tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6270387430179633332024-03-14T08:50:34.864-07:00OLD, NOT SLOWLIVING FAST WITH OLD BIKES.KYLE PEREIRAhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02621345948096220046noreply@blogger.comBlogger23125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-627038743017963333.post-48186042729862748932013-06-05T09:23:00.000-07:002013-06-10T13:34:25.311-07:00THE GOOD OLD DAYS<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEideD8zt6Zxkze4TPZRShh6hFMM1o2G1EmLw_mm_K5mpezhnwqvzVG261w6Fu7E4ulbRJk9AQcBUVKFzqbEU5P_RC7pzcFDhfyKjWi9n_xiXQMWXX80_a8p4GPHU0oNjG_yo1u4mR-eJpL3/s1600/Broken+bridge-entry+to+Pang.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="223" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEideD8zt6Zxkze4TPZRShh6hFMM1o2G1EmLw_mm_K5mpezhnwqvzVG261w6Fu7E4ulbRJk9AQcBUVKFzqbEU5P_RC7pzcFDhfyKjWi9n_xiXQMWXX80_a8p4GPHU0oNjG_yo1u4mR-eJpL3/s400/Broken+bridge-entry+to+Pang.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[2451].:1:1:1:comment10150200603310487_7461910.:0.:1.:0.:1.:0.:0.:0:2"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[2451].:1:1:1:comment10150200603310487_7461910.:0.:1.:0.:1.:0.:0.:0:2.:0"><span id=".reactRoot[2451].:1:1:1:comment10150200603310487_7461910.:0.:1.:0.:1.:0.:0.:0:2.:0.:0"><span id=".reactRoot[2451].:1:1:1:comment10150200603310487_7461910.:0.:1.:0.:1.:0.:0.:0:2.:0.:0.:0">The
good old days. When all that mattered was the road ahead, my beautiful
and faithful Bullet 350 below me and just enough money for fuel to get
home. </span><br id=".reactRoot[2451].:1:1:1:comment10150200603310487_7461910.:0.:1.:0.:1.:0.:0.:0:2.:0.:0.:1" /><br id=".reactRoot[2451].:1:1:1:comment10150200603310487_7461910.:0.:1.:0.:1.:0.:0.:0:2.:0.:0.:2" /><span id=".reactRoot[2451].:1:1:1:comment10150200603310487_7461910.:0.:1.:0.:1.:0.:0.:0:2.:0.:0.:3">How things have changed, how the wanderlust has been chained and jailed. A time when 'riding kit' </span></span><span id=".reactRoot[2451].:1:1:1:comment10150200603310487_7461910.:0.:1.:0.:1.:0.:0.:0:2.:0.:3"><span id=".reactRoot[2451].:1:1:1:comment10150200603310487_7461910.:0.:1.:0.:1.:0.:0.:0:2.:0.:3.:0"><span id=".reactRoot[2451].:1:1:1:comment10150200603310487_7461910.:0.:1.:0.:1.:0.:0.:0:2.:0.:3.:0.:0">consisted
of an MPA helmet, a weathered windcheater, a loose cotton T-shirt, a pair of faded jeans, hand-me-down buckskin gloves
from my father and beat up leather army boots. But we fucking rode,
and how. Saddle time was far greater than the cock talk. </span></span></span></span></span><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[2451].:1:1:1:comment10150200603310487_7461910.:0.:1.:0.:1.:0.:0.:0:2"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[2451].:1:1:1:comment10150200603310487_7461910.:0.:1.:0.:1.:0.:0.:0:2.:0"><span id=".reactRoot[2451].:1:1:1:comment10150200603310487_7461910.:0.:1.:0.:1.:0.:0.:0:2.:0.:3"><span id=".reactRoot[2451].:1:1:1:comment10150200603310487_7461910.:0.:1.:0.:1.:0.:0.:0:2.:0.:3.:0"><span id=".reactRoot[2451].:1:1:1:comment10150200603310487_7461910.:0.:1.:0.:1.:0.:0.:0:2.:0.:3.:0.:0"><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[2451].:1:1:1:comment10150200603310487_7461910.:0.:1.:0.:1.:0.:0.:0:2"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[2451].:1:1:1:comment10150200603310487_7461910.:0.:1.:0.:1.:0.:0.:0:2.:0"><span id=".reactRoot[2451].:1:1:1:comment10150200603310487_7461910.:0.:1.:0.:1.:0.:0.:0:2.:0.:3"><span id=".reactRoot[2451].:1:1:1:comment10150200603310487_7461910.:0.:1.:0.:1.:0.:0.:0:2.:0.:3.:0">We didn't watch instructional videos on how to straighten corners. But we always reached where we needed to go in one piece.</span></span></span></span>We
criss-crossed the country and dreamed of going beyond international borders. </span></span></span></span></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhS6YPQHZj1Tk9NHZzJu2rafBrMrjTj_ENWFQjBv2vrY15dRwqmh96yfMxAPeFvjaLFQ0LobfBwQgGnG-OxhnxUuJrrBq7m3koAUIqjypNUTKn3dZhFZnk3Sn-LOoR7GAEJa2XflAijWYlm/s1600/murud-janjira+campsite.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a></div>
<span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[2451].:1:1:1:comment10150200603310487_7461910.:0.:1.:0.:1.:0.:0.:0:2"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[2451].:1:1:1:comment10150200603310487_7461910.:0.:1.:0.:1.:0.:0.:0:2.:0"><span id=".reactRoot[2451].:1:1:1:comment10150200603310487_7461910.:0.:1.:0.:1.:0.:0.:0:2.:0.:3"><span id=".reactRoot[2451].:1:1:1:comment10150200603310487_7461910.:0.:1.:0.:1.:0.:0.:0:2.:0.:3.:0"><span id=".reactRoot[2451].:1:1:1:comment10150200603310487_7461910.:0.:1.:0.:1.:0.:0.:0:2.:0.:3.:0.:0"> </span><br id=".reactRoot[2451].:1:1:1:comment10150200603310487_7461910.:0.:1.:0.:1.:0.:0.:0:2.:0.:3.:0.:2" /><span id=".reactRoot[2451].:1:1:1:comment10150200603310487_7461910.:0.:1.:0.:1.:0.:0.:0:2.:0.:3.:0.:3">Our
bikes seldom failed us, although some of them were older than our very
selves. When they did break down, we knew how to get them back on the
road. We didn't have mobile phones and so always rode within visible
range. Six lane highways existed only in foreign movies. We rode on
state highways that were thick lines only in the maps. We ended every
day of riding with a smile and some whiskey and rum, sometimes swallowed
together. Nobody grumbled, everybody only smiled. Nobody had presentations to work on or emails to reply to. We were free. </span></span></span></span></span><br />
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<span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[2451].:1:1:1:comment10150200603310487_7461910.:0.:1.:0.:1.:0.:0.:0:2"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[2451].:1:1:1:comment10150200603310487_7461910.:0.:1.:0.:1.:0.:0.:0:2.:0"><span id=".reactRoot[2451].:1:1:1:comment10150200603310487_7461910.:0.:1.:0.:1.:0.:0.:0:2.:0.:3"><span id=".reactRoot[2451].:1:1:1:comment10150200603310487_7461910.:0.:1.:0.:1.:0.:0.:0:2.:0.:3.:0"></span></span></span></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhS6YPQHZj1Tk9NHZzJu2rafBrMrjTj_ENWFQjBv2vrY15dRwqmh96yfMxAPeFvjaLFQ0LobfBwQgGnG-OxhnxUuJrrBq7m3koAUIqjypNUTKn3dZhFZnk3Sn-LOoR7GAEJa2XflAijWYlm/s1600/murud-janjira+campsite.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhS6YPQHZj1Tk9NHZzJu2rafBrMrjTj_ENWFQjBv2vrY15dRwqmh96yfMxAPeFvjaLFQ0LobfBwQgGnG-OxhnxUuJrrBq7m3koAUIqjypNUTKn3dZhFZnk3Sn-LOoR7GAEJa2XflAijWYlm/s1600/murud-janjira+campsite.jpg" /></a></div>
<br id=".reactRoot[2451].:1:1:1:comment10150200603310487_7461910.:0.:1.:0.:1.:0.:0.:0:2.:0.:3.:0.:5" />
<span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[2451].:1:1:1:comment10150200603310487_7461910.:0.:1.:0.:1.:0.:0.:0:2"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[2451].:1:1:1:comment10150200603310487_7461910.:0.:1.:0.:1.:0.:0.:0:2.:0"><span id=".reactRoot[2451].:1:1:1:comment10150200603310487_7461910.:0.:1.:0.:1.:0.:0.:0:2.:0.:3"><span id=".reactRoot[2451].:1:1:1:comment10150200603310487_7461910.:0.:1.:0.:1.:0.:0.:0:2.:0.:3.:0"><span id=".reactRoot[2451].:1:1:1:comment10150200603310487_7461910.:0.:1.:0.:1.:0.:0.:0:2.:0.:3.:0.:6">We
drank from canals and streams and ate from holes in the wall. We slept
alongside the road, under trees, in trees, in random village homes. We
never spoke about where we've been but where we wanted to go. Everybody
was made welcome, blokes with inflated egos were kicked in the balls. </span><br id=".reactRoot[2451].:1:1:1:comment10150200603310487_7461910.:0.:1.:0.:1.:0.:0.:0:2.:0.:3.:0.:7" /><br id=".reactRoot[2451].:1:1:1:comment10150200603310487_7461910.:0.:1.:0.:1.:0.:0.:0:2.:0.:3.:0.:8" /><span id=".reactRoot[2451].:1:1:1:comment10150200603310487_7461910.:0.:1.:0.:1.:0.:0.:0:2.:0.:3.:0.:9">We
never had 'meets' nor did we spend hours on internet forums - we spent that time where it mattered, on the saddle. We didn't flaunt our bikes wherever or whenever
pussy strode past us. Our bikes were filthy with the grime only hundreds
of miles of riding can accumulate. We were proud of our appearance. We
didn't care what the world thought of us. We respected the law, shook
hands with cops and waved at fellow motorcyclists. </span><br id=".reactRoot[2451].:1:1:1:comment10150200603310487_7461910.:0.:1.:0.:1.:0.:0.:0:2.:0.:3.:0.:10" /><br id=".reactRoot[2451].:1:1:1:comment10150200603310487_7461910.:0.:1.:0.:1.:0.:0.:0:2.:0.:3.:0.:11" /><span id=".reactRoot[2451].:1:1:1:comment10150200603310487_7461910.:0.:1.:0.:1.:0.:0.:0:2.:0.:3.:0.:12">Yes, those were golden years indeed. </span></span></span></span></span></div>
KYLE PEREIRAhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02621345948096220046noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-627038743017963333.post-88349265693574663072013-05-31T01:21:00.001-07:002013-05-31T01:21:50.236-07:00YOU ARE YOU WHEN YOU RIDE<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />We men are losing our, erm, manhood. In the not so distant past, if you were a director and wanted to portray masculinity in your film, you automatically asked your prop guy to go find a motorcycle and the costume designer was instructed to conjure up a leather bomber jacket and a pair of good-fitting jeans for the lead bloke. <br /><br />Today, it seems, you just get the hero a tablet. Not the blue diamond shaped pill that is acclaimed for getting men around the world up and about, but the one that kills your virility if you use it on your lap. I mean, when I meet guys my age, the first thing they want to know is why I don't get myself a smart phone; forget about asking who and what I ride, or which sport I follow. <br /><br />Sure, I do not expect everyone to dig motorcycles the way I do, but what about the other manly pursuits like cars, guns, aircraft, horses? Even music has lost its hair and ball sac. You want proof? Line up Justin Diaper with Bruce Sprinsteen...<br /><br />Where have the men gone? And why have the women let them go? They are definitely not out there carving corners on motorcycles and skinning knuckles wrenching on them. And I don't think they're in there with their women either. I read somewhere that the sales of women's 'play things' are increasing. Although I cannot attest the authenticity of that claim, motorcycle manufacturers will confirm that lesser people are buying motorcycles the world over. Except for India but then again, most people here ride bikes because they are cheaper to run and maintain than cars and way more comfortable than the overcrowded public transportation system - they certainly do not ride for the sheer joy that only motorcycles can provide. So what does that tell you? Well, we're getting soft. And flaccid. And soon we'll need to squat to take a whizz if we don't correct what is happening.<br /><br />My advice to the three people reading this rant is this. Buy yourself a motorcycle, the older and more derelict it is, the better. Buy a set of tools and begin to bring that bike back to its prime. It will give you scars on your skin and strength in your muscle. All that sweating will clean out your pores, perhaps clearing the way for some facial hair to sprout.<br /><br />Sell off that smart phone, and use the money to get yourself a pair (yes, two) of good helmets and riding kit. When your bike is done, ride off to your girlfriend's place and tell her that she's coming with you for a ride. Don't tell her where, because you shouldn't know either. When you two are actually there, wherever it may be, forget your office. Forget your home. For those few hours. You will thank me. And your girl will love the fact that she got her man back!</div>
KYLE PEREIRAhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02621345948096220046noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-627038743017963333.post-32117508932407281512012-12-06T23:20:00.000-08:002012-12-06T23:20:26.131-08:00ALL BIKES ONE DESTINATION<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I never thought this would ever happen in my lifetime. Sure, Royal Enfield enthusiasts started the movement and the manufacturer furthered the cause. But till date, the only big motorcycle meet in the country was limited to Royal Enfield bikes alone.<br />
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Things are changing, however. Finally, here's a bike fest happening and it's open to everyone who rides anything with two wheels with a motor slung in between for good effect! Ladies and gentlemen, presenting the India Bike Week that's going to over run Goa between the 2nd and 3rd of February 2013.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjO1ud7J_JaWWozrgxvCq-vztt1LFGcprNZhuxfX6ZirMcBQ36g07Vn6Lupfy8J0fmjBfyWmCOyCfc4P9HZjkkYK-DRSBuO5fkcMNXkfGWT4DDUSWePJGmSVUeiShHFvs9_1DZ-YohS1CDx/s1600/FOR+BLOGSPOT.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="328" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjO1ud7J_JaWWozrgxvCq-vztt1LFGcprNZhuxfX6ZirMcBQ36g07Vn6Lupfy8J0fmjBfyWmCOyCfc4P9HZjkkYK-DRSBuO5fkcMNXkfGWT4DDUSWePJGmSVUeiShHFvs9_1DZ-YohS1CDx/s400/FOR+BLOGSPOT.png" width="400" /></a></div>
Judging from the launch party, I can safely say that they love their motorcycles. Any band of blokes who doll up the entrance with a pristine Norton Manx 350 and an unmolested vintage AJS gets my vote. The Harleys were there and so were the Beemers and as usual, the Bullet riding boys were there too in good strength. What seemed cool to me was that a solitary RX 100 cafe made it too, and had its own spotlight!<br />
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What's better is that the boys behind that awesome Helmet Stories motorcycle blog, good friends Vir Nakai and Harsh Man Rai, are heavily involved.<br />
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I'm going to be there. Don't know what I'll be riding though, but for once, it doesn't really matter. As long as you arrive with bugs on your visor and your jacket caked with dust, you'll be welcome! Good times beckon!</div>
KYLE PEREIRAhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02621345948096220046noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-627038743017963333.post-18938534909701246962012-12-06T11:15:00.000-08:002012-12-06T11:15:01.101-08:00THE BEGINNING. AGAIN.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Sometimes, you have to let go of the things that are the closest to you. Things that you have poured your heart and soul and life savings into. Life's like that. Yeah, a bitch.<br />
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My 1954 AJS 16M came to me all the way from central India. It had changed hands several times, each owner leaving his ugly mark on the poor girl. By the time it reached my place, the gear shafts were stripped of all splines, the magneto had lost all its spark, the motor had seen better days, some of the nuts and bolts had come off cupboards and bullock carts and the suspension was short.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4Kn0AFWglWD_D-dMgd9Vb28OAlI-FXifHAUPYkHiLxASu2fxFSXP9n02js3dIywj6p33pDyK3rAAqUCZXtjm2FfCayqH027hqwL_-N5RXBnAbZNcBTC2GnUPlVnQUkOgSs4aChsVvkEZy/s1600/DSC_0002.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4Kn0AFWglWD_D-dMgd9Vb28OAlI-FXifHAUPYkHiLxASu2fxFSXP9n02js3dIywj6p33pDyK3rAAqUCZXtjm2FfCayqH027hqwL_-N5RXBnAbZNcBTC2GnUPlVnQUkOgSs4aChsVvkEZy/s400/DSC_0002.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The AJS, after many years of my fettling. She left in this condition.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Wages back then, just as they are now, seemed too meagre to mount a complete restoration. I did what I could, getting one aspect of the motorcycle fixed as best as my capacity and wallet could permit.<br />
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The result was a fine motorcycle that was rough around the edges. A machine that had its own whims and fancies. A motorcycle that would sometimes start right up in the first kick and run the rest of the day like the finest Swiss clockwork. But on other days, the AJS was stubborn like syphilis, refusing to even fire once, let alone run. <br />
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But the journey to get her here was long and well worth it. However, everything comes to an end and the good old AJS was packed off, destined this time to southern India.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRm6r05k_8PKmuSxE40-VD718JVj5ALlmJLJLYEO_jHybaYorpMHjFUH-dLFoNPB-5ywn6lNfgAEN2Y9xG-xC94CtlY6pBF1Wv_D3S6qcdpsD-FlJAtL-1Kl_jhpGkzqxaXzJY6PfsnPlK/s1600/AJS.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"> </a><br />
I'm glad to see, however, that the current owner has started where I left off. In fact, he's gone 30 steps ahead already, with a complete ground up restoration. I couldn't have been happier for the old girl for she totally deserves what's coming to her!<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRm6r05k_8PKmuSxE40-VD718JVj5ALlmJLJLYEO_jHybaYorpMHjFUH-dLFoNPB-5ywn6lNfgAEN2Y9xG-xC94CtlY6pBF1Wv_D3S6qcdpsD-FlJAtL-1Kl_jhpGkzqxaXzJY6PfsnPlK/s1600/AJS.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRm6r05k_8PKmuSxE40-VD718JVj5ALlmJLJLYEO_jHybaYorpMHjFUH-dLFoNPB-5ywn6lNfgAEN2Y9xG-xC94CtlY6pBF1Wv_D3S6qcdpsD-FlJAtL-1Kl_jhpGkzqxaXzJY6PfsnPlK/s400/AJS.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This is how the (can't call her mine anymore) AJS now stands. And from what I can see, she couldn't have gone to a better home!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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KYLE PEREIRAhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02621345948096220046noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-627038743017963333.post-51978910796929641972012-07-06T02:30:00.001-07:002012-07-06T02:38:08.373-07:00SURPRISE..? SURPRISE!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I love surprises. And especially when it comes to riding a motorcycle. But sadly, I don't get any on the machines I've been riding all thanks to my day job.<br />
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On today's machines, you thumb the starter, shift into first and away you go. You reach your destination, dismount, plonk the thing on its kick stand, and get about doing what you set out to. On most occasions, there isn't even a need to check the fuel level, since the thing returns such a ridiculous fuel consumption that you could ride around Asia in a tablespoon of petrol. <br />
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But that's just plain fucking boring, in my opinion. I want my motorcycles to emit strange noises as they plod along, making me wonder what's up. I whack open the throttle, only to find the sounds changing, allowing my mind to deduce that the piston is about to come off its gudgeon pin and come straight up into my balls. And then a jackass driving a tin shed on four wheels veers out of nowhere, busy on his mobile phone. I panic, not knowing whether those old drum brakes will actually do their job on time. There's no fuel indicator and gauging the amount of the stuff in the tank is pure guess work. Is there enough to make it, or will it run dry in the middle of blessed nowhere?<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgm8M_-vzuREGCTbLUXrKg0ubDzwSURadnxnafx9a-AtH77tg-MeSX4eMu5kzKW000axTeqtL9Qs_2fyj4fLnRysgysUf_Uj5KCmMDbbuKgZqqwOTyeXel5KVSBVGxpOoyVJGEG1nsBioZ1/s1600/JAMES.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="243" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgm8M_-vzuREGCTbLUXrKg0ubDzwSURadnxnafx9a-AtH77tg-MeSX4eMu5kzKW000axTeqtL9Qs_2fyj4fLnRysgysUf_Uj5KCmMDbbuKgZqqwOTyeXel5KVSBVGxpOoyVJGEG1nsBioZ1/s320/JAMES.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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But I make it to where I want to go, turn off the motor by using the valve lifter, dismount and tug the machine on its cycle-type mainstand. I'm surprised I'm here, I'm surprised that we made it and I'm surprised that the machine still surprises after all these years. Makes me wonder, which modern motorcycle even comes close to that, eh?</div>KYLE PEREIRAhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02621345948096220046noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-627038743017963333.post-42375790536074450272012-03-24T01:03:00.000-07:002012-03-24T01:03:16.697-07:00Garage Built Motorcycles<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">There's nothing like making your hobby get you some money for gas. Let's face it, building motorcycles isn't going to get you a fancy private jet, a double-D racked Playmate nor your mug on Mount Rushmore. But what it can do is make you smile and as I'm going to find out hopefully, at least keep the motorcycle tank sloshing with fuel.<br />
<br />
With that in mind, I bring to you 'Garage Built Motorcycles', a small venture to rebuild motorcycles in my cunt of a shed for other people. All for a small fee of course.<br />
<br />
Whether it's a complete restoration, aesthetic overhaul (a neat term, if I may say so myself, that I coined up for a paint job and then some) or a cafe racer project, we've got the ways and the means to get the job done. I'm not going to be doing servicing and bike washes for now, but if you ask nicely..<br />
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</div>KYLE PEREIRAhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02621345948096220046noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-627038743017963333.post-80425370780424825482011-10-19T00:12:00.000-07:002011-10-19T00:12:22.144-07:00MY FATHER'S SON<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">Not too long ago, I was introduced to this group of cool folk. And I must have stuck out like a sore thumb. There I was, dressed in my oil-stained Levis and a simple T shirt, faded with use and adorned with what else but some print that was motorcycling related. They were draped in the latest threads, complete with that season's hottest sunglasses (so what if it was well past eight pm at the time) and shoes of the sort that rap stars place on altars in their sprawling 'cribs'.<br />
<br />
After assessing this specimen before them, one of them asked me what I did for a living. Just then, before I could even speak, my old beat up cell - that was obsolete the very same day that I had bought it nearly four years ago - rang and I pulled it out of my pocket to answer the call. All eight pairs of eyes rolled on to the sight of that dinosaur in my hands.<br />
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'I ride and write and build old motorcycles for a living', I tell them, their eyes following my phone as I slide it back into those faded denim pockets. 'Oh okay, but what do you do for a living', they ask me once again. 'I just told you, I ride and write and restore old motorcycles', I repeat. And by now, they throwing each other nervous glances and murmuring something amongst themselves. It's no surprise that I didn't make any new friends that evening. I wasn't hip enough, I suspect. <br />
<br />
But, they don't get it. And I reckon they never will. With all that conditioning in school, at home, it has moulded them into believing that apart from growing up to be a doctor, an engineer, a lawyer or a banker, there isn't anything else in this world that is worth doing. To them, you're doing well if you drive a fancy car, not if you're under it. <br />
<br />
A mechanic is automatically summed up to be someone who couldn't clear grade three in school. A writer is a looner who cannot hold onto a 'normal' job. A motorcycle restorer is a grease monkey who can't update his knowledge to machinery more current. A motorcyclist is a bloke who bullied the studious folk in school and although he's grown physically, mentally, he's still that ten year old bully in the school yard.<br />
<br />
I must admit, I have never found the need to fit in. Now although that might seem like a boast, it is anything but. It's an honest admission. I have never felt the urge to get myself the hottest video game nor do I recollect ever troubling my folks for spiffy sports shoes or anything of the like. Kids growing up with me would have a new school bag every year, I did just as well with that khaki coloured canvas bag that did a wonderful job in lugging my books to class every day for years on end.<br />
<br />
My dad always proudly tells me that his first job was in a glass factory not too far from his house. His job was to assist the glass blowers by carrying molten glass in large vats around. His salary was a paltry 2 'annas' a week. But his dad, and my grandfather, said that work was what shaped the man and my dad was only too happy to work his way through his school vacations. He went through college and then joined a multinational company as an apprentice on the shop floor. Sure, he was a qualified engineer at the time, but he wanted to learn his trade right from the bottom. His peers scoffed at him as he got his hands and clothes dirty while they sat in air-conditioned offices, but he smiled back at them. Slowly, he worked his way up and built a life for himself.<br />
<br />
I have grown up seeing him fix nearly everything at home, right from a busted faucet to his Jawa 250, with its innards scattered on an old bedsheet spread out on the balcony. He could have simply called the plumber. Or have had the neighbourhood mechanic push the bike to the garage to get it fixed. But my dad, being the man that he is, chose to do it himself. I remember Sundays spent with dad as he taught me the nuances of motorcycle maintenance.<br />
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Many Sundays later, I come home with the offer letter for my first job. I was to be hired as a mechanic in an authorised car workshop. My mom smiled. My dad gave me a firm tap on my shoulder. I had done my folks proud.<br />
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Of course, I didn't have the money to splurge on clubs and fancy coffee shops. But I now had access to tools and contacts with some of the best machinists and spare parts shops in town. I rebuilt my first engine when I was 16 years old. It was from a derelict Sunny Zip that a neighbour dumped into my willing arms. My first classic came home dead, molested and I paid a song for it because nobody else wanted to even salvage it for parts. It was an old Matchless G3L, the one I fondly christened Eleanor. She was more Bullet than Matchless, but I somehow knew that there was a G3L within her somewhere. Besides, I finally owned my own Brit classic! I polished the first engine head in my life when I was 18 years old, under guidance from one of the best of his time. The head belonged to my dad's Fiat 1100, manufactured in India under licence and called the Padmini. Dad played test driver. I clearly remember the grin plastered across his face as he drove back into the compound.<br />
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The day I become a Dad, I will strive to be sort of father mine is to me. Motorcycles have kept me away from many vices through the years; picked me up when I was broken and have been the sole witnesses of some of the best adventures I have had in my life. I have met the best people simply because of my passion for a pair of wheels and working on bikes has taught me lessons no school or self-help guru ever could. I am proud to be who I am - oil soaked, grease under my nails, grazed knuckles and calluses on my palms. I am after all, but my father's son.</div>KYLE PEREIRAhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02621345948096220046noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-627038743017963333.post-45722732484960491922011-09-10T15:24:00.000-07:002011-09-10T15:25:33.009-07:00IN HINDSIGHT..<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">After loading up, post last week's shopping binge, with enough lights to brighten up Vegas, it was time to actually fix one on to a motorcycle. The RX project desperately needed a tail light and the contemplation that was oscillating between an old Lucas replica lamp to a mere strip of LEDs simply had gone on long enough.<br />
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I needed something that didn't mar the shape of the seat hump but at the same time, was large enough to actually be an effective tail light. Getting one that was what I had in mind was getting hard, till my recent shopping raid paid rich dividends.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqWWrDezyXBgUCrF9tXOJGpeGzmbHw33acLSIcujacjHcXlajqM0pwzCu3tcg68JbsoGKQc3FaLlzvOPos05OsIhrqa2tVqXfh-UoxPAOK6epHs9xXFG1tpN64lEcd4_up47viMlQz0RuL/s1600/FOR+BLOG+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqWWrDezyXBgUCrF9tXOJGpeGzmbHw33acLSIcujacjHcXlajqM0pwzCu3tcg68JbsoGKQc3FaLlzvOPos05OsIhrqa2tVqXfh-UoxPAOK6epHs9xXFG1tpN64lEcd4_up47viMlQz0RuL/s320/FOR+BLOG+1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
So this is what Yellow Fever's rear end now looks like after a lot of drilling, filling and heaps of cussing. I apologise for seeming like tooting my own horn, but what the heck, I think it's come out looking like a million bucks! <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3ybjbAG1oHQ3KnOwUVPZ5Ifn3pD-FbsyCthKulgJ75WgxFZpt9aTrAvTSH44bZXOyGsPwprr9wlkDCdVKjmQ-pzMcW08xswAO9FjT5hPBGJwzDgx5K70rrzTImVe3-icTxj5mReCDzArN/s1600/FOR+BLOG+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3ybjbAG1oHQ3KnOwUVPZ5Ifn3pD-FbsyCthKulgJ75WgxFZpt9aTrAvTSH44bZXOyGsPwprr9wlkDCdVKjmQ-pzMcW08xswAO9FjT5hPBGJwzDgx5K70rrzTImVe3-icTxj5mReCDzArN/s320/FOR+BLOG+2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
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</div>KYLE PEREIRAhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02621345948096220046noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-627038743017963333.post-18475745935883983672011-09-07T13:15:00.000-07:002011-09-07T13:24:19.504-07:00F-LIGHT OF FANTASY<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">It's been awhile since I scribbled anything down here. But the thing is that this was intended to be a blog, not a cesspool of meaningless twat. And when I think I don't have anything worth mentioning, I'm sorry to disappoint, but I'll say nothing. Even if it means months of you staring at the same damn screen.<br />
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Anyway, I've been meaning to go out shopping for bike stuff - the kind of goodies that everyone seems to have seen somewhere but can't place where. My RX 100 project sorely needed a tail light, and my wallet was sore shelling out fines extracted by the well meaning men in uniform. And I thought to myself that illuminated parts are something that I could do with having around the shed, up for grabs at a moments notice.<br />
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Besides keeping your rear end from resembling pita bread, these things are great tools to keep you from noticing the flaws in a motorcycle. Don't know how to clean up that gangrenous tail of your new and spiffy customised motorcycle? I'll tell you what; just slap on the largest red light you can find back there and then never forget to proclaim how responsible a motorist you are whenever the occasion permits.<br />
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As with all things of this nature, the day you choose to actually get off your ass to get something done, the stars and fate sit together the night before, plotting on how to ruin whatever semblance of a plan you might have had. This time they concluded that rain coupled with unimaginable traffic would do wonders to fuck up my scheming.<br />
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I wouldn't have any of that, though. I mean, if it was for anything other than motorcycles, I probably wouldn't have even got out of bed and put on my slippers, but here I was going shop to shop to find the perfect specimen of something that I didn't even have the faintest of a clue about. I would go to the bloke behind the counter, ask him for lights with very accurate and helpful descriptions like 'long', 'circular' and 'motorcycle'.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFcAEkBNwS71dgM5NWCZT9DHtE7wGk7lhffg8Aa7MOvs9nXEZJLXZAx6uKwDp7yBHbtugfUdNBbuQzxv-30laY5Vz4_EIjnPYWwcPvRj7ZAFhfE3lb_RxTJW6TJq5eFlaN78miqqjcZA_9/s1600/BLOG+011.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFcAEkBNwS71dgM5NWCZT9DHtE7wGk7lhffg8Aa7MOvs9nXEZJLXZAx6uKwDp7yBHbtugfUdNBbuQzxv-30laY5Vz4_EIjnPYWwcPvRj7ZAFhfE3lb_RxTJW6TJq5eFlaN78miqqjcZA_9/s320/BLOG+011.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
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This is what I ended up with, and in retrospect, I don't think any of the stuff I got home was ever intended to grace a motorcycle. I know for a fact that the olive green bits go into Indian Army jeeps while the spherical one in the centre appears to be a replica of what used to be fitted onto the old Nissan Patrols. </div>KYLE PEREIRAhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02621345948096220046noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-627038743017963333.post-88926267733161986352011-04-01T01:02:00.000-07:002011-04-01T01:02:11.613-07:00CUSTOM MOTORCYCLES, THE RAJPUT WAY<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">As I've always maintained, I have met some of the best people in my life through motorcycles. I don't exactly know what it is about them, or may be it's my inability to put it into words, but there's something about motorcycles and the envelope around them. Rider and machine, a bond that can lie dormant, but never dead.<br />
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We were two blokes in different cities, divided by large expanses of the Indian subcontinent. I didn't have a clue of who he was; neither did he about me. Yet, now, I can count him as a very good friend of mine. And a way better artisan. And his art medium is motorcycles; no surprise really!<br />
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Here's a glimpse into Vijay's world and his Rajputana Customs movement. I call it a movement because it is bound to change the way we perceive the term 'customised' when it comes to motorcycles in this country.<br />
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</div>KYLE PEREIRAhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02621345948096220046noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-627038743017963333.post-52825936525623774612011-03-20T12:09:00.000-07:002011-03-20T12:11:15.999-07:00MATCHLESS RESOLVE<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQWe_JyC8OleqdI7M9WRYW0BOrvm8UjstA4OcsdwZ6eYmYOiCeYF_uw9AhqMCYV2lV7u6x2NBMBnNAaj8sXgzkZPQZkodRHPfDC41C1R9voBv9P72IGpxrCo7eHdmz7PvBolASOVDROCua/s1600/070320111225.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQWe_JyC8OleqdI7M9WRYW0BOrvm8UjstA4OcsdwZ6eYmYOiCeYF_uw9AhqMCYV2lV7u6x2NBMBnNAaj8sXgzkZPQZkodRHPfDC41C1R9voBv9P72IGpxrCo7eHdmz7PvBolASOVDROCua/s320/070320111225.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This was taken from my buddy Vikas's phone. So please excuse the quality</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQWe_JyC8OleqdI7M9WRYW0BOrvm8UjstA4OcsdwZ6eYmYOiCeYF_uw9AhqMCYV2lV7u6x2NBMBnNAaj8sXgzkZPQZkodRHPfDC41C1R9voBv9P72IGpxrCo7eHdmz7PvBolASOVDROCua/s1600/070320111225.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br />
</a></div>The other day, I was sitting around in my shed, cleaning my trusty Bullet with some kerosene and a toothbrush. She's not been getting any action of late (get your heads out of the gutters, those of you who chuckled!) and was sitting in the corner, with oil smears on her engine. I thought getting rid of those old oil smudges would be a great way to pass a balmy Sunday afternoon.<br />
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Half way through the exercise, my gaze feel upon Eleanor, my Matchless G3L. And then, it popped into my mind - my fucking new year's resolution! It's been three whole months since the year started and I've done the whole total of dick to start work on the machine.<br />
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One thing lead to another, and 3 hours later, Eleanor was spread over a white sheet, all bare and naked, exposed to every last nut and bolt. The next very day, the tin parts were sent packing to the tinkerer and on opening the engine, I was in for a surprise. The block is still running a standard sized Hepolite piston, and just a new set of rings should do the job. The bottom end, however, was knackered like a cheap hooker's twat. I suspect the bike has been under water before it came home with me and that water has pitted the big end cone and bearings beyond repair.<br />
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The machinist, as all machinists are, is extremely busy and said he'll do it whenever he has a moment to spare. The tinkerer has begun working his trade onto the parts and for now, all I can do is sit pretty. Hence this blog! Ha!<br />
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Oh, and I'm going to put up photos and a detailed rebuild report as soon as the parts trickle back in. So if you want to see an old Matchless take form, this is the place you ought to be at. <br />
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</div>KYLE PEREIRAhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02621345948096220046noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-627038743017963333.post-25360820150225804692011-02-01T12:10:00.000-08:002011-02-01T12:10:05.220-08:00BATON RALLY - WHO'S NEXT..<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"> <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBUnGmzz5ZdDd1U2l5ZNbF1yeOh4edE2feML6zfwTvaofeLjOi1hDiwlQGqC-Yli36y2iCOnxM7zdQW-YY_iB3ukZN_PiS9DdOUBZ0wkD8RSkqas9q4xv-rlMqQ_Dlc8OozwdNQBfFEQNa/s1600/BLOG1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBUnGmzz5ZdDd1U2l5ZNbF1yeOh4edE2feML6zfwTvaofeLjOi1hDiwlQGqC-Yli36y2iCOnxM7zdQW-YY_iB3ukZN_PiS9DdOUBZ0wkD8RSkqas9q4xv-rlMqQ_Dlc8OozwdNQBfFEQNa/s320/BLOG1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
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They say that if you do something at the start of a new year, the rest of it shall pass by with you doing that one thing repeatedly. Too bad I wasn't rolling in the hay, so to speak, but this blog is about a different sort of riding.<br />
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The blokes behind the vintage and classic club of India finally did what was the obvious choice (but remained elusive for ages, beats me) and held the annual Bombay rally last Sunday (which happened to be in January and hence the former paragraph). Now this was a relief to all concerned because having the shindig smack dead in the middle of the Bombay summer is absolutely traumatic for both man and machine. Not convinced? Well, then you probably haven't been in the city during the summer I reckon - your nads will dissolve in pools of filthy sweat and all you can do is look on with absolute horror.<br />
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This year's event was sort of dry, with hardly anything noteworthy making it. In terms of numbers, sure, they could have tallied with last year, but one must be prudent to discount the bunch of Harley riders and others who chose to ride in on everything but classic machines.<br />
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What the hell were they doing here? I don't have a fucking clue but what I do know was that unlike the years gone by, there were more youngsters to be seen. Some were on their dad's bikes and some were on their own. Others rode in trains, buses and elephants to get there. Oh, by the way, the 'elephants' bit was for those sods who have their heads up their arses and still think we Indians walk if we're poor, ride bullock carts when we're climbing up the social hierarchy and are perched on <span id="search" style="visibility: visible;">pachyderms when we've made it in life. </span><br />
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</span><br />
<span id="search" style="visibility: visible;">Coming back to what I was talking about, ah, yes, youth at the classic and vintage automobile rallies. People my age and younger are increasingly being drawn into the dark realm of old machinery, and their charm seems to be </span>hypnotising <span id="search" style="visibility: visible;">them (or at least I believe so). Which is great because I don't stick out like a fresh thumb any more at these do's. YAY!</span><br />
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</span><br />
<span id="search" style="visibility: visible;">And so fucking what if they're riding beat up Jawas or buggered up Yezdis instead of exotic Goldstars and Norton Internationals. So what if the number of RD 350s, most of them who looked good but sounded like soggy farts, over shadowed the other wise overpowering British erotica. It's the spirit that matters and it's all about how sick you get after the classic bug bites you. Just goes to prove that these machines will have loving and doting new owners long after the old ones pass on. Amen!</span><br />
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</span><br />
<span id="search" style="visibility: visible;">There was a flip side as well. Like this rich dick who sat on his 2010 Harley, which was on the side stand by the way, and kept revving the tits off the motorcycle. What's absolutely moronic is the fact that there were a bunch of his testicles, read cronies, who kept jumping about around him, cheering him on to blow those connecting rods (and everybody's ear drums) to thy kingdom come. And then there was this guy who plonked his kid onto an idling Vijai Super scooter (which was in drool worthy pristine condition incidentally, in case you were wondering) and the little guy kept wringing the throttle. Everybody seemed thrilled to see a kid act like a monkey in a circus and what's more is that his mom came over and gave him a hug. Now what if that child had managed to put the thing into gear while he was going ballistic on the throttle - I cringe at the thought. </span><br />
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I don't know what the organisers had in mind, but if it were numbers, they got it spot on. But quality, nah. The saving grace was that it was great to see fresh faces instead of the same old bunch of old timers. That said, I think they should actually check the bikes for period correctness though - something that is essential to keeping the reputation of any vintage and classic automobile event. It doesn't need to be shiny, just authentic. Keep it real guys!<br />
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</div>KYLE PEREIRAhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02621345948096220046noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-627038743017963333.post-19115935059501410052011-01-06T11:44:00.000-08:002011-01-06T11:44:15.082-08:00NEW YEAR, OLD WHINE<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The day I got Eleanor home on the back of a three-wheeled flat bed.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
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First and foremost, I wish all of you a very happy new year. Yeah, so just like with every year that has passed in this planet's existence, shit's going to happen in 2011 as well. Just don't tell me that I didn't give you a heads up. Don't believe me? Just read the news: birds are dropping dead from the skies, fish are kicking the bucket in hordes and the terrorists - well they're the only mother fuckers pro-creating in the teeming millions. Ah well, I'll just get back to more pleasant things - old motorcycles.<br />
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They say wine gets better with age. I don't doubt that. But there are other things that mature with time and motorcycle projects are one such thing. <br />
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Take my Matchless G3L project for one. The Matchless was the first <i>bitsa</i> I ever picked up. As usual, the sod who was selling it told me it was an easy restoration. '<i>Aarey</i>, it was running just last year <i>wonly</i>. Clean the points, service the bike and you can ride it everyday to work', he cajoled me. I didn't buy his sales pitch one bit. But I took the plunge and got Eleanor home. <br />
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With a good night's sleep came realisation that perhaps I had bitten off more than I could chew. The engine belonged to the military version while the frame came from a civilian variant. The magneto had been ditched in favour of a Bullet alternator and with that, came the whole gamut of Enfield parts - the inner and outer clutch covers, point cam shaft etc.<br />
<br />
Yep, I was screwed and if you’re fucked after paying up, it's termed as the same aforementioned 'f' word, just with the word 'royally' prefixed. This was back in 2007-8.<br />
<br />
It's been a long time since and Eleanor has come a long way too. Sure, I've ridden her for the grand total of 5 minutes in all these years but she starts and vaguely resembles what her maker had intended. Many later projects have come and gone but yet, Eleanor hasn't been restored completely. <br />
<br />
I'm certainly not the 'let's make a new year's resolution' type but this year, I'm making an exception. Eleanor will be completed this year. And yes, I'm stripping her down again and starting over from scratch. Yes, she deserves all the TLC I can fit into the 365 days that 2011 has in store for me. Wait a minute. Bugger, make that 358 days counting from today. Gah, time is really one slippery, little bastard, I tell you.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiFLfKo1z4LavDiEahjfZYnY87eyrQs2LGq1aEGRvAIjCojH2-hw60p_3XhGFOZbVja-RPzSVm9x-BHjpKoJ5uiRG76ztoJGnLJoxzzGE6bhMlz6KO7k5ip_3LbnfuH231BdMDsmuys1bk/s1600/BLOG2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiFLfKo1z4LavDiEahjfZYnY87eyrQs2LGq1aEGRvAIjCojH2-hw60p_3XhGFOZbVja-RPzSVm9x-BHjpKoJ5uiRG76ztoJGnLJoxzzGE6bhMlz6KO7k5ip_3LbnfuH231BdMDsmuys1bk/s320/BLOG2.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Eleanor, as she now stands. There's a long way to go and so little time..</td></tr>
</tbody></table>KYLE PEREIRAhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02621345948096220046noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-627038743017963333.post-90535236300984839982010-12-20T10:43:00.000-08:002010-12-20T10:46:25.860-08:00The one that started it all...<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvTWaCxThBN2nNsYvRJMfS9hxmrBdnh9t_qjUmLtbhMrPKC_L8i_L2niqFCN-Os3UCZffmlNroqWI9LiHYerrJ885i7zzsZ2nHXN7Yy7TZ4OBfNPSx7iuN5P1GVqff42hlNc5_dODF549o/s1600/BLOG+007.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvTWaCxThBN2nNsYvRJMfS9hxmrBdnh9t_qjUmLtbhMrPKC_L8i_L2niqFCN-Os3UCZffmlNroqWI9LiHYerrJ885i7zzsZ2nHXN7Yy7TZ4OBfNPSx7iuN5P1GVqff42hlNc5_dODF549o/s320/BLOG+007.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Handwritten behind this photograph, "With my savings, I have purchased my dream motorcycle - 1964"</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
This is the bike that started it all - my dad's Jawa 250 model 353 (he named her Betsy) that he bought brand new back in 1964 from the Nagpur military canteen. Why a Jawa, I once asked him. All he said was that he never fancied scooters, the Rajdoot was too cheap and the Bullet was too bloody expensive. He bought the Jawa for the princely sum of Rs 3000. Back then, a tank full of petrol would cost you a hefty Rs 5. He spent 15 bucks getting the bike to Bombay.<br />
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeZ27eEKzjpjLMtSJKa145gn7emTsQ1st9VxYJkUW0hPsiGHLsRYMu2YmVcehpcubTW4XgEbNI__1wFvYwNYXvAykYvJUhtg4LR2MSyJ0_TDoLkU0u8GkMyQLcabmjj2VUGpF8vupWSZPx/s1600/BLOG+005.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeZ27eEKzjpjLMtSJKa145gn7emTsQ1st9VxYJkUW0hPsiGHLsRYMu2YmVcehpcubTW4XgEbNI__1wFvYwNYXvAykYvJUhtg4LR2MSyJ0_TDoLkU0u8GkMyQLcabmjj2VUGpF8vupWSZPx/s320/BLOG+005.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dad, mom and Betsy, back in the day.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
He met a certain woman, fell in love and terrorised her neighbourhood with the din that only a Jawa can pull off. He later married her and I call her mom. <br />
<br />
My brother was born after a few years and I followed six years later. I learned to ride on the Jawa in the 5th grade, strictly in the compound under my dad's watchful eye. My legs didn't reach the ground and so dad would stand in one corner, ready to catch the bike as I approached. If it was a special day, he'd turn the bike around and let me loose again. That almost always happened, though.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguOVZ5rxIqCKxOwXIeQMk9SeCpiuUmjo-p_JXOksxsQIXC5A9PHR3RmP-jeLK76KDaeipVXvieNiAIO0xvUM_2vTfiEuskj91pppvc4Bx7EE_Q0Z_LGa5-oTeNqyeGN-TdBV3uP5Jldna2/s1600/Betsy+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="243" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguOVZ5rxIqCKxOwXIeQMk9SeCpiuUmjo-p_JXOksxsQIXC5A9PHR3RmP-jeLK76KDaeipVXvieNiAIO0xvUM_2vTfiEuskj91pppvc4Bx7EE_Q0Z_LGa5-oTeNqyeGN-TdBV3uP5Jldna2/s320/Betsy+1.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Betsy, as she stands today and still very much the stunner that she started out being. </td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
The Jawa, ah, the Jawa still lives with us. I may have ridden a handful of motorcycles in my existence till date and owned a couple of them too. But there is never going to be a motorcycle that makes me smile more than dad's Jawa named Betsy. I secretly wonder if dad loves Betsy more than me. I wouldn't blame him if he did.KYLE PEREIRAhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02621345948096220046noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-627038743017963333.post-59762420396548161752010-12-09T01:41:00.000-08:002010-12-09T10:41:44.713-08:00Bad blood..<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimf5BfKPC5QCvmwNsnsZewiFU1aHg8LQObt-QYcisgtsEM4uOG6RG5OYypmW5izCk2J_31JK5h-xxxCUux89g95cCwhGcHPvj2FEYoSmm4GRAw_Gf8k1-fokKNN3RBNEhcYgyq8Ur7w84U/s1600/yfever.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimf5BfKPC5QCvmwNsnsZewiFU1aHg8LQObt-QYcisgtsEM4uOG6RG5OYypmW5izCk2J_31JK5h-xxxCUux89g95cCwhGcHPvj2FEYoSmm4GRAw_Gf8k1-fokKNN3RBNEhcYgyq8Ur7w84U/s320/yfever.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<br />
Yellow Fever made her debut ride about town today and we were promptly carted off to the police station by, er the police. Figures having a handwritten numberplate won't cut it these days and the cops generally don't take chances with blokes on RXs or just RXs themselves. Apparently, at least that's what the gallant men in uniform had to say, there are a lot of sods who ride these things about these days, snatching chains from pregnant women and such. Okay, I made up the pregnant part but anyway..<br />
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I feel like a total bad-ass now and I'm sure the little Yam's notoriety is only going to go up. She's running great, just lost the stand spring when I hit a series of bumps the great care-takers of my city seem to have fucking forgotten about. She's running a tad lean but that's just a matter of fine tuning. I'd like to lower the headlight brackets to give her a meaner look but all of that in due time.KYLE PEREIRAhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02621345948096220046noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-627038743017963333.post-62970816478746690732010-12-02T12:28:00.000-08:002010-12-02T22:51:54.741-08:00Flat line.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilII7RHAQWkh8vO0KulYDyR-RFwm4MnlqVaGxrJGC_edLwqP6WXTfmpEjDPgSj3WY0pppVkZ26ekjxWfJPL6izehprno_Fze3bxXJpay_byP8CKK7mZIB6kmNPfOUAGRbMy5oYI-qTMRTQ/s1600/01fury.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="243" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilII7RHAQWkh8vO0KulYDyR-RFwm4MnlqVaGxrJGC_edLwqP6WXTfmpEjDPgSj3WY0pppVkZ26ekjxWfJPL6izehprno_Fze3bxXJpay_byP8CKK7mZIB6kmNPfOUAGRbMy5oYI-qTMRTQ/s320/01fury.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
There's a fine line that defines a truely gorgeous motorcycle from a hideous one. And this one, unfortunately, over stepped that line by a billion miles. What you see before you is Royal Enfield's iteration (based on the EFI Electra sold abroad) of the now-in-fashion flat tracker movement - a phenomenon that's just taken forward from where cafe racers left off.<br />
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I don't know who they hired for the job, but I'm willing to bet my nads that the guy thinks a flat tracker is a non-endowed stalker. I commend the good folk at the Madras factory for trying something new with such an iconic machine, but in my opinion, this just does not cut it with me.<br />
<br />
Think flat tracker and what comes to mind is the venerable Harley-Davidson XR 750. Definitely not this thing. Don't get me wrong, I really am a huge Royal Enfield fan and I love my Bullet to death. However, this lump of metal, nahhhh.<br />
<br />
I like the tail end of the motorcycle but when that seat section reaches the tank, the disaster begins. Truth be told, I opine that the tail is a tad too high but I'm guessing that is because the good folk in the Madras factory didn't want to tweak the frame rail ends - economics, I reckon. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
The tank is too round for the angular rear and the front end is as disproportionate as a politician's income. The head light is too large, the mudguard too conservative and don't get me started on the cheesy 'Fury' emblazoned on the flanks. Heck even Stevie Wonder would agree that the font is too bloody garish and oversized and just doesn't blend in with the rest of the bike. It really does look like an after thought.<br />
<br />
<br />
Oh, and as if it makes up for the rest, the bike will be priced at 5,795 pounds in the UK, sport a digital instrument cluster and twin silencers. That just makes this contraption twice as bad. <br />
<br />
<br />
Photo source - www.motorcyclenews.com - one of the best websites dealing with news about anything two wheeled! Thanks fellas and keep it real!<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhos5hKb5T1M5NGsPvPbrr8_zWpkaM8dRQUhRmPcr8xY6h7X9sB84jR3lW_SowZnRJSXsljyvixaCx26nnOG4JGumuK5Ua37c0st6-jCs28w_YjE5bdTtOS-gAUQ_cYY8Md2RjQv3lcB4UE/s1600/02fury.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="248" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhos5hKb5T1M5NGsPvPbrr8_zWpkaM8dRQUhRmPcr8xY6h7X9sB84jR3lW_SowZnRJSXsljyvixaCx26nnOG4JGumuK5Ua37c0st6-jCs28w_YjE5bdTtOS-gAUQ_cYY8Md2RjQv3lcB4UE/s320/02fury.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>KYLE PEREIRAhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02621345948096220046noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-627038743017963333.post-75820806535830292672010-12-02T00:34:00.000-08:002010-12-02T00:34:46.745-08:00When more power isn't really a good thing.There's been a delay in my rants for a while but that's simply the outcome of my life engulfing me. Sometimes, it just takes over and I tend to ride through it, hands clenched firmly on the shakey bars. But now, a few miles stolen in the night on my AJS, I'm back to normalcy.<br />
<br />
I've been wondering, so how fucking good are these superbikes that everybody seems to be drooling over. Yeah, they go like the blazes and stop before you even thought of slowing down. They handle like an extension of your body and their lines, at least some of them, can get my blood flowing well down south.<br />
<br />
But how happy is a 150-plus bhp machine that is being subjected to a cruel lifetime of urban city commuting - a dark place where top speeds can achieve a blistering 50 kph and in all probability, leaving the top three cogs in the gearbox spanking new due to disuse - be and I shudder to think of the thrill that is to be had while crawling around with 200-odd kg between your legs.<br />
<br />
<br />
In my humble opinion, I'd rather ride a slow bike fast than a fast bike slow. Doing a tonne on a B31 gets my jollies much more than doing the same pace on a motorcycle powered by a nuclear reactor. And my fascination for cleaning up the mess that ensues - oil grime and tightening the odd fastener - just makes the whole deal a lot more intimate.<br />
<br />
Funny because it appears that people like me do not constitute the majority of the avid motorcycling fraternity, but that doesn't count for squat, right?KYLE PEREIRAhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02621345948096220046noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-627038743017963333.post-16846026397557617292010-11-24T12:20:00.000-08:002010-11-24T12:20:52.940-08:00Sake racer...<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:WordDocument> <w:View>Normal</w:View> <w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:PunctuationKerning/> <w:ValidateAgainstSchemas/> <w:SaveIfXMLInvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:IgnoreMixedContent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:Compatibility> <w:BreakWrappedTables/> <w:SnapToGridInCell/> <w:WrapTextWithPunct/> <w:UseAsianBreakRules/> <w:DontGrowAutofit/> </w:Compatibility> <w:BrowserLevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:LatentStyles DefLockedState="false" LatentStyleCount="156"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 10]> <style>
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</style> <![endif]--> <div class="MsoNormal">Ever since my good friend and colleague Kartik Ware decided to get himself an RX 135, I was hooked. He got himself a runner (the logical thing to do) and I went ahead and landed up with the grand sum of an engine and registration papers of an RX (albeit the 100, not the 135). Why? Because I'm a mighty cheap fucker, that's why. The frame was later obtained and in a few months, I had myself a rolling piece of rusty crap. Now Kartik's the smarter of the two, and hence he wisely decided to get his built by a professional. I, the smart ass that I am (or so I think), decided to get about doing it all myself. </div><div class="MsoNormal">
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Kartik was building a Cafe Racer and so I decided to build a ratted out cafe/bobber. Why again? Well, because I'm mighty fucking cheap, that's why - a rat won't need fancy paint and that ought to save me a packet.</div><div class="MsoNormal">
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Using hi-tech computer rendering software, in other words Microsoft Paint, I put down my ideas<span> </span>- great because it allows you to refer to your thoughts about something even at a later date. I knew it had to have the Japanese Rising Sun on the flanks and to save some more money, I thought I'd scrape the tank and the rear bumstop to the bare metal, polish them, paint on the graphics and then lacquer the whole darn things. It came out looking top notch, I reckon. Now, I'm as good with a paint brush as I am with my light sabre and so I let the experts do all of that - my darling girlfriend Lourdes and my great buddy Vikas. Vikas is the same guy whose C10 crankcases got pinched from my cunt shed. Not once but twice. And he's the one guy I can count on to share most of my crazy motorised adventures with. </div><div class="MsoNormal">
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Anyway, I've never worked on Japanese motorcycles before and I have come to realise that unlike their British kin, they can actually be dismantled without the requirement of a hammer, chisel or a welding torch. I've gotten rid of everything that belies the principle of form over function and that has made this motorcycle quite feather-like indeed. No battery, no mudguards and certainly not those plastic side panels. An instrument cluster is for wimps, I thought to myself. Ha, who needs that, then? Truth be told, I didn't want to spend on a brand new one but now I'm digressing....</div><div class="MsoNormal">
</div><div class="MsoNormal">This motorcycle is the most bastardised bike I own, and I say that with pride. Apart from the engine, frame, triple clamps and the rear shocks, pretty much every thing else is anything but stock Yamaha RX 100 shit. The front end consists of Bajaj Pulsar forks and disc setup, Bajaj Avenger wheels and Yamaha R15 rubber. The aft is the sum of a Yamaha Gladiator box-sectioned swingarm, RX drum spoked to an Avenger rim and R15 tyre. The stock muffler kinda gave it a nerd-with-a-hooker-mom sort of look and so I went with an after market expansion chamber. It says Proton but the thing looks like it was made in somebody's WC - the welds are tacky, the steel sheet is wafer-thin and the thing's flimsy like paper. It does sound neat though, especially without the rear 'can' but I don't want to be jailed before the end of next week. </div><div class="MsoNormal">
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I haven't worked out the lighting entirely as yet but from the looks of things, I'm going with an old Triumph headlight that I had in my meagre collection of odd-ball spares. It's a genuine Lucas item, and probably comes from a 3HW. Yep, that's pretty old. The tail light I'm thinking of plonking on is also a period WW2 unit but I've just got one spare and that's making me quite hesitant. This is after all a fun and small budget build and I can't really handle an NOS WD part going AWOL from a bike like this. </div><div class="MsoNormal">
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I've put up a few photos of the bike being built and how it stands as of tonight. The photos of the completed Yellow Fever will follow as and when the work's all done. Let's hope it's not too far from now...</div><tbody></tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrAQhcz8YKLu9n3xp4xFVCtWssU55VHAuzrlZdz16E7CIFxnfqebL4ccqbMs8cI3HNakgde-RsxV2XjEKAK1HnrziK1C-mXlcUwWvPCCaaZ0hy1bT3NRxpPM2Unl0p759VpodmQOa5imIH/s1600/Y_1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrAQhcz8YKLu9n3xp4xFVCtWssU55VHAuzrlZdz16E7CIFxnfqebL4ccqbMs8cI3HNakgde-RsxV2XjEKAK1HnrziK1C-mXlcUwWvPCCaaZ0hy1bT3NRxpPM2Unl0p759VpodmQOa5imIH/s320/Y_1.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">On wheels. Just.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8jTXt5fkFcziq4-4rNOFcxotaDqJuiK_tWRHGVH5layNIFvZAUR64su2VYDR5f5eXVKnYBdUFJy0MQCMrdThK3w5c8J9-8Cdldljcuqz3PeygusyJd4xkZrT-Uq8ehj1ubRPQ04LLYHuX/s1600/Y_3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8jTXt5fkFcziq4-4rNOFcxotaDqJuiK_tWRHGVH5layNIFvZAUR64su2VYDR5f5eXVKnYBdUFJy0MQCMrdThK3w5c8J9-8Cdldljcuqz3PeygusyJd4xkZrT-Uq8ehj1ubRPQ04LLYHuX/s320/Y_3.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">No prizes for guessing - a Bullet Standard bar, fitted the other way around</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6QwYTxFg4wbZOAsqO2X4v-h4Q0jnz8qtBBC5LYh3t3qafvJF2ZprhWxHH-SWzVISc7gDzrU65OtvUFKZDmYe9yDYyg-IOajSFalz4XkKjDx9rijLHSX9F-ZOZ5i00Xz-SaoLY3y494F8z/s1600/Y_6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6QwYTxFg4wbZOAsqO2X4v-h4Q0jnz8qtBBC5LYh3t3qafvJF2ZprhWxHH-SWzVISc7gDzrU65OtvUFKZDmYe9yDYyg-IOajSFalz4XkKjDx9rijLHSX9F-ZOZ5i00Xz-SaoLY3y494F8z/s320/Y_6.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mock-up number 12645738129</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZfBj3c5LnGkVCQP3G5n46KXHmI0jdVpXf8XY1ZE7MCeHnqrLyH4qPhee4KO8uUFkm7Z7kKNkj-6zujPgq8QOBuKlfmEkhZ7JqhGY49xN5J5Rr7FV7WrYQxYvy2l38WYRMFA_LYgNTpxoY/s1600/Y_4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZfBj3c5LnGkVCQP3G5n46KXHmI0jdVpXf8XY1ZE7MCeHnqrLyH4qPhee4KO8uUFkm7Z7kKNkj-6zujPgq8QOBuKlfmEkhZ7JqhGY49xN5J5Rr7FV7WrYQxYvy2l38WYRMFA_LYgNTpxoY/s320/Y_4.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Remember that Triumph headlight I was telling you about?</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7vH_oOJExdAHaq-wC-n_SgtKtoglFLKxrkBmAF8U-iIoq4Mr1gi_hKTGFkoygqZ6OUwj08MMa4T-QmYdAIqkzXsgVR0ZB2f44JCIxMF0UOj1mTgO1x3RYZ_DbXbT5Mvp3aTGhcCs20XB6/s1600/Y_5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7vH_oOJExdAHaq-wC-n_SgtKtoglFLKxrkBmAF8U-iIoq4Mr1gi_hKTGFkoygqZ6OUwj08MMa4T-QmYdAIqkzXsgVR0ZB2f44JCIxMF0UOj1mTgO1x3RYZ_DbXbT5Mvp3aTGhcCs20XB6/s320/Y_5.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Seat hump fabricated out of an old Honda scooter's front mudguard</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiR6GXYoAu1ObCNemZ6PMfPed0qAijJpA1nMPI8hbYXkPrrOwUa_cimFYgnDZxQodceNhCFEVL27hyphenhyphendTq-RMbwsOvx2pgkRyWNmMktlkoOHnYUPG8vdEIuwdDkRAXzsFvrqZIx5nulwAw4b/s1600/yellow_fever_2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiR6GXYoAu1ObCNemZ6PMfPed0qAijJpA1nMPI8hbYXkPrrOwUa_cimFYgnDZxQodceNhCFEVL27hyphenhyphendTq-RMbwsOvx2pgkRyWNmMktlkoOHnYUPG8vdEIuwdDkRAXzsFvrqZIx5nulwAw4b/s320/yellow_fever_2.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My attempt at night photography.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4xhrJ66YKcd3WrIOqHt9zVwQE8DkOUYbrok_V1yge7BqRYkTjToccn1CccHqLZG3Dw-v03vXEOH_UBjCeKG6Mwdl5iwMNqzdUuiAjLI14jZm4S3t_qhRzLsHDaDnP40S839KDj4a-2mW6/s1600/yellow_fever_6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4xhrJ66YKcd3WrIOqHt9zVwQE8DkOUYbrok_V1yge7BqRYkTjToccn1CccHqLZG3Dw-v03vXEOH_UBjCeKG6Mwdl5iwMNqzdUuiAjLI14jZm4S3t_qhRzLsHDaDnP40S839KDj4a-2mW6/s320/yellow_fever_6.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Another one...</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNURwkBNcW0ITcGhmmJpJSGRZgpV9yJvdKMk68ByIQGbvq-ctH85qcK4bAY-z2ukmr_UnZrMaubk1C31qgIhD9c80JS2kzxse3oi-ka6dU8dgEWojZCLtZldtFF8GRATpHSDdTmxlKLeyR/s1600/yellow_fever_8.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNURwkBNcW0ITcGhmmJpJSGRZgpV9yJvdKMk68ByIQGbvq-ctH85qcK4bAY-z2ukmr_UnZrMaubk1C31qgIhD9c80JS2kzxse3oi-ka6dU8dgEWojZCLtZldtFF8GRATpHSDdTmxlKLeyR/s320/yellow_fever_8.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Okay, so I wasn't getting any sleep and I had ample time to kill. So sue me...</td></tr>
</tbody></table>KYLE PEREIRAhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02621345948096220046noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-627038743017963333.post-87413302414384005442010-11-21T22:53:00.000-08:002010-11-21T22:53:08.094-08:00On show...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghgDqrtcbHw20Ssdj_iYLy7mCrqciGbAiMDvlwwk6KSSlTQhmX5cuR2YhpOMwQm_qjiIA6baiGKCbuQV_T1ROsdgVJvPiG3B9dBlbMmoOvW6XAbvuckRPBKYV0MjEQOyWopBT3-rDDm5E6/s1600/BKR_Kyle_04_1200px.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghgDqrtcbHw20Ssdj_iYLy7mCrqciGbAiMDvlwwk6KSSlTQhmX5cuR2YhpOMwQm_qjiIA6baiGKCbuQV_T1ROsdgVJvPiG3B9dBlbMmoOvW6XAbvuckRPBKYV0MjEQOyWopBT3-rDDm5E6/s320/BKR_Kyle_04_1200px.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
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Some time ago, I got to know of a French man on a mission. No, it wasn't anything to do with gourmet cooking, but motorcycles. Now, he told me that he was traveling through Bombay (I hate calling the city Mumbai, so lynch me you buggers!), clicking photographs of avid motorcyclists and their machines - in short, the essence of the biker in the city. He's captured everything from a Pulsar to a blinged out RX, a Vespa to a handful of Royal Enfields. He swung over to my place late one evening and somehow, seemed very kicked to see my little cunt of a shed. He said the cobwebs and the chaotic mess added texture to the photograph. I thought it was a lot of artsy fartsy mumbo-jumbo, you know, the kind that describes a worn out and torn pair of jeans as 'distressed'. But when Thierry mailed me the results, I kinda blinked twice. Sure, my cunt shed still looked like a car bomb exploded in it, but it seemed to be at peace, like a womb holding all those bikes while they gestate into their road worthy form. Thierry Vincent is holding an exhibition in Paris of all his work relating to the "Mumbaikers'. Check out the following link for more dope. Here goes: <i><b>http://www.thierryvincent.com/article-the-mumbaikers-chez-tendance-roadster-61218113.html </b></i><br />
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<i><b></b></i>KYLE PEREIRAhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02621345948096220046noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-627038743017963333.post-80908302148111161262010-11-18T21:03:00.000-08:002010-11-19T02:05:02.250-08:00The RD 350 ain't everything<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLDax8-yfJTC-a3IK2t_VIaODlEw0kKNo000ErbpI-QgesZF534jaK0rheA6LdNrQ5ErXq78Z_5H-ZBOrFtEjTWWg9yBqyvEvG9twKlvCPjzS865WLTXBhc_-5Tx9fUO153aL5FhIsFjit/s1600/Y350-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="257" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLDax8-yfJTC-a3IK2t_VIaODlEw0kKNo000ErbpI-QgesZF534jaK0rheA6LdNrQ5ErXq78Z_5H-ZBOrFtEjTWWg9yBqyvEvG9twKlvCPjzS865WLTXBhc_-5Tx9fUO153aL5FhIsFjit/s320/Y350-1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
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With all the hype that the RD 350 draws, it's surprising that the Yezdi/Jawa 350 goes relatively unnoticed. Sure, the RD was and still is a brilliant machine, but heck, the Yezdi 350 Twin was fucking kick ass too! With 21 bhp@5500 rpm, it was no slouch even in its day. A single carb made life easier for the rider and in my opinion, the Y 350 was way smoother than the RD 350, but never quicker. At least mine is! Ravi Kiran, a big thank you for these brochures. And a bigger thank you to the guy who gave them to you. Ha!<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjb5KakpKF3SwYxkmEApsyStfX2YH6Iq0JyhVRNOowsVFbfk8poQ3spZVX6wv_seuceRefi_92MHqC8BP-o-4zlb4aI5F1Dp9lusRFO7rpUFLf1o639YPk1gEYise9QL2W1qsMfQCX0XxQx/s1600/Y350-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="258" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjb5KakpKF3SwYxkmEApsyStfX2YH6Iq0JyhVRNOowsVFbfk8poQ3spZVX6wv_seuceRefi_92MHqC8BP-o-4zlb4aI5F1Dp9lusRFO7rpUFLf1o639YPk1gEYise9QL2W1qsMfQCX0XxQx/s320/Y350-2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>KYLE PEREIRAhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02621345948096220046noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-627038743017963333.post-8473428375077246012010-11-18T06:23:00.000-08:002010-11-18T06:23:42.818-08:00The runner that never wasAs I figure out how to change this goddamn page layout, I am reminded about how sticky things you thought you liked might get. A 'friend' one urged me to pick up an old Royal Enfield Bullet 350 that he had. He needed the money, he said. Sure, it was a fine old thing, dating back to 1954 or thereabout. As everybody who's selling a used motorcycle does, he told me that he had paid a packet to get the engine running. I didn't buy the latter but I picked up that bike anyway.<br />
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'Running' is a very subjective word used to describe an engine's condition, I realised. If it turns over on its own power for a second, that too after kicking it a billion times, it's a 'runner'. I still told myself, no, this bike's going to be a dream deal. Pulling out the gas tank just proved that I had been had. A crappy weld job held the steering head in place with plates tacked on to hide the hideous cover up - like white bandage over a festering sore.<br />
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I took comfort in the fact that people were selling crappier bikes for more. I could get my money back, heck, even make a profit. No such luck. The bike stuck with me like bloody herpes and many prospective buyers came and went, none wanting to get infected. Ultimately, she went to a bike dealer who sold her off for double of what he paid me. Just goes to show that when you're passionate about your goods, you rarely make a profit selling them. Oh, and that fiend I was telling you about, I got to know he bought a Merc just after he sold the Bullet to me. Ah well, lesson learned.KYLE PEREIRAhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02621345948096220046noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-627038743017963333.post-17129530728144735572010-11-18T01:34:00.000-08:002010-11-18T01:34:30.468-08:00OLD, NOT SLOW: And so begins the journey<a href="http://oldtimermusings.blogspot.com/2010/11/and-so-begins-journey.html?spref=bl">OLD, NOT SLOW: And so begins the journey</a>: "Okay, so there are plenty of blogs out there that deal with vintage and classic motorcycles and their tantrums. There are plenty more that a..."KYLE PEREIRAhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02621345948096220046noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-627038743017963333.post-38352558133995464032010-11-18T01:31:00.000-08:002010-11-18T01:33:08.898-08:00And so begins the journeyOkay, so there are plenty of blogs out there that deal with vintage and classic motorcycles and their tantrums. There are plenty more that are finely written, the grammar and sentence construction being impeccable. Boasting of exceptional photography and smart design, these things are more like coffee table books than blogs.<br />
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But this one is different. There will be plenty of ranting and raving and yes, I'll try to curtail my fucking language. As you can obviously see, somethings are just plain beyond my buggerall comprehension. This is about the motorcycles and how sweet (or bitchy, depending on their time of the month) they can be. I'm no authority on classic and vintage machinery, but I strive to be. So if there's something that isn't right, do let me know. Or forever keep your silence.<br />
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What you will see will be pretty much all that I do in my little cunt of a shed. It's got the basic hardware, but I'm always losing stuff in there. And those mother fuckers who stole my pal Vikas's BSA C10 crankcases, I bet you wankers can't read and hence, there's no reason of mentioning you sods here anyway. <br />
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I'd love to make you a large part of this blog, so please do feel free to send in photographs of your old ladies - the more ridden, the better. These bikes are like your tool, the more you use them, the shinier they get!KYLE PEREIRAhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02621345948096220046noreply@blogger.com2