And I also love to take pictures of stuff in my shop.

Because, that is all you need. Well, and of course tight pussy, new shoes, and a warm place to shit. Happy year that is to be new and may all your wheels forever be two.

Urban enduro. Looks fun.

Shit in the Shop -part 7654

Work smarter not harder. Fuck that. Do both; Build it, don't buy it.

Don't forget to stretch

Travels with McNasty WOR Rider AKA Lord Mick, Muke.

The first time Muke hit a fresstyle ramp didnt work out to well. But the time I (with a revoked driver's license) commandeered my Mom's van and took him to Lake Havasue and signed his entry form as his "guardian" went very well. I remember taking a pit stop in the pit bike class and chugging a beer. Limits are supposed to be pushed.

Rockabilly girl!

Redheaded, tattooed, wrench turning mind blurring, one whiskey trip with me and you'll never be the same! Don't be scairt! You'll love it!

Just Huck It

Tyler showing off the benefits of having a mini mega ramp in the backyard.

Fat guy on a little bike

156 turns
for my throttle yearns
climbing and twisting
clouds on my visor are misting
forget to drop a gear
miss a turn here
one thousand feet I will yell
all the way straight to hell
shitting
and getting
all the way to the top
until I am king of the mountain I will not stop

Project retard advances

...And the cops are probably about to be knocking on my door...

Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas

I have done a fair share of desert races. I have also ridden many a gnarly duel sport rides. But I have never partaken in an organized duel sport ride until this years 31st running of the LA Barstow to Vegas. Two days, 500 miles and some 600 riders. It was dusty. I started the build of my XS650 specially for this event two months ago and I had my doubts about getting it to the finish. I bought the bike as an ugly old cafe race/ chopper with an extended swing arm, super low clubemans and a big end bearing knock despite the 2000$ worth of receipts of engine work. I paid 200$, replaced the crank with a spare lying around in my "rape room". I rigged on an '84 XR500 front end salvaged from "#project retard", An XR250 sub frame and of course the daunting mounting of a '91 YZ125 swinging arm and mono shock. Despite fettling the shims in the shock 3 times and creating the most stiff spring I could it is still under sprung and blows through the damping like a bullet through a brain.
The chassis did very good however. As long as I didn't charge big whoops and g-outs. I was bewildered buy the amount of big money desert racing machismo wantabees with support rigs and satellite communication and navigation. I had a flask, a film canister of Colorado's finest and a roll chart. Learning how to use the roll chart was fun. So was passing KTMs one after another being piloted by over weight stock brokers wearing "adventure" jackets that cost twice as much as my bike. Things were going great on the first day until internal engine noise suddenly became very apparently external. I removed the clutch cover, entailing removing kicker, foot peg, and brake pedal to discover the clutch spring bolt had pulled its post clean off of the clutch hub. Removed the little fucker, little bit of JB weld, quick aluminum and some oil resistant medical tape on the case cover and back at it. Day two was going great as well until this time a clutch spring bolt backed out. Same fix, One mile later and one snapped off the post again. This time leaving a hole big enough in the case to see the bastard of a shitfuck clutch spring bolt. By this time the sweep riders (not much help they were) had passed me. Earlier in the day I had lost Mike my wing man on his XL350 when I had to take an emergency trail side shit. I spent a good two housr in a wash alone a long way from any roads wondering why I forgot my map and if the JB weld and remaining clutch would get me out of there. It got me close when another one snapped off. Again; remove cover, remove aluminum chunks and patch cover back up. With three of the six clutch springs remaining Loc Dog thought it wise to take the interstate the remaining 80 miles into vegas.
Beer was drank, fun was had with Co-Built Geoff and the crazy Bixby scooter trash guys and I look forward to next year. The End.

100% Columbian roast road race

Landscaping

Hello winter

Lightning bolt number plate Big wheel Big deal British chopper fate

YZ750 Looks ratty caus im thrifty Dr. kovorchian seat cover All systems clear, commence launch sequence.

Kill the trees Not the bees Get off your knees and drive your diesel dork smoke belching bro dozer back to what ever minority for a presedent hating redneck shit hole you came from. I like trees. I like to piss off squares. I like to snap off foot pegs. I like you.

I recycle the spokes. I buy chinese rear rim and lace the old one to the front. 17" hoops to smoke tires smoke like blunt. This is retarded progression. Two wheeled dreams. No jokes. Just good bikes, beer and blokes.

oklahomer.

That moment when you decide to hit the brakes or pin it. That split second decision that when you look back seemed to be a long period of time. Abort or hold the fuck on. The oh shit moment is such a brief instant that holds serious outcomes. I pinned it. I was at the bottom of the gravity cavity of a dude booter launch ramp. Racing expert level motocross on an XR650. Holding 3rd place feeding it the beans when the foot peg snapped off driving my foot into the gravity cavity like a fence post with no hole. After my brief decision to hold the throttle on and launch I was faced with another split moment decision as the one foot pegged monster went sideways whipped. Let go, ride it out, or release my bowls and load my shorts with shit. I opted to continue the jump trajectory and after slide landing her sideways, bouncing a near high-side back to a normal two wheeled roll feeling very fortunate to still have on clean undies.
This was just some friday night motocross I had not planned on racing. I loaded up with Sir Mick east bound a down loaded up with our 650s for two days of 3 hour iron man grand prix scrambling at the Hallett speedway, a beautiful road race facility with ten miles of tight twisting offroad velcro magic dirt. My ankle was sore, my peg bolts broke off in the frame and all I could do was enjoy my wonderful pit company for the remainder of the weekend. It is sure good to have such quality friends to share it all with. Racing is not always great times on the track but sometimes great times off and around the track.
XR650R is still my all time favorite bike in the universe ever!

Urban bestiality

Cock-pit

Mommy, look at my art. Yay!

You can get a good look at a butcher by sticking your head up his ass but id rather take the bulls word... wait, dammit!

Let it be known: If I check out on board this beast; I checked out happy.

Where did the front end go? I found it! I lost it.

While leading the championship race on the last lap... all by myself.

 Whew, what a save! ...not.

 Hell of a way to end the season!

highnoon commercial3

And dont forget to be a manwolf and read motorcycho. More here!

Stevie Gee radness

In the life of racing

Saturday was our last flattrack of the season. We found out that it was probably going to be the last one at the IMI complex ever as the place was not helping our promoter do anything. Supposedly we will have new tracks and a series next year so that should be cool. I raced good in the vintage class and took a respectable 3rd. In the 30+ vet class I was leading it way out front on my 450. I saw the white flag and thought: Sweet! Then I thought: shit! My front was tucking hard coming into the first corner of the last lap. It kept tucking and I had all my weight on my hot shoe. I saved it and then instantly tucked it again with no foot under me to save it.
Sunday was the big annual hairscramble. 2 hours of moto track and a 8 mile prepped loam carve fest. I knew I was out of shape having only ridden the knobbies twice this summer so I planned on taking it easy in the vet class and running a solid mellow pace. Well, when the flag droped I fucked that strategy all to hell when I got the holeshot on the whole 50 man pro line and stayed out front for most of the moto track that I had not ridden in two years. Boner-airs to flat landers. Casey McCaseter blew the steering stabalizer. I spent the first half of the race battling the young seasoned pros and the second half of the race trying not to bight of my flopping tung and battling a sever leg cramp. If your gonna be dumb ya better be tough. I only got passed by few young pros and won the vet class. I realize today that my body and mind have a major communication problem and I better get to sorting that one way or another. Happy trails.

The art of racing in the rain

That's the title of a good book I once read. Recommendations  #237 Lord Mick dirt box ragger.  It was done in the perspective of a dog. In schooled up writer people terms i think thats something like personified 1st person narrative. Maybe I just made that up. Basically the thought is that holding on loosely (figuratively and literally), embracing the slide,  and feeling the flow with all around you is a good way to live (race (live)). I like parentheses. Somebody, who is one of my favorite writers recently  praised the way I write this blog without offending anyone. This person wondered how I accomplish this. Much self-control and patience?  Maybe subconsciously. I have frankly from the conception of this blog just really not gave a flying fuck. At least not to my language. Or content. I am sure it has offended plenty but I like to think in a punk rock way. Not a raving neo nazi pro life snuff film gun totting redneck bigot way. What I do care about is just hoping to delivery some sort of internet shovel load of shit with enough quality that some other like minded nuts can relate and maybe enjoy. Like minded in maybe more than just the surface context of racing, or living on/in wheels. I like to read something when I don't think it is deep or serious and find it to be completely full of both. Kind of like when a road side taco stand knocks your socks off. (I hope you washed you feet today.) So I reckon I find motivation in sharing something from the heart. Sharing is good. The world could use more of it. I love to read someone's stuff when it is unfiltered, from the heart, and simply pure. It's like watching someone kill it on the start line and be in front by the end of a race. The race strategy is ditched and replaced with just the racer's emotion. The mental rules of the game are shed and the talent and heart of the racer is shining. It is the good stuff. The stars are aligned allowing the whole organic and metal machine to mesh and operate on a rare and precious level. Some years ago, I was driving home from a desert race in the south west. Ten hours in after a long two days of racing with only 45 minutes of driving left. I was completely checked out, on auto pilot, and basically lost deep in thought. Not driving, Not thinking of living to see another day. Not the fact that the road had become shinny with frozen snow. I think they call that ice. I crested a high pass with my foot deep in the accelerator pedal pushing the overloaded van up the grade. A corner we know as a blind apex sent the boat into a tremendous four wheel slide down the grade to the out side of a corner. A run away death ramp that stopped some where near the bottom of the San Juan mountains. My slideways  brain sent my feet into pedal tapping actions and suddenly my hands were steering the wheel like a graceful octopus bus driver in downtown Boston. I am not sure if the overhanging back wheels caught some traction when they left the tarmac or if I saved it with my skills or the possibility I am just a lucky fuck. I did a speedometer check and yup; I really did have my foot into that accelerator pedal. Coming down the backside of the pass I saw two 4x4 autos pilled into snowbanks and trees. I am sure they were crawling along all white knuckled with there hubs in and wrists locked.  I like to think a loose grip and maybe an adventures soul is the way to roll.  Ride the slide. Keep the balance.

i like big bikes

Watch at 1:10. keeping it real

Shit in the Shop ( why does my TIG machine keep shocking me)

Burning metal. Everything smells like burning metal. I have found a toy that keeps my attention. I have not yet even finished unwrapping it. but the thoughts of it's intended use are good. Every night I blow black boogers and wake up jolted from a dream of tig welds that seem to keep shocking me. Is this the seed that leads to shock therapy. Is this just a destiny. Life with motorcycles. If you build it, they will come. Like a ravenous wild cat.

Motorcyle jesus says; repent, your sins will be forgiven. Yea yea yea, i am going riding... as soon as I learn how to weld.