles alive. It built flat packed furniture and fixed leaky sinks. It crossed the country twice.

The set is still has most of its original parts. I've had to replace the 1/2 inch wrench several times. Why is it always the 1/2 inch? I have two now—just in case. And since the BMW is metric, I've made the preemptive purchase of a second 10mm.

I'd like to think that with age comes experience, but we all know that's not the case. It's only a mater of time before the 8mm walks off to find that 1/2 inch wrench I lost in 1997.

The contents of the box has grown over the years: a torque wrench, extra pliers, vice grips (you can never have too many vice grips), picks and probes, and one of those little magnets on a telescoping rod—very useful.

When my grandfather passed, I took in his orphans.

Over the years the tools have given me confidence and taught me patience. They made it easy to meet the neighbors in a new building.

Guys know what the red box means. Thank's dad.

Charge?

I really need to get that new battery.

We've been soaked with rain this spring (one of the many reasons for me not being on the road), and my friend Todd asked me to check in on the family cabin at Pine Creek. He lives in Florida. I live an hour and a half from from the cabin. Scouting report? No problem. I love it when a reason to ride falls into your lap.

I rolled the bike out of the garage. It started on the first try. Things were looking good. I stopped at Graham's Exxon to check tire pressure and tank up. It's an old school service stations with three bays, a small office, and full service.

I switched on the bike—no go. The battery only had enough juice for one start.

We tried to jump it, but bike batteries being what they are, the terminals were too difficult to reach for the standard cable clips. I'll log this as a four block ride and try again in the morning after the battery has had a chance to charge.

Sorry Todd, you'll have to wait until tomorrow for that scouting report.

Hands-on

I had forgotten how much fun you can have with a wrench.

My father is a practical gift giver. As a kid I had received countless pocketknives for Christmases and birthdays. Fishing rods, sleeping bags, and all things outdoors would appear wrapped in the Sunday comics. At 13 I became the proud owner of a Ruger 10/22, skipping the BB gun and proceeding directly to rapid-fire plinking.

But the best present, the one that has traveled with me to every dorm room, attic apartment, and summer rental, was the Craftsman 250 piece mechanics tool set dad gave to me for my high school graduation.

As a kid, the mysteries of the internal combustion engine escaped me—as did my father's sense of irony.

During the years of working for my dad’s tree service, I had managed to avoid the wrench. When pressed I could change the plugs and distributor cap in the old Ford, or swap out a starter or the occasional water pump. On rainy days I learned how to tune chain saws and change the blades on the M&M. But generally, I avoided vehicle maintenance—too many parts, not enough patience. For most of their life, the tools had gotten away with the assembling of flat-pack furniture and light bicycle maintenance.

But people change. Our lives get busier, and we look for things that force us to slow down.

I bought an old bike because I wanted to do my own maintenance—to get dirty, to tinker. The airhead, with its heads and carburetors exposed, seems to be the perfect match.

Better Than I Deserved

The bike has served me well this summer.
It's time to return the favor.

A summer of riding is beginning to take its toll on the bike. The maintenance I’ve been putting off is starting to mount up and it’s becoming not a matter of if, but when. When will the clutch cable go? When will the tires stop holding the line? What is that pinging? Is it getting louder? It is. I’ve noticed spots on the garage floor that were not there before. I suspect the oil pan gasket—or a squirrel with a serious bladder infection.

I’m not mechanical by nature, but I am curious. This is why I bought a vintage bike—to take it into the garage in the cold months and tinker. To fix what I can and leave the heavy lifting to the pros. The trick will be not to turn it into a basket case.

Last June, my friend Tom gave me some advice. Only do one thing at a time and keep it ridable. Finish small, manageable projects instead of taking the whole thing apart at once. Keep the frustration level low. As a master at half finished restorations, he’s right.

Old projects like this haunt all of our dreams. The ’72 Ford pick-up with the missing heads. The vintage Chevy tarped up in someone else’s garage. Several baskets of parts that at one time made a Carmen Ghia. We’ve all been there.

For me, it started when I took apart my first bicycle during a snow day in the fifth grade. It seemed like a good idea at the time, and summer was months away. Getting it back together? That’s another story.

So It Sits

The cold has finally hit. Wind and snow have now dashed any hopes of another ride before the holidays. My bike—along with a dozen other unfinished projects, sits and wait for another warm day.


Winter maintenance looms and I’m not sure where to start. The bike is sound, but there are things that need to be done. Gaskets should be replaced, cables tightened and lubed. And what was that soft feeling in the curves? Could it be the front forks? Time to clean out the garage and make a couple of calls.