Greg Field

Parvo: I work at an Aprilia-Moto Guzzi dealership, so I absorb a bit of knowledge about the Aprilias by osmosis. You asked which I would buy. The answer is neither. The Ducati excites me, but I do not fit well on it. I am too tall. So, even though it is lovely looking and very fast and capable, I wouldn't buy it. The Futura does not excite me, but I fit well on it and love it for its amazing capabilities as a high-speed touring bike. Maintenance would be less on a Futura, especially if you could check valve adjustment yourself. Almost never do they actually need adjusting, but you really should check them at the specified intervals. Other than that, it is a "change fluids, filters, chains, and sprockets" kinda bike, whereas the 4v Ducatis require periodic silliness like changing base gaskets and such, pre-emptively, or so I have been told. Of all the new bikes, the Griso interests me the most, followed closely by the Buell Ulysses.

Belfastguzzi proves above that he is practiced at one of the vital skills necessary to be a great journalist: Creative alteration of quotations.

Not "normal," but certainly common. There is an updated cable that doesn't snap so often. I can get you the correct number tomorrow when I go bact to work at Moto Intl.

In the Seattle area, used Futuras seem to sell in the $5,000-7,000 range. A new one? Well, there aren't any left that I know of. If his is a leftover, he may or may not have paid what was the original dealer price. If he did pay original dealer cost, this woul mean that he would have to sell at a loss to make it worth buying. This would doubly suck for him, as the battery, oil, etc. is already three yers old and would need changine, and the injectors and.or pump are likely fully or partially plugged. If he got in on the good deals Aprilia offered on leftover Futuras, as we did, it would allow selling it for about $9,000, as we did. Futuras are pretty much dead reliable, except for charging systems. With a few mods, the reg/rect. can be made reliable, too. Still, I'd carry a spare and then not worry. Factor heavily into the price the cosmetics of the body panels and saddlebags. These parts can be very difficult to get from Aprilia, and often—if you can get 'em—the paint and/or stickers will not match those on your bike. This is especially true for the red ones.

I do not know which bike Enzo refers to, but if it was the one on Hwy. 7, he did stay with the guy, as did I, until they pulled off a pass on a curve for which there was not room for three to pass. I was never able to close the gap after that. If that is the bike to which he refers, I remember its rider being dressed in squiddly tennis shoes, jeans, and jacket.

Aprilia is closing out their excellent perforated leather track suits. Perf'ed, as said, with all padding and back protectors and that little Quasimoto hump to get that extra 0.1 mph top end, Red and black, with easily removed "Aprilia" logos. Aprilia's closing them out for $600. If anyone here wants one, I'll charge $550 plus shipping. Sizes 42, 44, 46, 48, and 50 were avalable, last time I checked. I have 44, 46, and 48 in stock. These are Eye-talian sizes. If you normally wear a 44, you should get a 46. Send a PM here if interested.

Who are these gay Power Rangers, and what the hell do they have to do with V11s?

They need a 4-valve engine, but not the old 4-valve, which was a field-expedient design, cobbled together on the cheap. Keep it air-cooled. 1200 cc or more. Word is, we'll see a peak of it this fall in a new LeMans . . .

It's a mechanical gauge. No electrics--not even a light.

The Evoluzione stuff can be improvised. See the parts list JRT posted. They work pretty well if you have big feet; less well if you have under size-11 feet. Evoluzione didn't want to bother with making any more after one more batch for Moto Intl. They are all gone. Then, we had a racer and former partner at Moto I, who runs a company called Motobits, make up a set of foot controls. As others have said, try to live with the stockers. If they do not work for you, the Motobits ones work really well for those of us with knee, back, or height issues. Next, get rid of those crappy Ohlins forks. I have a decent set of used stockers 'll trade you straight across . . .

Billy Bob and me and a few friends are Guzzi-ing north to Hyder, Alaska, from Seattle over an upcoming 4-day weekend. Have any of you PNW 'muricans or Canadians done this trip and can offer any tips? Mostly, we want a hard ride and a good drunk in Hyder (getting "Hyderized," as my great friend Bob Nolan would say), followed by a hard ride home. I've been only as far as Prince George, BC, and that's where I think we'll aim for the first night. I know a guy there who has the most amazing collection of antique American and Brit iron I've ever seen—and that's saying something. He's just a log-skidder but has several million in bikes stashed in the shed.

Go ahead and toot your horn. You actually tried something. I'd bet it fixes the problem, if there is a problem. As for dampers, my gauge dives the instant I kill the engine, so I'm doubting it has one.

Aye, aye, Jaap. Back to the topic at hand: der Cobra. Seen in real life, the Cobra melds together as a theme much better than it ever could in photos. It also runs strong and appears to handle well. And it makes a sound unlike that I've heard from any other Guzzi; it's the same ungodly wail that Richard Petty's old racers made on the banking at Daytona.

I did a few really brisk takeoffs last night and actually did get the oil light to come on. The needle on the oil-pressure gauge didn't even twitch. When I shut off the bike, the oil-pressure gauge shows the pressure loss as instantly as I can read with my eyes, so I would think it would do the same if there was a pressure loss under the acceleration. Maybe not, though. More experimentation later.

As Enzo would tell you, everything I said about last weekend is a lie. Therefore, when I said his bike could pull mine, I was lying. It's actually way, way slower than even my Eldo.

Dave's ability to recognize humor is about at same level as his ability to create humor.

It was meant as a joke, Dave. Sorry it failed. Surely you have noted that I posted no harsh words here about the incident, let alone asked anyone to take sides?

You're the lucky dog, Steve. Enjoy the dunes. That area is magical.

I'm glad my mistakes can potentially benefit some here. Didja also buy a big old can of Lardenzo repellant? Mayhaps you should . . .

For anyone who wants to get some of the best IPA, right from the source, a few Guzzi whack-toids and I will be meeting at the Diamond Knot Brewery in Mukilteo, Washington tomorrow evening. Join us if you'd like to . . . I'm emptying the saddlebags to fill with a few growlers of fresh DK IPA.

They were the brown rope-type plugs. I had left my chuffer device for filling tires back in my H-B bags in camp, so fix-a-flat was the only thing available to me. Else, I never would have used it. Here's another lesson learned: A centerstand is a very useful device when dealing with flat tires. Even on off-camber dirt roads. I rode pretty hard, too, and it never once touched down.

After work last night, I pulled off the unfaithful, brand-new Michelin Pilot Power tire that got punctured this weekend and subsequently spit out three plugs and was very surprised by two things: 1) It had not spit out the plugs; rather, it had sucked them in. All three were there, inside the tire, bathing lazily in fix-a-flat goo. How can this happen? Especially if I was riding aggressively, shouldn't centripetal force sling the plugs out? Has anyone else seen this? 2) That goo is a horrible mess to deal with and had already begun to lift the paint from the inside surface of the rim. I had put that tire on on Wednesday of last week, and there was no evidence of paint peeling then, so I have to conclude that the fix-a-flat did it. After that, I rushed home to remove all the goo that had been slung all over the rest of the bike. No soap I could find would take it off. I had to use solvent. Nasty. I also learned a thing or two about what I need to carry with me: All the tools, all the time. I have always been the guy who has all the tools and spares to get everyone home. I've changed out clutches and broken shift-return springs and a bunch of other stuff for myself and others on the side of the road and in motel parking lots thousands of miles from home. Such repairs require borrowing a floor jack or boards to prop up the engine, but I carried everything else I need with me. In fact, until Saturday, I had an unbroken record of getting everyone home who came with me, since at least the late 1980s, unless my failing memory is failing me now. Yet Saturday I was unable to get two bikes home. Bad day. First, because I left my tire patching and inflation tools in the H-B bags in camp. And second 'cause I didn't have any means to solder a wire back onto Lardenzo's Cobra. Because of this, I'll be figuring a way to stash on each bike a permanent set of tire tools and will have to always remind myself to transfer my normal two tool pouches onto the bike I'm riding that day. As others have noted, it would probably also be wise to ride slowly and carefully on plugged tires. Then again, the plug that failed the quickest was the one I drove most gently on, so who really knows?

Sorry, Okie; I didn't take a single picture. Enzo took plenty, but if you're paying any attention to Wildguzzi you'll know that he won't be sharing any pictures with me anytime soon.

Thanks to @#$$#! and Gayle Guthrie (WA MGNOC reps) and their son Gordon and daughter Jennifer, the ninteeenth Deep Forest camput was another great success. A group of us departed Moto I at 2:00 on Friday to make the 160-odd-mile trip by the twistiest route possible. The group included myself on Billy Bob, Enzo (Captain Nemo) on his Mk. VII Cobra, Vance (Motomonster) on his tastefully modded Stone, Pete (Pedro) on his big black Quota 1100 ES, my friend "Easy" on my Super Eldo (his 4LS-brake '74 Eldo had very recently begun to wobble, and we didn't have time to dig deeply to find out why, so I just lent him Maude for the trip), and a really nice man named Chris, who that morning had flown in from Denver, bought a new Cafe Sport, and was leaving right away to ride the bike home. I suggested he join us, and he quickly agreed. The hard truth is, efficiently departing Seattle to the South means 30 miles of freeway and nasty traffic—doubly bad traffic on Friday afternoon. All was well until 20 miles out, when traffic slowed to stop and go for the next 10 miles. Billy Bob was getting really hot, and I was almost to the point of taking slowly to the shoulder to prevent damage, when the highway began to flow again for the last few miles to the turnoff to the little town of Orting, where we were to meet up with Sgt. Mark, who was joining us with his beautiful 850-T. After passing through Orting, we turned onto Orville Rd. East, a super alternative route south into Mt. Rainier country that is the trifecta of little-known, faster, and more fun than the usual route to our next Eatonville. This road's only flaw is that it is very rough, so you have to constantly scan for dips and potholes (and logging trucks pulling out) as you swoop through the bends. We had a great run, and Thy lard was feeling especially frisky passing me and leading until the end of the road where it joins SR 162, which led us into Eatonville and another interesting cutoff to the tightest curves of the route. These are an awesome set just out of the town of Alder on SR 7. Just as we turned onto the road a big-bore Honda CBR blasted past, and Enzo wicked up the Cobra in hot pursuit. He and that Honda were in a full-on race, with me right behind, when they made a tight pass on a minivan. Because of oncoming traffic, I couldn't pass until about a mile later. By then, they were far ahead, and I could only watch as curves allowed as they alternately passed each other and other cars. Try as I might, I just couldn't catch up until Thy Lard pulled off and waited at Elbe. Enzo and the Cobra can really move when they're both feeling frisky. After gassing up in Elbe, we turned east toward Mt. Rainier National Park, to rendezvous with another little-known and very twisty alternative route—Skate Creek Road—which would take us to the town of Packwood, on the south flank of the mountain. Skate Creek—like all the remote roads in the area—could really stand for some more road maintenance. It's curves are endless, but so are the frost heaves and potholes and dropouts and slide areas. To ride it fast, you really have to stay frosty and accept that the potholes and dropouts can launch you airborne suddenly and violently, and often while you're heeled over in a corner. Just before leaving, I had installed brand-new Michelin Pilot Power tires and a rebuilt Ohlins shock that I wanted to give the full test, so I took off and rode hard for the first 10 miles or so. After that, I was satisfied that both were vastly superior to the parts they replaced, so I slowed down a bit to let the group coalesce again. Just then, I heard the snarl of the Cobra blasting by, and the chase was on. This was the one section of that road that had a few straights. The Cobra's engine definitely pulled harder than Billy's, and he pulled me on every straight. Those pipes and the high-compression pistons seem to have made a difference. Fortunately, the straights were short and soon ended altogether in a really tight potholey section down along the river, where that Ohlins shock kept my rear wheel on the ground enough to allow closing the gap just before we got to Packwood and US Highway 12. We stopped there and let the group catch up, and then headed west toward Randle. At Randle, we stopped at the store for beer and other necessities. Most of us then headed to the campground, but Enzo and Chris headed to the motel at which they had both booked rooms. The rest of us rode the 12 miles along Forest Service Rd. 23 toward camp. This is another really nice road, with three really tight sections and near-perfect pavement. Group Camping Area Beaver is a really beautiful spot, right on the north fork of the Cispus river, and we set up our tents amid giant cedars that always make me feel as if I'm a flea camping amid the hairs sprouting from a dog's hide. Tent set up, I dunked some beers in the icey river and made my rounds, saying hello to everyone and grabbing a bowl of Sasquatch Jim's wonderful roadkill stew and roasting a few hotdogs over the fire. The night passed like they always do at such rallies, with a little imbibing and a lot of catching up with friends I hadn't seen in a year. I headed for the sleeping bag about midnight so I would be fairly fresh for the glorious ride planned for Saturday. Before I crashed, Rod Radke introduced himself and said he'd like to join the ride, so the group grew by one. Saturday's ride is always and adventure taking us through a couple hundred miles of the best tiny roads in the state, followed by a late-afternoon return to camp and the excellent salmon dinner that @#$$#! Guthrie roasts indian-style along an alder fire, This year's would turn out to be even more adventurous than most. I got up about 7:00 to get some coffee and freshen up a little before the planned departure time of 8:00, to meet Enzo in Randle, gas up, and agrab a quick breakfast. Some of the others stayed up a bit later than I and got a good bit deeper into the Elijah Craig than I did, so we were a little late getting into Randle. Enzo was already done with breakfast and overcaffeineated but waited patiently while we ate and discussed the route. Concensus was that they didn't want to take the dirt road over Babyshoe Pass to get down to Trout Lake. Instead, we'd head down Forest Service 25 and then cut east over Forest Service 90 to Trout Lake and then decide what to do from there. Forest 25 snakes along the flanks of Mt. St. Helens and rises and falls and swoops and turns though river valleys and one mountain pass for 45 miles. Blasting through it at a brisk pace feels more like dogfighting in an airplane than riding. This is where I first really bonded with Billy Bob. I can really hustle the Super Eldo through this road, but that requires extreme effort. The same or better pace on Billy Bob wasn't nearly as taxing. At the end of this road, all I could think was, "I want more." When the group caught up, we intended to turn onto a new road for all of us: Forest 90. All I knew of it was what the map could show: It headed to Trout Lake and appeared to be mostly paved. I was eager to explore it. Just as the last of us reached the junction, an endless train of PT Cruisers trolled by—many of them convertibles with perfectly coiffed poodles in the back seat—and all driven very slowly and dliberately by what looked like grandmothers. My thoughts were, "I sure hope they turn toward Carson at the next junction, 'cause they'll be awful tough to pass." We decided to wait a while anyway, just to give them a chance to get far ahead. The start of 90 was really good and snakey, but because it was in a swampy river valley, it was brutally full of frost heaves. Before long we were at the fork where you have to decide to turn east and south toward Carson on Curley Creek Rd. or east and north toward Trout Lake. We figured, for sure, that the PT Cruiser club would not turn toward the Trout Lake section, 'cause it was partially dirt road. We were wrong. As I blasted around a corner five miles later, there they all were, stopped, and half of them were trying to turn around on this lane-and-a-half road. Two were stuck after backing too far into the ditch. Of course, they had reached the dirt section and realized they were on the wrong road. We just wove through them and took off across a really gentle section of dirt road that only lasted a half mile or so. Fabulous. And the rest of the road was fabulous, all the way to Trout Lake. Long, gentle curves, pavement improving by the mile, and no traffic. Enzo and the Cobra were in their element again, leading all the way to Trout Lake. The country around Trout Lake is right where the rain forest of western Washington morphs into the desert of eastern Washington and is something quite distinct from either east or west. It's like the high ranch country of Colorado or Montana more than anything else, and I just love it there. There's one gas station and one cafe. Fortunately, it has decent food. We had a relaxing lunch and discussed the rest of the route while eating in the shade along the creek. Mark decided to keep going east, through the excellent Klickitat Canyon road and snaking up toward Yakima and back to camp via White Pass. The rest of us were feeling up to the difficult dirt section across the lava beds to my favorite road: Panther Creek Road (PCR). The PCR is one lane with turnouts that dives really steeply down the Panther Creek drainage into Carson. Pete was especially excited about the route because he was wanting to get some dirt time on his Quota. In the end, he got more dirt time than he'd bargained for. We turned north and west toward the lave beds. The road and pavement are great for about 20 miles before suddenly turning to really choppy gravel that took us past the inviting waters of Goose Lake and into the eery moonscape on the northern end of the lava beds. Pete had blasted off in the lead, and I was powering Billy Bob up one of the steep grades when the rear end started acting up, swerving to the side and feeling very vague. Sheise! Flat tire. Worse, after unpacking all my tools, I discovered that I had left my tire-patch and inflation kit in the H-B saddlebags that I had left in camp. No one else there had any, either. That meant riding that gravel back to Trout Lake and fetching some fix-a-flat and plugs. Pete and his Quota were the obvious first choice for this errand, but both were long gone ahead of us. We all commiserated for a while before I climbed on the Eldo to make the trip. Just then Pete rode up and eagerly took on the task. x-a-flat and tire plugs. I plugged the tire, added the tire goo, and we were back on the road again. Thanks again, Pete! Super-nice feller that he is, he wouldn't even take any money for the stuff. He and all the others were real troopers—first for agreeing to even go with me on these crazy routes, and then for sticking with me through the troubles to come. Pete led the way to the juncture with the PCR, and we swooped down that valley, Enzo and I dogfighting most of the way. As we shut off our Sports and waited at the end for the group to catch up, Enzo flashed a big grin and a thumbs-up. I tink the PCR has a new convert. That revery was broken when he tried to re-start the Cobra. It would crank and crank and crank but not even hint at firing. We pulled off the seat and started swapping relays and fuses and looking for a problem. We never found on, but it fired up when we pushed the button, so we turned north on the Wind River Road toward Mt. St. Helens. More dogfighting on the long climb up to Old Man Pass. I was way in the lead and really in synch with Billy Bob when the steering started getting heavier and heavier and the rear when started getting wigglier and wigglier. Sheise, again! I must've thrown that plug. When the road leveled out enough, I pulled over, put Billy on the centerstand, and watched white fix-a-flat goo geysering out of the unplgged rear tire. I put my finger in the dike and held as much pressure in as I could while everyone else caught up and they helped re-plug it. I had just half a can of fix-a-flat left. When it was spent, I had about 10 psi in the tire. I sent everyone else on and resolved to limp it over the plateau and down the hill to Northwoods, where I hoped there would be an air hose. Easy and Rod stuck with me through the 40-mph journey to Northwoods. There, I filled the tire at their air pump, and Vance bought two more cans of fix-a-flat. He wouldn't take any money, either. Guys like this are hard to find! The rest of the route was back north along the east side of Mt. St. Helens, on Forest Service 25, the same road we had taken south that morning. It's a killer road—really killer, literally, when going northbound because that puts your lane mostly on the downward slope of the mountain, and the lane is washed away downhill in many sections. You come around a corner, and suddenly the lane drops away a foot or more, and goes wildly off-camber. If you're not quick and aware, you're going off the side of the mountain. The ride north started as a replay of the ride south, with Billy and I moving fast adn smooth around the curves, when suddenly the steering got heavy again and the rear end got wiggly. I pulled over and plugged the dike with my finger again while the rest of them caught up. We pugged it with the last plug, added another can of fix-a-flat and I cut off the excess plug, intending to use it if I threw another plug. Once again, the Cobra would not start, so we juggled things again until it started, and then headed off at a very restrained pace. Even so, within 5 miles, with Vance right behind me, that plug blew, too, and in Vance's words, the tire began spouting white stuff like a whale. I pulled over, loaded the fragments I had left of the previous plug, and attempted to insert them in the hole. By this time the hole was so slick with white goo, that the plugs slipped all the way through inside, and I was forced to leave it behind and go back to camp to get more gear. I got on the Eldo, and Easy climbed onto the Quota behind Pete—and that was quite an operation 'cause they're both on the north side of 250 pounds. Once again, the Cobra wouldn't start. After a bit of fiddling we got it fired up and I told him to keep going for camp, whatever happened to the rest of us. A few miles later, there were Rod and Enzo, the Cobra having died suddenly on the approach to a bridege. I fiddled with it some more, and Easy gave Enzo a push start, and he blasted off again. A few miles later, the Cobra broke down again. We sent Rod and Vance back to camp to get supplies and try to ralley the rescue troops. After a little more fiddling the Cobra fired up and quickly died. The road was steep downhill by this time, so Enzo bombed those curves for miles and miles at a really good pace considering he was coasting, until we got to the shortcut back to camp. This time, I pulled off the Cobra's tank and went through all the electrics to see if I could find the problem. Just as I was about to give up, I found two wires to the electric petcock on which the insulation was completely abraded away and the few remaining strands of wire were shorting against the petcock. I insulated them with duct tape, and we reinstalled the tank, fingers crossed that this would fix the problem. Unfortunately, when we reinstalled the tank, one of the wires caught on something and broke off, not leaving enough wire hanging out to patch it. Further effort was futile, so we sent the rest of the group back to camp to return with @#$$#!'s trailer. Shortly, Rod and Sgt. mark pulled up with the trailer. We loaded the Cobra and headed up the pass to where Billy waited in the darkness. Along the way we saw deer and elk on the road, so I decided to load it on the trailer, too, instead of patching the tire and riding back to camp. We loaded Billy on the trailer and coasted down the hill because the truck's tank was nearly empty. Luckily, the gas supply got us to the station in randle, where we filled up. After dropping Enzo at his motel, Rod, Mark, and I returned to camp, arriving about 11:00 to a welcome dinner of cold salmon and spaghetti. It tasted great! Mega thanks to Rod and Mark for the rescure and to @#$$#! for letting them use his truck. How lucky am I to be surrounded by such a fine group of men? Very, I'd say. After one beer, I slunk off to bed, so I could be prepared for dealing with getting bikes home the next day. Turns out, that was the easiest part, 'cause @#$$#! Guthrie volunteered to let the bikes stay on the trailer for the drive home. He'd then ride home on hi bike, which he'd hauled down to the campsite on the trailer. We transfered the other stuff that was on the trailer to his sister-in-law's motor home, completed packing, and were all on the road by 11:00 a.m. and me and the broken bikes were home by 3:00. I'm really looking forward to the 20th Deep Forest Campout next year, which is rumored to be the last one. If you ever wanted to go to this one, next year may be your final chance . . .

Of all the ones we've seen, the one on Chris's is the only one that looked as if swarf may have been the cause.