The Fault in Our Carbs

Do you remember your favorite book from childhood?

It was a late afternoon in October and by the time Pop and I got there, the western sky was indigo-violet. We had maybe 20 minutes of daylight left. The kid popped a pink bubble and looked at me.

“So,” he asked. “Whaddya think?” 

I ran my hand over the dented yellow plastic gas tank. It was obviously a cheap replacement and the kid had pasted a Kawasaki label on it even though it was a Yamaha. Brother.

“Well, I dunno,” I said. “A hundred bucks? Two flat tires, a cracked frame and it doesn’t run?” As much as I wanted a dirt bike, I didn’t think hours of chores was worth it on this junker. The kid shrugged.

Pop fiddled with the carburetor and twisted the throttle. He checked a few other things, then nodded almost imperceptibly at me. I think it’s as good as we’re gonna get.

“How bout ninety?” I said. The kid thought for a second. “OK,” he said. 

I handed him the money and the three of us loaded it into the back of Pop’s station wagon. Not exactly what I was hoping for, but I was on my way.

Growing up in the boondocks had its advantages. Kids in our tiny neighborhood of seven houses had perks that kids in town only dreamed about. Horses. Rifles. And mini bikes.

We all started out with the lawnmower engine kind, which were fun when we were 11 or 12. Their top speed was about 25 mph on pavement. On turf, it dropped to 10-15 mph with a jarring, teeth-chattering ride. And in the sugar sand of the surrounding bean fields, they just sat there, not moving, belching blue smoke. We had to walk beside them until we reached dirt.

As we got older, our interest turned to 125cc dirt bikes. One by one, the other kids in the neighborhood were blasting around on Honda CR-125 Elsinores, or Kawasaki KX-125s. They were pulling wheelies just by cracking the throttle. You could hear them in the distant fields buzzing like angry wasps. 

I read Cycle World, drooling over the reviews of the latest bikes. I had a poster of the famous Belgian motocrosser Roger DeCoster six feet in the air on his 500cc Suzuki. I bummed rides from the other kids and racing along at breakneck speeds in the bean fields was unlike anything I had imagined.   

I had to have one. But of course, I had to get past Mom and Pop first.

I broached it one night at dinner. “Y’know,” I said casually. “Tim Coffman just got a Suzuki TR-125.” I reached for a roll.

Mom looked irritated. “Yes, I hear those kids every afternoon racing through the neighborhood and out in the fields. I think they’re dangerous.”

I tread carefully. “Well, the 125s are only around 15 horsepower. That’s barely more than my minibike.” I didn’t mention that some were up to 35 hp.

“I don’t know,” she said. “I read an article in Reader’s Digest saying how many kids are being paralyzed in motorcycle accidents.”

Doug finished his drumstick and selected a thigh. “I dunno, Mom. Almost every kid in the neighborhood has one.”

She glared at him and looked to Pop for help but he was buttering his corn. She switched to me. “Well, you’ve shown them to us in the store. They’re seven or eight hundred dollars. Where are you going to get that kind of money?”

“I’ve got over two hundred bucks saved from chores and birthday cards. I thought I’d get a used one.”

Mom’s brow furrowed. She could see how this was going.

She finally caught Pop’s eye. “What do you think?” Her expression said it all. You cross me and you’ll regret it.

Pop wiped his mouth with his napkin but before he could speak, I had a brainstorm.

“Yeah! What do you think, Pop?” I asked. “I was thinking I could get a used one and it could be like our project. We could fix it up together and you teach me about engines and stuff.” His eyes lit up. She gave me a look that could have curdled milk.

It was touch-and-go for the next 30 seconds as Pop weighed the prospect of a father-son project with having cabinet doors slammed and the silent treatment for the next week. He looked me, then Mom.

“Well, honey…it wouldn’t hurt to just go look at some.”

Mom glared at me, then got up and started collecting the plates with unusual vigor; we could barely hear her voice above the clatter. “Fine,” she said. “But when he breaks his damn neck, YOU can take him to the ER.” She dropped the plates in the sink, continued to her bedroom and slammed the door.

Pop, Doug and I looked at each other; well, that didn’t go so bad.

I checked the classifieds in the Boca News for the next few weeks, but dismayingly, there were very few 125cc used dirt bikes for sale. We did check out a few that were like new and way out of my budget; and others that were off the list before we even touched them.

One kid, “to make it lighter for racing,” had taken a metal-boring bit and drilled holes every possible place he could. The frame, under the seat, the handlebars, the fenders, even the kickstand; it looked like Swiss cheese.

We finally found the Yamaha and I thankfully plunked out my ninety bucks…with visions of two new inner tubes, maybe a new spark plug, and keeping it under 30 mph with the cracked frame. I’d be riding in a week, two at the most.

I was sadly mistaken.

Pop, a mechanical engineer, approached our father-son project in his usual exasperating methodical fashion. 

Our first Saturday in the garage, he presented me with a package. I opened it and pulled out a book: Chilton’s Yamaha Repair and Tune Up Guide. I flipped through page after page of wiring diagrams, specifications, and exploded views of components.

He contentedly slurped his coffee and started out by leading me around and pointing out all the components and what they did. I knew some of this, but OK, wow, Pop I see.

Next we started taking it apart, starting with the big stuff; the seat; the chain guard; the wheels. So far, so good: easy off, easy on. A little duct tape, some minor stuff… should be zipping around the bean fields in well, OK, three weeks now.

But when I saw him take off the air filter housing, then the carburetor, then the cylinder head, my three-week time line went out the window. And with each additional component that came off, the completion date receded until it vanished over the horizon.

“Pop,” I said weakly. “Do we really need to tear it down this much? I mean—“

“Now, now, Schmedly,” he grinned. “Any job worth doing is worth doing right.” He patted me on the head to tease me, then sat down on his stool and reached for a socket wrench as the radio played big band music.

When I saw the piston and rings come out, I groaned. I wouldn’t be riding this stupid thing until next summer.

To say we took it down to nuts and bolts wouldn’t be a stretch. Using the Chilton Guide, we removed, cleaned and inspected every piece on that bike. We got to know the people at the Yamaha parts department very well.

But as the weeks turned into months, something unexpected happened. My impatience turned slowly to interest, then fascination. With Pop as my tutor, I not only learned what things were; I learned how they worked, why they worked. I learned something about vapors, liquids, physics, electrical stuff. Things like venturis and capacitors and spring constants.

I became just as interested in learning about the bike than in riding it; it was fun hanging around with Pop and the bean fields weren’t going anywhere.

Finally, the turning point came when we took the cracked frame to a repair place and had it welded. As the guy with the mask used his welding gun and the sparks flew, Pop and I shook hands solemnly; a job well done. From then on, it was just a matter of reassembling all the cleaned, repaired and replaced parts.

My Yamaha raced, flew through the bean fields. It carried me through shallow canals, down dirt roads, through unfamiliar woods miles from home. I knew no more contented hours than the time I spent chasing my wanderlust on that bike.

I ran across the Chilton Guide a few weeks ago as I was decluttering some boxes of books that have sat up in the attic for thirty years. As I flipped through the grease-stained pages, those weekends came back to me with startling clarity. 

I thought about that. All those weekends of frustration and hard work when Pop could have been hanging out with his buddies at the dinky Boca airport and flying. Or floating around the pool with a cold one. Instead, spending hours kneeling on the garage floor, the smell of gas, pinching his fingers on greasy springs and putting up with the impatience coming off me in waves.

Weekends when he no doubt caught flak from Mom with nonstop predictions of trips to the ER. His favorite dishes suddenly off the menu with frosty looks.

What made him do all that for me?

I could never have understood if I didn’t have kids of my own.

Thanks, Pop. 😎

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