Yes, We Blocked the Crank
Blowing exhaust to rouse the winter air and shaking under restrain of its orange tie down, my R75/6 is alive on the first try. Backed by a cacophony of neighborhood dogs yipping to my success, the garage door remains cracked. Slowly the dust settles as the engine is shut off.
This isn’t how it always works, I’m told. Tearing apart a 50 year old machine and putting it back together is a sure-fire fail. I’m pro at tearing things apart, it’s the art of re-assembly that’s testing my resolve. Last season, after watching my bike burn through endless jugs of oil due to pitted cylinders, my decision to get a new top end job grew out of necessity. On standby under a snow laden Maritime winter, I hoisted my bike onto the lift for her very first motorcycle spa package.
Being hands on is fairly new to me. Below the surface of my debut shop time lie 6 years of becoming a star at polishing parts and passing wrenches. Indoctrinated into the world of Airheads via Tom (motorcycle enthusiast/hobby mechanic), I’ve trained through endless tutorials; talked shop near and far, flipped randomly through dog-eared manuals, and followed auctions we never bid on. As a passenger I’ve driven into the night to meet strangers in parking lots, trading stories for that rare vintage find. Over time, Tom’s passion for Airheads merged into mine through proximity. At home I witnessed the contents of an over-crowded garage creep across the yard, crawl up the steps, and commit to our kitchen table. As engines became centerpieces, I decided I wanted in.
Knowing a top-end job was far beyond my beginner skills I commissioned MMMotorwerks in Ontario, Canada. Lovingly, I over-wrapped and taped my heads and cylinders like sacred artifacts and laid them in a box, diligently pressing bubble wrap into unclaimed space. Once shipped and at the mercy of the postal system, I anxiously awaited their arrival and check-in from their final destination. Faced with the reality of empty nest syndrome, I inspected my bike for something to do.
With hours of possible work ahead of me to trigger a distraction, Tom and I descended on the motorbike remains like a pair of roadside buzzards. Generously, we picked away at the meat of the bike until we were down to the frame. The seat, tank, engine covers, fenders and back wheel were already off and set aside. Fluids were drained. Pipes, kickstand, foot pegs, back brake, and the final drive followed suit. Clutch gone. The Bings were taken off and emptied, while the engine and battery were relieved of their duties. One headlight, a set of handle bars, and the instrument cluster all stayed intact, to maintain the semblance of a motorbike. Individuals pieces were rounded up by the armful, sheltered in blankets and buckets, carried inside to be cleaned.
Our living room transformed into an after hours workshop. Equipped with shop towel, rags, brushes, pads, and a bucket of assorted cleaners, we polished and scrubbed until our hands bore evidence of work. As Christmas rolled around and the tree was lit, my engine gleamed proudly under a full glaze of Autosol. Mixed among the presents, it wore a Santa hat to mark the occasion.
Resulting weekends without kids were filled with uninterrupted, shop time. We moved wires, dropped endless bits on the floor, found them (and other lost treasures) and wrenched until we had soft yellow bruises on our arms, bloody nicks on our hands. Helicoils were drilled, touch up black paint was applied, and new tubing cut. Last minute trips to the hardware store served as break-time. Holes were welded over, and bolts that didn’t match up were replaced with new or vintage stock.
After two months of detailing, I received news my top end was done and on the way back home. Anticipating the reunion I stood at the window on delivery day until I spied the postman struggle up the drive, shifting under the weight of my package. Unwrapping the new top end job became second Christmas as Tom and I fawned over the returned work. We propped the contents on our kitchen table, adjusting the lights for its first photoshoot. The re-bored cylinders were shockingly smooth compared to my old ones, and came with new oversized pistons and rings, valves, guides and springs. Waiting patiently out in the garage stood my bike, worthy after days of cleaning to receive the parts.
Under a generous application of new grease, anointment of oil, and fistfuls of torque, the bike has come together bit by bit. With static timing left to play with and minor adjustments, the start of a new season is a rip around the block away. This year, when I eventually breakdown I’ll (swear, and) heroically grab my toolkit under the seat, swooping in to save my own day.
