I’ve been measuring the progress of the rebuilds for the pair of Honda XR250R engines on my home workbench in fractions of an inch. It may sound like the whole situation is going nowhere fast, but the project is going quite quickly: After fitting and sizing new valve guides into the cleaned and prepared cylinder heads, it’s time to take a seat—or eight.

For me, the cylinder head of the Honda XR250R is the gift that keeps on giving. Back in 2020 I brought home an absolute piece of junk that immediately dropped a valve and made a paperweight of the piston. Back then my goal was simply to have a running motorcycle, so the engine got a new piston, along with a a new valve and some fresh gaskets. I didn’t know what I didn’t know, so I shoved that new valve into place and crossed my fingers that the engine would work properly. Somehow, it did.

The further I get from that project, the clearer it becomes that the engine ran again because of pure luck.

The two engines on my bench now are a far cry from that project. Four years on, I understand the importance of the smallest aspects of an engine and know the risks that come with throwing an engine together with half used parts, half new parts, and zero real preparation. This pair of cylinder heads has taught me to do things the right way, to understand not only what I am doing but the proper way to do it, and which tools to use along the way. With a fresh set of valves sitting on the workbench, my most recent job was to mate each set of four valves to their seats: four ring-shaped surfaces in the hardened metal of each cylinder head.

The second stroke in the four-stroke cycle is often underappreciated. So much of the power potential in an engine comes from compressing the fuel and air mixture before burning it. Leaky valves bleed off that compression, and leaks are often due to bad valve seats. When functioning properly, seats help limit wear and tear on the valves, which open and close thousands of times per minute.

The tools for cutting valve seats can be relatively affordable all the way to wallet-draining. I elected to go on the more affordable end of the price spectrum and picked up a kit from Neway Manufacturing. After trying it out by refreshing a very poorly running engine, I was impressed with how simple the three cutters made the process of cutting the perfect valve seat: Install the pilot into the valve guide with a light twist, dab a bit of oil onto the pilot to reduce friction, slide on the first cutter, use the T-handle to rotate the cutter clockwise just a few turns, slide the cutter off and check the work.

I quickly developed a feel for how much material was removed by each clockwise rotation of the adjustable carbide cutters. Setup took seconds, then it was two quick passes with the 60-degree and 30-degree angle cutters to establish the rough geometry before sliding the 45-degree tool in place and dialing in the surface against which the face of the valve would actually sit.

A three-angle valve job is more or less the bare minimum for valve seats these days. A machinist would have happily lightened my wallet and added two more angles, and the additional cuts would help airflow, but a five-angle valve job is overkill for the agricultural nature of the Honda XR engines. I was able to do a three-angle job at home, and the performance of these engines will likely be very close.

After marking the seats with Prussian blue and checking the width of the 45-degree seat after the final cut, everything got cleaned before I re-blued and lightly lapped the valves against the fresh seats to check the contact on the valve faces. Once everything fit perfectly, the only thing left was the final cleaning and preparation for installing the assembled cylinder heads on the engines.

This marks the end of an adventure that was at times a nightmare but in the end was so rewarding. Every step of the top end of these engines was done right, by my own hands, in my own shop: Disassembly, parts selection and replacement, fitment, assembly, and soon break-in. Just four years after stumbling through a rebuild hoping the engine would run at the end of it, I am now staring at the possibility of two rebuilt engines that are stronger than they were before I worked on them and that, because of that work, will last longer than I can probably imagine. The contrast makes me laugh at who I was then, and that person would likely laugh at me now, panicking over a fraction of a millimeter of additional valve seat width. Neither is more correct than the other: We were both just having fun making broken engines work again. Neither completely right nor completely wrong, just happy to be fixing things.

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After recovering from my failed attempt to ream the new valve guides in my Honda XR250R cylinder heads with a few strong pours and a few days away from the garage, I found myself plopping said chunks of aluminum onto the counter of Thirlby Machine Shop. The man behind the counter told me not only that he didn’t have the tooling for the job, but also that the shop was not interested in buying it. But then we struck a deal. 

The valve guides in question are made of C63000 bronze and the manufacturer says the best tool for machining them is an adjustable diamond hone. If you ignore the incredible precision required to make the final product, the setup is relatively simple: a diamond abrasive fits into an attachment that can be driven by hand drill. The system is set up in two main parts: the drive head and the mandrel, the latter sized to the valve guides in question. My friendly local machine shop had the $450 drive head from a job a few years ago, but its assortment of mandrels did not include anything small enough for the 5.5mm required by the valve guides in the cylinder head of my Honda. The shop offered to loan me the driver head if I would purchase the $400 mandrel.

I know a good deal when I hear one. The proper mandrel arrived quickly, and I dove headlong into learning how to use an adjustable hone. The process became a bit intimidating after I read on machining forums that small-diameter mandrels can be delicate and, for a new user, tough starting points. Plus, I would be following the recommendations from the producer of the tooling only loosely: I would not have a pump to circulate the cutting oil, and my workpieces would not be solidly mounted. Knowing I could be lighting $400 on fire on a Saturday morning, I picked up the driver head from the machine shop and prepared my workbench. 

The tooling itself is a really sweet piece from Goodson. It has only one simple adjustment: a knob with four marks. Turning the adjuster clockwise a quarter turn from one reference mark to the next pushes the diamond stone out to contact the valve guide. Not so scary after all, then. The process was as follows: Retract the diamond stone to its lowest setting, insert stone and mandrel into valve guide, then adjust the stone to put light pressure on the guide. Attach a hand drill, flood the hone with cutting oil, run the drill through the guide in a handful of long, smooth strokes, retract the stone, remove the mandrel, measure the diameter of the valve guide. Simple, right?

Sure sounded like it, but it was also an oddly scary proposition since I was using two tools that were new to me, one of which was also borrowed. The diamond stone needed to be broken in at least a little—the manufacturer of the mandrel says the stone won’t really hit its stride till it has machined several hundred guides—so I put an old guide into my bench vise and used that to get a feel for how the day was going to go.

Holding a small squeeze bottle of oil in my left hand, I held a cordless drill in my right, plunging in and out of the guide at a nice steady pace while squeezing a steady steam of oil into the valve guide and keeping a keen feel for how much drag the hone had. Using the cordless drill made the process almost too easy; the hardest part was mentally adjusting to the fact that very glittery oil was, in this case, a positive thing.

Even in the slower speed setting, I didn’t have to run the drill wide-open to get a smooth feed, so no oil was slinging about the bench. To get the full stroke of the diamond stone, I had to make a small spacer for the cylinder head to sit on, which had the added benefit of keeping things cleaner, too.

It was a slightly hypnotizing process. The concentration required mixed with repetitive movements would have lulled me into honing away an entire guide if it weren’t for my fear of blowing past the perfect diameter for the valves.

When it came to measuring the progress of cutting, I felt as though I was getting crafty, but I was just being resourceful. A proper bore gauge for valve guides would be a one-trick pony in a stable of tools already overrun with horses for countless courses, so instead of buying a new tool to measure the inside diameter of the guide, I used one of the pilots from my valve seat cutting kit. The pilot has a very mellow taper that is meant to center and lightly wedge it in the valve guide, and by fitting the pilot into the valve guide, and noting how far it extended into the guide, I could figure out where I was at in the machining process and how much material I had left to remove. Once I reached a point where the valve stem would insert through the guide, I made a final pass to machine a nice slip fit that will keep these valves running smoothly for what I hope to be hundreds, if not thousands, of hours.

After the first four valve guides, I had the process just about locked in. The second cylinder head took a fraction of the time and the results were likely slightly better. Now that these heads have smooth valve action, the next step in prepping them is mating the valves to their seats. A proper three-angle valve job is the only acceptable way to do that, so the next installment of this series will be getting the seats cut and some final prep items before I make the final preparations for installing the valves and closing up two engines that have been haunting my workbench for over a year. The sound of them popping to life is so close, yet so far away.

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Valve guides are a very hardworking part of internal combustion engines. These small bearings keep the poppet valves moving freely and center them in their seats. Valve guides play a large part in the impressive longevity of valves and cylinder heads in modern, high-rpm engines. Perhaps due to their relatively low rate of failure, valve guides are not brought up much in discussions between mechanics. This might have been why I decided to replace the valve guides on my Honda XR250R motorcycle engines at home. It did not go smoothly.

How Hard Can It Be?

In the simplest terms, a valve guide is not much more than the precisely sized sleeve that holds the intake or exhaust valve in the cylinder head. To make manufacturing easier, guides are often made from a material different than that of the cylinder head and pressed into place within it. That press-fit often means that the final inside diameter of the guide needs to be machined to a proper slip fit of the valve after the guide is pressed into the head. Valves, guides, and cylinder heads are each manufactured to a range of tolerances, and those tiny variations can add up to be problematic; machining the guides with those pieces assembled essentially allows you to correct for those flaws when they would potentially be at their worst.

In the aluminum cylinder heads on my Honda XR250Rs, the valve guides are machined from bronze. For the last two engines built on my bench, I had the cylinder heads done by in outside shop but selected C63000 bronze valve guides for their durability. The C63000 formula includes bronze, nickel, and aluminum, a combination that makes the material very stable at higher temperatures, such as those that the cylinder head of an air-cooled dirt bike sees during slow-speed, low-airflow trail slogs.

All that is fine and dandy, but this alloy is also really difficult to machine. The same traits that make this metal hold up well in an engine make it difficult to make the small cuts that bring the inside diameter of the valve guide to that perfect fit with the valve stem. We are getting ahead of ourselves, though; before we make things the right size, we have to get things assembled.

Installing the Guides

This is actually the easiest step in the process on these heads; it only requires a little patience. The first step with anything related to building an engine is cleanliness, so I kicked things off with a deep scrub after putting the valve guides into the freezer on Friday night. After breakfast on Saturday I popped the bare cylinder head in the toaster oven for a little pre-heating. The temperature differential made the guides shrink ever so slightly in outside diameter while the bores in the cylinder head expanded ever so slightly to make the job of driving the guides into place just a little easier. For all the precision work that happens as part of this process, this step requires nothing but brute force, a big hammer, and a special driver to prevent damaging the guides.

First Attempt at Reaming

One of the things that is virtually always free and saves so much stress in doing projects like this is simply finding, reading, understanding, and following the instructions that come with the products you are using. There is something addictive about the feeling of successfully reverse-engineering the thing without needing the instructions, but as fun as that is, reading the instructions also keeps you from making ignorant moves. I’ll let you guess which route I took when it came to my high-speed reamer.

A high-speed steel reamer is the cheapest way to size valve guides, because reamers are single-size, but a fluted reamer is not the correct tool to size the C63000 guides I purchased: The manufacturer tells you as much if you take the time to find the information on their website. I didn’t, and on my first attempt, the guide dulled the reamer, got hot, and grabbed the reamer in a hug like your grandma used to give you—tight, and potentially inseparable.

Separating the two was not even worth the effort. The reamer was a total loss and so was the guide. They will live on as an artistic reminder to do the damn research. After consulting the valve guide manufacturer with an inquiry regarding the method or process they recommend, I learned that my plan to save any money on this project was gone. Learning costs money sometimes, but the $2200 in tooling that the manufacturer suggested was a tough pill to swallow. Two grand would have been about the total cost to have a pro handle these heads completely—not just the guides, but everything—and the project would have been done four weeks ago.

With my tail between my legs, I set these two cylinder heads on the oily front desk of the local machine shop. Joey, the man behind the counter, took one look at them and said, “Nope.” He denied the work not because he didn’t want to do it, or because I wouldn’t pay his price, but because his shop didn’t have the tooling for the teeny, tiny valve guides used in the XR250R. Most of the engines this machine shop sees are traditional V-8s which have valve stems significantly larger than the 5.5-mm toothpicks in these Hondas.

I was in a bind. Luckily, Joey’s advice was free, and the machine shop did have a solution, or at least part of one., It wasn’t going to come easily or cheaply, though. Joey and I put a replacement valve guide on order, along with a new tool. When the mail truck drops it all off, it’ll be time to try again… this time, significantly more prepared. You know, like I should have been the first time. Even the tasks that appear the simplest—remember, all of this was to make eight 0.216-inch holes for valves to slide into—are rarely what they seem, and occasionally we need to be reminded of that.

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During a recent garage chat with a friend about tools, I finally talked myself into purchasing a Milwaukee M12 right-angle die grinder. It’s a great upgrade to my current shop: I really enjoy the handiness of a die grinder with Roloc discs for cleaning and the small amount of fabrication that pops up in my projects, but I am too cheap to make space or budget for the air compressor it would take to run hungry tools like a die grinder. While air tools absolutely have their place—I’ll still make trips over to a friend’s shop to do the next porting job—this little battery-powered tool has been a wonderful stopgap. Compromise when understood and expected rarely feels like such.

Adding this die grinder to my tool set forced me to rearrange a few drawers in my toolbox. In them I found the evolution of my capability to cut, sand, and grind: a set of mismatched files from an estate sale, bent and scraggly wire brushes, wire-wheel attachments for a drill, a corded angle grinder, a cordless angle grinder, and now a tidy little die grinder—all added in that order.

At some point, as you develop the skills to use the tools you have, a set of cascading switches trip in your brain. You want to do the job a little cleaner next time, or for the components to fit up better—in short, you want less evidence that a repair was done at all. When rebuilding my 1989 Honda XR250R during the year that I raced it, I took an odd amount of care to make it appear as though I hadn’t taken the thing apart seven times in as many months. Keeping hardware from rounding off doesn’t really require some crazy amount of care, but we have likely all been under a hood where the last person there certainly didn’t take the time.

The evolution of my toolbox’s contents happened incrementally rather than in big steps. Over 15 years passed between my first project car and when I bought a set of digital calipers. For a good number of years I worked with a single hammer, basic socket set, and some screw drivers; I did full motorcycle rebuilds with not much more. The most noticeable changes were not those in tool count but in quality: Tools that allowed me to perform more delicate work.

Each addition improved my ability to remove or address flaws or problems with increasing power and speed—and most importantly, with increasing precision. I could focus more and more on the process of creating a higher-quality finished product. I used my time more efficiently because the tool was helping me, not holding me back. Rather than putting a ceiling on my capability, the right tools enabled the more advanced ideas and plans in my brain to come to reality.

If you can measure something, you can usually perfect it. Years ago a tape measure was appropriate for the work I did; now, the projects on my bench require the ability to read a Vernier scale on a micrometer. While it is possible to work on vintage machines without being slowly strung out to a line of atoms entering the black hole that is true precision, there will always be a ceiling to what you can do with basic tools. It is possible to assembling an engine that lasts a long time using only rusty tools you found on the side of the highway; but that rebuild will involve a lot of luck.

Anything worth doing requires some level of effort and carries at least a little risk. The strange thing is that measuring is the most likely place for human error to enter and wreak havoc on your project. Transposing a few numbers in my head led to throwing out a couple chunks of aluminum and about an hour of work last time I was standing in front of a lathe.

Working on projects can be frustrating for any number of reasons, but occasionally that frustration reflects a standard of quality we happily imposed upon ourselves. Working on project cars is like running on a treadmill. It is possible to quantify how far you have come by the hours spent, the distance traveled, or the average pace per mile, and measuring and quantifying that progress made can be rewarding at the right times; but so often we forget to look back at how we have improved—and how much smarter we’ve become along the way. After all, now I can measure my project progress down to the thousandth of an inch.

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Two weeks ago, sitting on the couch enjoying the tremendous warmth of a late-season fire in the wood stove, I found myself annoyed. On my knees was a laptop, the browser open to eBay, cursor poised over the “complete purchase” button. Its delightful blue color just invited the light tap of an index finger. That finger was making a quick scroll of my bank’s app, which displayed payment due dates in bold and account balances with a discouraging lack of commas. “Complete purchase” would have to wait. I closed the laptop, locked the phone, and left both on the couch while I walked into the garage to stare at something that might bring some joy rather than frustration. It didn’t really work.

So often a project only moves forward with investment: In the world of old cars, either time or money. Many projects require both, though the slider can be moved to and fro between them to balance the requirements of calendar, budget, or skill. 

While working overtime in the Hagerty call center a few years ago, I asked a friend why he was picking up extra shifts; it wasn’t regular behavior for him. He outlined that he wanted new flooring in his bathroom, and when he had priced it out, he realized he could make about the same amount of money in eight hours of OT, taking insurance renewal payments, as it would cost him to pay a pro to install the floor. Why should he learn to do a job he’s never done, and get a result to match, when he could do something he is good at and buy a professional-grade result? The interaction shook a little something in me about the perception of value. 

Sitting on my workbench are two bare Honda XR250R cylinder heads. Both represent the last steps in a pair of engine builds that have been stretching on for about a year now. A few months ago, the people at my local machine shop let me know they were starting to wind down their work on smaller engines. The setup time wasn’t paying enough anymore, and, rather than charge customers crazy amounts to make the work worthwhile, the shop had decided to focus on more profitable projects, many of which were already keeping its staff busy. I don’t blame them. 

Into the receipt pile I went on an archeological dig to find the paperwork for the last cylinder head I had done. It was for the Six Ways to Sunday project, and that engine has been rock-solid. I could mail off this pair of heads to the same shop that rebuilt the one for Six Ways, but that one had also needed a fair amount of TIG welding and CNC work to re-shape a combustion chamber that had been battered by a broken valve: a four-digit bill when all was said and done. Worth it, but these two cylinder heads don’t need such major work. I could get away with pressing out and replacing the guides, reaming them to size, installing valves, cutting seats, and putting in new springs. A couple of those tasks are advanced DIY, but the entire process is outlined step by step in the factory service manual. After finding an affordable option for seat cutting (more on that later), all I had to do was ream the valve guides to size. It couldn’t be that hard to make round holes that were the proper diameter, could it? 

High-speed steel and even carbide reamers can be purchased easily. There are even versions specific to valve-guide reaming that have nice, long cutting flutes and a generous pilot area ground on the lead-in to ensure the reamer is started straight down the bore. A flurry of packages arrived at my house, adding a dozen lines to my to-do list. Each step required me to use a new tool, from driving out the valve guides to reaming the guides to fit the valve stems. I know those two steps are next to each other and not the entire process, but that’s as far as I got.

In the attempt to ream the valve guides, I learned my first lesson: Material matters. This high-speed steel cutter made it about halfway through the first guide and then bound up. The bath of cutting oil couldn’t keep the abrasive relationship from heating up and the C630 bronze reached out and took hold of the steel by the collar. I had prepared to machine bronze guides. I had failed to prepare to machine nickel-aluminum bronze guides. 

We don’t know what we don’t know—and it’s impossible to know everything—but when choosing to slide the knob towards DIY rather than pay-a-pro, we have to somehow get ourselves to roughly the same skill level as the pro, at least in a few specific aspects. That takes time investment. I thought I could be cheap on both fronts by not investing the time to do proper research, which would have led me to purchase a diamond hone or different guides, and also by not investing the money to pay the pros. I thought I could get by with a little luck.  

The slider between investing time vs. money doesn’t always move in a straight line. It instead slides on a rollercoaster manipulated by a multitude of factors from weather to workspace to tooling. Each job is its own rollercoaster; some are relatively gentle wood coasters, and others require tolerance for very rapid changes in direction. Reading the measurements of a roller coaster cannot tell you what the experience will be from the seat.

I haven’t even got to the exciting part of my cylinder head work, and I’m a little nervous. That’s probably a good thing, though. Learning often requires bumping up against our own ignorance in some way, shape, or form. I got cocky with my skills and the job checked me. Now my to-do list includes a a trip to the machine shop.

While I love the idea of purchasing a rigid hone and adding some seriously cool capability to my garage, the four-digit price tag would take a long time to pay me back. Instead I’ll be swallowing my pride and dropping by the machine shop with the hope of bribing them to ream the valve guides to size for me. I still plan to do the valve seats at home, so this rollercoaster ride isn’t over yet. The first drop might have spooked me, but the allure of the upcoming twists, turns, and potential loops are why we get in and lock down the proverbial lap bar. There is a certain fun in experiencing a familiar thrill, but there is also the intoxicating feeling of doing something new and figuring out that it really isn’t that big of a deal—or, maybe, that it is.

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There are multiple ways to interpret the word “bearings.” In the midst of a recent garage work session, it became clear I was maintaining not one set of bearings, but two.

The task at hand was a mock-up of the rear wheel assembly on my Honda XR600R project. The bike I purchased is a 1988 model year, which was factory-equipped with a drum rear brake. There was nothing wrong with the drum setup. It functioned and was certainly restorable. The wheel and hub were fine as well. I just wanted to “upgrade” to a disc brake.

For the type of riding I do, a restored and well-adjusted drum brake is perfectly suitable. It’s relatively sealed, low-maintenance, and extremely durable. By comparison, a disc brake setup is quite a pain. The caliper needs a guard, the rotor requires protection on the underside, and the whole operation is exposed to the weather, allowing it to be coated in a constantly refreshed, abrasive slurry of dirt and water.

But the heat management is worth the trouble. That large rotor happily hands off heat to the atmosphere in a manner so true it’s a law that long predates brakes of any kind. A disc setup produces consistent stops, and the increase in effectiveness far outweighs any decrease in durability. So, of course, I decided it was high time I had a trail bike with this newfangled technology. I’d also been wanting to do a project that involved a little more fabrication, and the conversion from drum to disc brake seemed perfectly designed to teach me a few new things.

So after checking a few fitment details between the first-generation, drum-brake XR600R and the second-generation, disc-brake bikes, I began pillaging the halls of eBay, slashing at the buy-it-now button with a plastic sword 16 numbers long. The spoils arrived at my doorstep in a handful of boxes. The largest of the treasures was a swingarm from a 1994 XR600R, followed by a rear caliper and mount from a 1992 XR600R and a rear brake master cylinder from a Honda CRF450X.

The hardest part of the process would be hanging the master cylinder, so I started with the easy bit. The swingarm bolted right into place and even included the linkage that connects the shock to the swingarm. This was a nice bonus, because the linkage is comprised of the same parts as the ones coming off with the drum brake swingarm. Having a second linkage allows me to rebuild one while the other is still bolted to the bike, allowing me to test the fitment of other parts. Plus, spares. Everyone loves spares.

The needle roller bearings in a linkage pivot are some of the humblest parts of a motorcycle. They take a tremendous amount of force while being subjected to the brutal environment that is the bottom of an off-road motorcycle. The linkage gets bounced off rocks and roots while being pelted with everything flung off the front tire.

These bearings always put up a fight coming out. Always. The hardened steel shells, which reluctantly joined the links on their high-pressure first date, become nearly inseparable from the cast aluminum with time. The union is so strong that I had to use my bench vise as a press to break the two free, adding heat and tension until the aluminum expanded and allowed the bonds, formed over decades, to break. Only then could a new relationship begin, with new bearings.

Items like bearings are not meant to last forever. They are consumable things, meant to be changed when the time is right. Just like our personal, figurative bearings. Desires and directions shift and evolve. It is best to take a step back, reassess, and reorient ourselves with where we are going—and if that is indeed what we want.

The idea of doing a fair amount of extra work just to fit a disc brake to an aging motorcycle is slightly absurd, and as I mock up the assembly and measure for the spacers I’ll be making, I reminded myself that the whole disc-brake project is irrational. However, while none of it makes any real sense, we are granted the freedom to be absurd. That freedom includes making the decision to solve problems that don’t exist. I didn’t lose my way and wander off into the weeds. No, my bearings are well-maintained, even if one type is leading me down the more difficult path.

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In the middle of one of those “just stand and stare at things” garage sessions that happen sometimes, the realization set in that my Corvair has been in my garage for nearly seven years. To much of the readership here that may seem like “just getting acquainted” time, but due to several factors, in the past I tended to buy, enjoy, and then send down the road after a year or two most of my vehicles. Not for profit (HA!), but rather just to try or experience something different. Surprisingly, that approach has had interesting consequences.

This comes up because I am still slightly emotionally scarred from allowing that Corvair to sit in the garage for over two years in an un-drivable state. Only after a friend harassed me about how long it had been parked did it come into focus that I had mentally moved on from Corvair projects. It wasn’t something I was even thinking about, let alone prioritizing during my time in the garage. Once prodded, however, the job was done in a couple days’ time, but there was something about the experience that made me make a mental note as to how I could keep it from happening again. This last week, proof arrived that I had succeeded; the planned winter project for the Corvair is almost done just as the snow is melting off. [Annnnd, the snow is back.—Ed.]

So what changed? Mainly the process used to track projects. Previously, I’d severely underestimated the power of writing things down. It’s great not only for the literal keeping track of things, but for the ability to see and document progress at times when none is visible. Using the latest Corvair project as an example:

Day 1: Pulled the engine and transmission. Big change, easily seen.

Days 2–71: Parts scattered across the floor and workbench, occasionally the dining room table. A plethora of small changes and fits-and-starts progress that are all nearly invisible. Notes kept throughout remind me that while they may feel invisible, they are not.

Day 72: Engine and transmission were reinstalled in the car. Big change easily seen.

The flywheel replacement, the handful of gaskets and seals, along with a lot of cleaning and refinishing in between required a stick-to-it attitude that some might naturally have within themselves. The more times I tread this path the more I find it is lacking in me. My desire to work on large projects like this burns hot and fast. Sometimes that’s great as it means I can get a lot done in a fairly short amount of time. Other times it means things grind to a halt long before the project is done. So this time I put a focus on that. Not on the project itself, but on the part of my brain that easily tunes out. I had become that guy at the party who won’t let a song play all the way through before picking something else. Man, is he annoying.

So this time there was more documentation. More photos, more notes, and less discussion of the project. The idea was to actually do the tasks rather than talk about them. I’ve noticed that sometimes in the past talking about what I planned to do enough times would trip my brain into thinking I had already done the job. Then, when actually getting down to work, it felt as if I was walking well-trod ground instead of breaking the trail I should have expected. It’s always easier to talk about cleaning hardware and getting things assembled perfectly than it is to do those things.

Without a physical checklist in front of me tracking progress in poorly scrawled permanent ink on greasy cardboard, my brain was practicing creative accounting and crossing things off before I did them. Do this long enough and the brain declares the project complete, followed by short-circuiting after the eyes transmit the message that the car we are driving in our mind’s eye is actually a pile of parts in need of more time, money, and frustration. Everything is easy in your head; otherwise, I wouldn’t have already restored the 1964 Corvair Spyder that I saw on Marketplace this morning.

Keeping a list always seemed like a harsh reality check, like it was adding to life’s stress by sitting atop the thing that is supposed to bring joy—a reminder of all the things you haven’t done yet. That’s the wrong perspective. It is instead a way to remove the stress, not add to it. I can choose to only think about my project when I want to, without fear that I’ll forget where I was. Should the desire to chase something else arise, the list will be there, waiting for my return with a clear “You are here” on the adventure map that is a project car. You just have to make sure you return. Over the past few months, I have been. And it’s been better than ever.

To-do lists are things that nearly everyone tells rookies to utilize. Myself included. But before this winter, they just never seemed to work for me. Projects never progressed slowly enough to need them. Now, what started as a curious fling with a Corvair coupe has blossomed, seven years on, into a lasting relationship. If a car is going to be around for a while, it’s worth keeping better track of things. It’s sad it took me this long to figure that out. Luckily, now the fun begins.

***

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At 32 by 24 feet, my garage is not huge, but it is certainly big enough to work on fun toys and stash away projects. The line between workshop and storage facility can be a tough one to walk, and lately the hoarding portion of my brain has been winning the battle between making progress on projects and accumulating stuff.

After successfully balancing storage and workspace for three years, I found myself at a breaking point. I went out to the garage on a Saturday morning, hot coffee in hand, ready to work on something. I was greeted by the reality that, no matter what project I wanted to work on, I needed to rearrange some pile of stuff in order to get started on it. All three work surfaces—48 square feet of space—were covered.

Having to shuffle junk to get work done was such a buzzkill that I did little more than pick up something, fiddle with it for a minute, and go back inside the house. The proverbial parking lot was full, the fire lane was occupied, and somehow there was even stuff parked on top. There was no more space to store things, which meant there was no more space to work on things.

This situation demanded that I purge all of my spare motorcycle parts. The stacks of metal and plastic had no real organization. Each bin was labeled “parts.” Just about every Honda XR that has crossed the threshold into this space has been partially, if not fully, disassembled. Some got put back together. For a long time any XR bit that I deemed “usable” I put on a shelf. After three years in this shop, it was time to re-evaluate my definition of what should be saved.

Everything that I had so carefully stacked on a shelf I pulled out and laid on the floor, where each part was inspected, wiped down, and finally sorted before going back onto the shelf—or into the discard pile. The sad reality of the task was learning just how much straight-up junk I was keeping. Why did I need three sets of bent-up foot pegs? Or two frayed clutch cables? Multiple sets of bent handlebars?

My system of storing parts was all wrong. A parts stash should not be a repository of anything that can be useful; it needs to be full of things that are worth storing. With great care I had assembled the perfect place to work on projects and then used it to store scrap metal.

It was a game of keeping the best and culling the rest. I have a few rare pieces and a few valuable ones, and even a couple that are both. I am oddly chuffed about my collection of cylinder heads, so I stored those carefully under the workbench. While most of the bent-up footpeg pile went into the scrap bin for recycling, I kept the best pair because I expect to do a restoration one day and I’m gambling that OEM pegs might be hard to find by then. (Only need one pair, though.) Anything I knew to be OEM-correct and of restoration quality I retained. Dozens of cables became a few good spares that could be used for test fitment or to allow a project to limp along until a new cable arrived in the mail—they are only $8 and still in mass production. The used countershaft sprockets felt so good to expunge that I can’t believe I ever held onto them at all.

Now that I’ve confronted my excess junk, all my projects will progress. The feeling is sublime: A clean workspace primed and ready to take advantage of any spare time I can find. Without the need to clean a spot before being productive, 30 minutes of work is actually 30 minutes of work, not 15 minutes of shuffling and 15 minutes of work. All that time adds up, but if you had told me I could find more time to work on projects by taking out the trash, I’d have called you crazy. Now I know it was me that was crazy. What was my plan for those worn-out rear sprockets, anyway?

***

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Just like I did twelve months ago, and virtually every week in between, I spent last Sunday night piddling about, cleaning up my home shop. It was the perfect time to both reflect and look forward. Thinking like that in late December leads neatly to a polarizing word: Resolutions.

I’m not great with resolutions. That doesn’t keep me from continuing to make them, even if the activity feels increasingly absurd. Somehow my lack of seriousness about resolutions allowed me to discover their core purpose: To force a small bit of evolution into a better version of Kyle Smith. Resolutions to “stop this” or “start that” have fallen flat year after year, and it’s finally become all too clear that subtle changes go a hell of a lot further than attempting to revolutionize or reinvent myself.

So this year will continue the trend of measurable but attainable goals that are also soft pitches. I thought last year’s were beer-league-softball stuff, quite honestly, yet when the season ended, I was batting below .200, stone sober. I swung and missed at making all my cars run. Saved myself from striking out by buying a couple of investment-grade tools. Watched a lazy one come right across the plate, then whiffed and bought a non-running project bike—which I swore I wouldn’t—at the last second.

I’m only making two resolutions for 2024. First, stop using sports metaphors. Second, break something.

Let me explain with a brief trip down memory lane. The 1965 Corvair I love so dearly has always had a few problems that I simply tolerate. One is an oil leak from the rear crankshaft seal, a leak that has been there since day one of my ownership. After a year of driving, the oil soaked the clutch so thoroughly that it flung off all its friction material and clogged the starter bendix. I took the whole powerpack out and put it back together with new seals, flywheel, clutch, and pressure plate. Three days after reinstall, I drove the Corvair 1000 miles to a car show.

The crankshaft still leaked. But it wasn’t bad enough to worry about yet, so I embraced the trope that “they always leak” and decided to enjoy the car in spite of its territorial behavior.

I’m currently staring at the tail end of the crankshaft of the Corvair. The leak got worse this fall, and this winter seemed as good a time as any to buy $50 in gaskets and seals and knock the job out before the leak ruined another clutch disc. Three hours into disassembly, I arrived at the last step, the bellhousing bolts. They’re loose. Did these 9/16″ coarse-thread bolts back themselves out or did I fail to tighten them in my thrash to get the car back on the road?

At some point, the reason doesn’t matter. I only sit here with greasy fingers dancing over a keyboard because I realized this might be the first time I can recall that something I did (or didn’t do) caused a machine to need repair.

I have sought out all of the broken stuff I own, often paying to bring it home. We chronic mechanics all agree such behavior is normal, though, so I’ll set that aside. That crankshaft seal sticks in my brain because points to a lack of use.

In my garage, the restored and rebuilt seem to sit on stands more than anything, engines and machines doted over a kid picking dandelions in the outfield of the T-ball field, their helicopter mom holding triple antibiotic and bandaid on the sidelines. I’m so ready to fix things that I am doing preventative maintenance on preventative maintenance.

This year’s resolution is to put down the tools and use one of the motorcycles, cars, or other motorized objects until something breaks. My true goal is to wear something out. Could be the 520 non O-ring chain on the trailbike, or the tires on the Corvair—something that demands service due to use, not decay.

I choose vehicles for their durable nature, so the ones in my garage are not the ideal group to choose from, but if I fail to break anything while taking Corvair on a good road trip and hit the single track multiple times on the Honda XR250R, was the time really wasted?

The tools are clean and in their boxes now, the top of the workbench wiped down as if I’m closing a bar. Really, I’m cleaning enough space to lay out a map and do some thinking about where I’d like to drive this year. Suggestions welcome, especially if you offer to help out when I break something on the road. Might be my arm …

***

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Within the grease-under-the-nails populace is a subculture of very interesting humans: The people who can justify anything. While my New Year’s resolution to not purchase another motorcycle failed before the snow melted, it is kind of implied in the self-negotiations of such resolutions that you will try to stick to the resolution even after you slip up and load a Honda CRF50 into your van.

Things were going well. My meager parts fund was less stretched, and projects had progressed in the absence of another new (old), shiny (rusty) thing (distraction).

So when a friend sent me a Marketplace ad on Saturday afternoon of a 1988 Honda XR600R for sale—locally, and under $1000—he knew exactly what he was doing. The Baja 1000 champ? The model that competed for over a decade in both desert and hare-scramble racing, with the likes of five-time Grand National Cross Country champion Scott Summers and 11-time Baja 1000 champion Johnny Campbell holding onto its handlebars? Maybe you’ve seen that iconic photo of Summers holding his 290-pound XR600R as if it were his baby—he feels as though the bike picked him. There is just something about these machines.

An XR600R is powered by a large, 591cc air-oil-cooled single-cylinder that is about as big, dumb, and simple as they come. Think of it as the Chevrolet 427 big-block of motorcycle engines. It has a shorter stroke than the XR650L, but some subtle changes give it more punch than its bigger siblings. There are some cool details, but in the end, the XR600R is an example of the “no replacement for displacement” solution. And it kinda works.

Though I have owned and ridden a fair number of Honda singles over the years, the 600R has always eluded me. The bike into which the XR600 evolved for 2000, the XR650R, was one I was lucky enough to enjoy when they were cheap 15 years ago. The XR650L is the slightly younger and sleepier brother, and you can still find it in Honda powersports dealers today. The 600R has long been on my wish list, but opportunities just haven’t come up to buy the right bike. Or, at least, I never had a good reason.

I am a big believer in the separation of excuses and reasons. The distinction might have come from Mr. Lebo, my high school homeroom teacher, who would make us sit and wait every Friday at the final bell for him to give a small speech that always ended with: “And remember, bad things happen to good kids when they make bad decisions.” I would often show up late to class “because of” my temperamental 1964 Corvair: car troubles were low-hanging fruit, and a pretty believable excuse. One day, Mr. Lebo called me out: I had better have a reason I was late, he said, not an excuse. It hit me hard then and has stayed with me since.

Even on the drive to go pick it up, I knew this XR600R was probably a bad purchase and that I was making excuses to even go look at it. The fact was underscored when I returned home and spotted a crack on the clutch side cover. Opening the right side of the engine, I found that a gorilla with a breaker bar had assembled the timing pointer onto the crankshaft. The splines critical for timing the ignition were mangled, along with the threads meant to hold the drive gear for the oil pump in place. The first step of building an XR engine is the crankshaft. The last step of disassembly is removing the crank. To fix this problem properly, there are no shortcuts.

The mutilated crankshaft has put a big wet blanket over the excitement of having an XR600R join my garage. Now comes the time to sit at the workbench and stare at the project, trying to find a reason to own it. Should I cut my losses and chase a better starting point, or throw good money after bad to rescue this bike? Working on any XR600R could satiate my desires. Why put myself through the annoyance of cleaning up someone else’s mess? It sure feels like god doesn’t know and the devil isn’t talking. Instead, I sit there and daydream of the artful process of kick-starting a big-bore and riding the sands of Baja.

There are concrete, justifiable reasons to not have this thing. Yet each pass through the garage requires me to pause, stand, and picture the 600R I could build. Where it could take me. What it could show me. I don’t really need a reason to keep it, but I can’t turn these dreams into goals yet, and all these excuses feel flimsier and more nebulous than ever. For now, I walk back into the house and shut the door to the garage, leaving the bike on the lift.

***

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Earlier this year, I declared I would not buy any more motorcycles. Now I’m stuck in a deep debate over how many parts can be purchased for a project before they qualify as the purchase of a project. It’s not going well.

New Year’s resolutions are hard. I bet my failure rate is right around the national average of 91 percent. (And yes, I actually looked that up.)

My lust to store one more motorcycle in an already hardworking shop grew so strong that I began to creatively interpret my own rulebook. My desire to build a flat-track racer trumped my resolution to focus on the projects I already have. The compromise is going to be how the project gets done and where I source the pieces. Two simple rules: It’s gotta be cheap and it’s gotta be available.

Each fall I try to go through my storage shelf and mentally catalog exactly what junk is holding my floor to the ground. I don’t have enough storage space to keep everything, and sorting through keeps me from stashing things that truly have zero value.

Several Honda XR250Rs of the late 1980s have come through my garage in the last few years. Three were parts bikes that got broken down and boxed to serve as spares during my first year of racing. Somewhere in there, I accumulated enough spares to build a second race bike. Another dredge through the shelf brought forth a bounty that persuaded me to build a flat-track race bike rather than to sell some of the parts. This type of logic never fails to entertain, does it?

After talking to a few dirt-track racers and looking through spec sheets for aftermarket frames, I realized that the 1986 model year XR250R frame sitting outside next to my scrap pile actually had good enough geometry to be fun to ride and to be competitive in the right venues and classes. The swingarm was under one workbench, along with the triple trees. Forks were leaning in the corner under the coat rack. Rear shock, in a bin on the shelf. That was the bones. Now I just needed … everything else.

The deck could be stacked, though, and for me that meant doing a lot of the mental work up front. Much of it I had already done, because the idea of building a flat-track bike, disc-brake conversion and all, has been rattling around in my head for years. I have drawings and scribbled lists dating back a decade.

Building what I wanted started with defining what I wanted: A racer that fit into a vintage class, had decent parts support, and also allowed me to get creative when building it. A CRF250 or 450 is what I should own, on paper. All the parts I need are a credit-card swipe away. However, my credit card has had a water-cooled kinda last three months, and if building parts and doing things creatively is my goal, then why start with a bolt-together project? No fun in that.

Of course, I started with one of my XR250R frames. Sadly, I only have two on hand and they are both chassis with drum rear brakes. While the drum-brake path is familiar, it’s not ideal for this project. So I am planning a disc-brake conversion, and will use a modern rear wheel for cheaper gearing and rotor options. I can also use take-off calipers and master cylinders, as the pure-bred race stuff is overkill for my skills. I’m not about to say I’m building this bike on a budget, because things will get out of hand at some point, but I’m taking budget into heavy consideration.

The first big sticking point was wheels. For the race tires that I should be running, 19-inch rims are all but necessary. Buying hoops and spokes and lacing my own wheels is not out of the question, but a fellow racer mentioned that building spacers for a modern motocross bike wheel is almost easier than building up a stock hub. Even better, that option would give me a strong wheel with non-custom spokes, as a fair number of modern bikes ship from the factory with 19-inch rear wheels.

I nabbed a CRF450 wheel from eBay for $125. It needs a few spokes and a good cleaning, but it was still hundreds cheaper than the alternative. The front was even cheaper: Adventures with the 1983 Goldwing that haunted my driveway for a few years reminded me that the cast front wheels—known as Comstars—are fairly light and use a 17mm axle diameter, the same as a stock XR250 front axle. I don’t even need to source special bearings, just spend some time on the lathe.

The prospects are exciting, mainly because there are so many parts of this project and plan that I have never tackled before. It is a path that will require me to learn new things. For instance, more complex lathe projects. I know enough to be dangerous, but only enough, so when I realized a lathe project was the first step to getting an idea of how much I would need to lower the suspension, I was a little intimidated. The swing arm pivot is two needle roller bearings pressed in on each side. This put me in the middle of a catch-22. It really makes no sense to install a set of new bearings just to have to pull them out to blast and finish the swing arm, but blasting and finishing the swing arm now is a fool’s errand as fabrication needs to be done on and around the swing arm that would likely ruin the finish anyway. What to do?

Chuck up some aluminum in the lathe, that’s what. Getting the newer rear wheel and older front wheel to fit requires new spacers to properly center the wheels and also adapt the larger 22mm rear wheel bearings to fit the 17mm axle. To learn the process I would need for the wheel spacers, I chose to turn down some spacers that will take the place of the needle bearings in the swing arm. I don’t need smoothly pivoting suspension right now, I just need a bike in roughly one piece. That compromise allowed me to do my first solo project on the lathe, which taught me the basic process and primed me for the next step: building the precision wheel spacers.

Each step of this coming build is a problem I am excited to solve, and that alone all but guarantees my success, because my goal is not to have a fast race bike but to know how to build things. Experience is far more valuable to me than another motorcycle in the garage. That’s how I know this project will get done. Didn’t even need a resolution to know that.

***

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It is early afternoon on day two of a four-day adventure-bike ride across the upper peninsula of Michigan. My friend and I have just finished setting up camp. The only thing louder than the lightly crackling fire is the scurry of chipmunks preparing for the fast-approaching winter. Red is in the trees, orange soon to follow. Fall happens fast up here.

There are only five of us taking up provisional residence in this 18-spot campground. The camp host in his medium-sized fifth-wheel, someone in a nice conversion van a couple spots over, and a mountain biker with a nice tent set up in the back of a suspiciously clean Jeep Gladiator. Then our motorcycles, my friend’s as-yet unscratched Tenere 700 and my KTM, which leaves blue paint chips wherever I go, like a molting snake.

My friend left me to start the fire—he wanted to ride about a mile down the road to attempt to catch fish from the nearby river. His exact words as he rode off: “I’m so excited to not catch any fish.”

At our site, a pair of heavy riding pants hangs off a low tree branch. Another pair is folded over the handlebars of my KTM 950 Adventure S, which sits between my slim one-person tent and the small horseshoe road that circles the private campground. A mountain-bike trail establishes the back side of our temporary plot of land. Sipping beer while seated in my spindly camp chair, I recall something I once read years ago, in which the author argued that you can’t own land. I’ve never agreed more. How could I possibly claim this spot as mine? It’s best shared.

The soft thump of tennis shoes draws my mind back to the present. It’s mountain bike guy, complete with local IPA in hand. No coozy, just to make sure you know it’s something brewed right here in the 906. My single 25-ounce can of Budweiser sits next to me like a sign on a stake saying I’ve all but given up on craft brews. These big single cans are the easiest thing to grab and carry from a gas station when traveling by motorcycle. One can—you don’t even have to drink it all—and you’re good all night. Less waste, easier transport. Win-win.

He asks where we are from. I love a good opportunity for a “from under the bridge” joke, and so do the locals. Conversation starts.

I’m only here on a motorcycle because a bicycle takes more effort, literally and theoretically. The KTM can transport itself the 5.5 hours required to get here from home in Traverse City. To get to the Upper Peninsula with a mountain bike would mean 5.5 hours in the big red penalty box of my Express van. Not the worst situation, but the thrill needs to be worth the punishment. When traveling by motorcycle, the punishment becomes part of the adventure. Our adventure included some punishment, don’t get me wrong: The quarter-mile sand section that buried one of our motorcycles yesterday proved that most people who say “journey is the destination” likely wear rose-colored glasses.

After my “under the bridge joke,” and the standard pleasantries about the weather, mountain bike guy asks, “So what do you guys do?”

Before my brain realizes he is referring to our jobs, I blurt out, “Fun stuff.” As we chat about my KTM and the mountain biking trails my friend’s Tenere 700 idles into the campground. No fish, as he expected—but we weren’t really prepared to dress and cook a fish anyway.

Mountain bike guy’s question sticks with me long after he returns to his Jeep. It was a legitimate question: It was 3 p.m. on a Monday afternoon. Two 30-somethings sitting around a middle-of-nowhere campground during business hours reeks of startup money, Daddy’s money, some type of money that is something other than hard-earned.

We were two friends who threw a dart at a calendar, packed some luggage, and rode north. Vacation time exists for a reason, and I had been banking it, waiting for something worthwhile. Turns out that time didn’t need to be spent in some grand manner. The destination is not special. Just somewhere there rather than here, transported by something interesting and engaging, with friends, stories, and brats around a fire.

During that UP trip, my friend and I rode around more or less aimlessly for two more days, picking destinations by a range of fuel and time to ensure we would always arrive somewhere with cold beverages. Wake up, find a spot for coffee and breakfast an hour away, then find lunch within a three-hour range. No terrain was off limits: We followed snowmobile trails marked with a translucent green highlighter on the pages of the outdated atlas which is near-permanently installed in the right pannier of the KTM. We arrived home tired, yet recharged.

After hours of time alone in a helmet with my thoughts, that question at the campground still hadn’t left my mind. What am I into? What makes me happy?

Not everything needs to be epic. A weekend ride or drive is time doing what we love—near or far. We can dream of the cross-country trip all day but in reality a humble drive is the easiest route to finding something epic. It requires doing the thing we love more often. I would rather drive my Corvair once a week to get coffee I could have made at home rather than take it out only once a year for a big road trip. Every trip creates a memory, and they all are valuable.

If we never get out the door for the humble trip, we will likely never have the confidence or preparation to go out and do the big thing. The most fun stories are ones when things go better or worse than expected, right? Go out and do something, anything, and you’ll likely have a story to tell.

***

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Dreams and realities mix together endlessly in a gearhead’s brain. Some of our ideas are just projects that we ponder from time to time; others are potential ways to use whatever steel or aluminum bits are in our oily hands. Ideas often jump from realities to dreams and, less frequently, from dreams to realities. So when I had the chance to ride and wrench on the motorcycle of my dreams, how could I say no?

One idea that has been stuck in the crevices of my grey matter for decades is a CB750 cafe racer. I have no idea why I want to build one. When I was young, such a bike made sense. Young idiots like form over function: Bias-ply Firestone tires that offer a vintage look but harsh ride and questionable traction, paired with uncomfortable, thin seat cushions atop narrow fiberglass seat pans, ostensibly for weight savings. They have the confidence to remove both fenders while still saying, “No, I’m still going to ride it rain or shine,” with a straight face.

I know better now. Yet when a friend asked me to recommend a shop that could sort out a few nitpicks on his CB750 cafe racer, it was impossible to resist doing the job myself. By the time he and the bike appeared at the bottom of my driveway, I had already muttered, “I really got to build one of those.”

The Honda CB750 is such an interesting machine: CB for the model, 750 for the number of times you have seen one hacked up in a Craigslist ad, the copy including something about how the seller “never got it running right.” An infinite amount of CB750 cafe racers have been built, and somehow, even more abandoned during the build process. There are many variations on cafe racer, yet so many “builds” come out formulaic: ground-off passenger peg mounts, rattle-can black on everything that was easily unbolted. “Is free shipping included?” seems to be the bottom line. If you’re a regular reader of this column, you know that buying a cafe racer that is even a fraction built by someone else isn’t even a passing thought in my mind. The only situation in which I own a cafe racer is if I build one.

That decision sticks me in a weird spot. Am I really so confident in my ability to build something different, or at least not the same, from seemingly millions of cafe-racer builders? I cannot accept building something purely for form. The thought of compromising the performance—a lot of the common cafe racer mods these days do just that—is unfathomable to me. However, successfully merging function and form with my skill set and my budget seems like an exercise in futility. So the idea gets buried deeper and deeper in my mental filing cabinet.

The other week, I caught myself scrolling the archives of BikeExif.com. My brain momentarily short-circuited, and I time-traveled to late night shifts in the college library, when I would scroll those same pages when I was supposed to be cataloging books. The cafe racer has long captivated me, but my expectations of enjoying one have never been lower.

Days after my scrolling session, this sleek black CB was sitting on a rear stand in my garage, lifted to chest level on the motorcycle lift. A quick look revealed the oil leak noticed by its owner was just the shift cover plate, an issue easily solved with a small amount of Permatex and proper torque on the hardware. I did a quick, front-to-back check of nuts and bolts, sorted out the pickup on an aftermarket speedometer, and the job was done. But I didn’t call the owner just yet.

This bike was built pretty simply: stock foot controls, stock swingarm and forks. Tasteful. It functioned pretty darn good, too.

Again, maybe my expectations were insultingly low, but there were a lot of subtle things that made this bike stand out from other cafe racers I had seen. The straight-pipe exhaust actually had a very effective baffle: This Honda was quieter than my KTM 950 Adventure with its boom-cannon Akrapovič cans. The clip-on handlebars on the stock forks somehow had better ergonomics than the Clubman-style bars I had tried on similar builds over the years. A slim LCD display for tach and speed was neatly integrated in the top of the triple tree. It was all a little grown-up—the style without the compromise.

The build didn’t simply inspire me, it also knocked a little sense into my brain. A well-done project will always stand out, even if the parts individually do not. This bike sat on Hagon rear shocks, which had decent adjustability, and a seemingly stock front end that was nicely rebuilt. It rode like a 45-year-old motorcycle, which is to say quite nicely. “More” brakes or suspension weren’t needed. Having seen so many folks put any number of wild suspension setups on cafe builds over the years, even I had fallen victim to thinking that I would need something exotic. Looking at my friend’s build, I knew that the addition of stiff USD forks would only move the flex somewhere else in the chassis. Why would I fix what wasn’t broken just for the sake of potential performance?

Nope. Get realistic about what your dream actually is, and it might not stay a dream. I don’t need all those fancy parts, I just need a good base and a bunch of skills I already have. Oh, and a decent CB750 before the snow flies. Nothing says “fall” to a motorcycle fan quite like all the increasing number of Marketplace listings with the “great winter project” line. Those sellers know their audience is a bunch of dreamers.

***

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Nothing allows you to safely use a tool or material outside of its design parameters quite like understanding how it works and preparing for what could go wrong. The freedom enjoyed by most people who work on cars comes from the ability to understand what they can change about a project—tools, materials, process—and what they cannot. While the tools and space you need to work on a given project are rigid, curiosity is endless and often leads you into interesting adventures.

My latest adventure was self-inflicted: I broke the head off a stuck bolt, a rite of passage for DIY enthusiasts. Some of you are even familiar with the second level of that situation, dealing with the broken “easy-out” screw extractor.

Some people take the easy way out (I will not apologize for that pun) and pay to replace the whole part. At first, it may have made sense to fix the broken bolt; when that little chunk of unobtanium easy-out became embedded in the bolt, the purse strings suddenly got a little looser.

An easy-out is not formed of unobtanium, though, but of high-carbon steel. Badass stuff in the metal world. It is hard, enabling it to bite into and grab a mutilated bolt—a problem we never admit to creating but always boast about fixing. On the Rockwell hardness scale, high-carbon steel falls in the middle of the chart. Even so, the material is very brittle—and not in the delicious way, like the peanut brittle Nana used to make. If you introduce a fraction of a side load while using an extractor, you will snap it off—often flush with your workpiece—leaving you defeated.

At least partially defeated. Now comes the escalation of force, the switch from rigid to flexible. Solving the problem of a broken extractor requires understanding the materials you are dealing with. If you rush ahead, you will end up with a mangled part and a pile of dull drill bits.

The last time I broke an easy-out, I immediately picked up the phone instead of the tools. This time, I couldn’t bring myself to call for more experienced assistance. I needed to deal with this myself.

I have a drill press sitting on my shop floor. It’s not the Bridgeport of my dreams, but it’s decent, and the more I looked at it, the more I realized this drill press had the capability I needed. With a little effort, I could build a good, rigid setup—enough to drill a right-angle hole, at least. If I could figure out how to fix this broken extractor myself, the process would likely bestow upon me the knowledge and experience to avoid this whole song and dance again. The catastrophe you are prepared for rarely strikes, right? Off to McMaster-Carr to buy some carbide.

Carbide is the next step up from high-carbon steel on the Rockwell hardness scale, which means it can pierce high-carbon steel without losing its edge. I selected two sizes of end mills made of carbide. With 90-degree tips designed specifically for plunge cutting, they should be able to remove not only the easy-out but also the bolt—and, likely, a decent amount of the aluminum of my workpiece, a case cover.

That last part was unfortunate but acceptable. Installing new threads or repairing those that remained would be easier than trying to save the delicate M6 threads. Not only were they formed decades ago, but, since they were on the oil-filter cover, they had also suffered hundreds of hamfisted tightenings and overtorques. Thread forms distort with multiple uses, especially when they are made of aluminum, so the thought of new threads in this piece was almost a little comforting. Doing the thread repair with the case cover off the motorcycle and on the bench was an obvious plus.

Carbide in hand, I had to think about setup. Luckily, the table of my drill press has T-slots in it to help the user create a more rigid setup. However, I could only do so much—especially after realizing there was no place locally to source T-nuts. My plan switched to going through my drawer of random hardware until I found the right combination of bolts and nuts. Finally, I had fastened the side cover to the table at three points. I then wound the table as high as I could to keep the quill as high and stiff as possible. The name of the game was rigidity. (This is not to be attempted with a cordless drill.)

With a little cutting oil to keep things cool, I started pecking at the cover with the lever that controlled the quill of the press. The 90-degree tip of the end mill enabled me to carefully locate the actual center—not the poorly drilled hole now filled with easy-out—and begin to remove material. It was a delicate game of managing speeds and feeds by hand: I had to put enough downward pressure on the end mill to prevent chatter—the cutting faces skipping along the surface of the material rather than biting into it—but not so much pressure that I began to generate heat.

Applying cutting oil and taking breaks every few minutes made the whole process feel like it took forever, but it was really maybe 10 minutes of actual work stretched across an hour, me stressing the whole time about breaking the end mill. That would all but require me to call for help, and I would not be real proud to carry this mess into someone else’s workspace.

Of course, the end mill broke. Luckily, there was plenty sticking up, so I grabbed what remained and yanked out the end-mill. With a small punch, I knocked the leftover easy-out onto the bench, which allowed me to step up to the 6.4mm bit to cut the final diameter of the hole. I used a tap to form threads and the repair was complete.

There were a number of ways to go about solving that last piece of the problem, but mine was the most final. The re-formed threads would fail at the same rate as the OE production ones—good enough, considering that the other two bolts for this oil filter cover are original threads.

In the garage, there are some rigid concepts that define the ways we can do things. High-speed steel will not drill out a carbide end mill; that is fact. How you use this knowledge, however, is highly variable. Once you understand the facts that constrain a project, your brain can switch fully to creative thinking and problem-solving. The materials I use demand to be used a certain way; knowing that enables me to choose the right tool for the job or, when doing something off-piste, to stack the deck in my favor. The combination of the flexible and inflexible will set your project free. It is the workbench yin and yang.

***

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Years ago I met a person who created math equations for herself. It was fascinating to me: She enjoyed solving problems so much that she created them? Not only is that the worst version of reality television, it is also really dorky.

Who would go out of their way to create work for themselves? Who needs more things to do? For years she was the strange one, then it clicked: My project cars were the same as her math equations. Every hulk that enters my garage is a problem to be solved, and I revel in the self-inflicted challenges.

Heck, at least a math nerd only pays for paper and pencil. My hobby dictates my housing decisions. The house I live in now was purchased half because my wife liked it and half because I discovered its garage was a decent upgrade from my last one.

(Speaking of, I’m tired of being scolded by realtors for wanting to look in garages. It’s important. Stop acting like it’s not.)

Some get so addicted to creating problems they end up with a field full of cars and Tom Cotter knocking on their door. In the chaos of crusty project cars and parts, there sits a list. At the bottom of that list sits the first project. The one that came before them all. The one whose parts have already been paid for and put on the shelf, just waiting for the owner to find the time to install them. When Tom stops by, those boxes are always dusty.

I never understood how those situations happened. You spend good money on parts that your project car needs and then . . . just don’t do that job? Yet the white Corsa Coupe sitting in my own garage is proof that the same situation has found me. During a garage-shuffling last weekend, I found the new headliner and visors for the Corvair in boxes that I had lost in my own storage system. If that’s not a reality check, it’s going to take a fraud pen to prove it.

There was always another project shinier or more enticing than the delicate white headliner. Since the box contained the receipt for the parts, we don’t even have to guess how long I’ve been avoiding this project: Five years.

I owned zero motorcycles in 2018. Since then I have purchased twelve. You don’t do more than one a year on a writer’s salary unless you are buying some real projects. More things to fix. More new shiny objects. More distractions. You know what takes less time than installing a headliner? Scrolling Marketplace. Somehow, it always takes the exact amount of time you have. Never more, never less.

Since this personal archeological dig and discovery, I’ve been brushing back up on the installation method for a bow headliner like that in the Corvair. The process really is not that bad. I have the space to do it. The tools, too. The power to keep my hands clean for a day or two is within me. I am an unstoppable headliner-installing force!

I have not started the project.

Am I simply avoiding work? Seems unlikely. Some soul-searching reveals that I am scared to make the Corvair too nice. The safety-pinned headliner is one of the few reminders left of a one-way flight to Austin, Texas, when after multiple delays I arrived in the middle of the night, slept on a couch for a few hours, then used a basic toolkit to make the car drivable before pointing the headlights north for 2000 miles. Those safety pins were put in somewhere on the side of the road in Oklahoma after the headliner dropped down to rest on my head. If I replace the headliner, will I somehow forget the adventure that cemented my love for this car? Surely not.

For now, I’m not going to chance losing the memory. It’s driving season in Michigan, but not for much longer—I’m not going to waste the good weather that remains staring at a car sitting in my garage, no matter the condition of its interior. Maybe this winter I’ll get around to that headliner. Probably shouldn’t hold my breath, considering one of the motorcycles needs a new head gasket, and that’ll probably spiral into a restoration. So many fun problems to solve . . .

***

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The dirt trail looked like a yard sale. My shave kit perched on a tree root. A jacket was tossed on the ground, along with a bag of tent stakes and the clear shield for a motorcycle helmet. The situation would have been funny if one of the hard cases (formerly) attached to my motorcycle weren’t also sitting in the middle of the trail like some grand prize for a bargain hunter. The latch holding the case to the frame was broken, but I was okay and so was the bike. A few bungee cords fixed everything up quickly, and we were off again.

Two days into a week-long, mostly off-road journey to get a 2005 KTM 950 Adventure S home to Michigan from Essex, Massachusetts, and it still took conscious thought for me to remember those bags were back there. Kind of important, when those cases hold all your belongings, and you and a friend are traversing the North East Back Country Discovery Route, a literal crash course in how to ride a big adventure bike. Luckily, the bike was making me look good. Big WP suspension soaked up everything I pointed the blue and orange beast at. All the long hill climbs of doll head-sized rocks were a game of relaxing and letting the bike do its thing. Keep the revs up and look where you want to go, and the bike would damn near figure the rest out.

If I sound particularly fawn-y over this new bike, it’s because I’m genuinely impressed. I’ve tried multiple times to buy or build the “one motorcycle solution,” and guess what? Honda XR650Rs are terrible on the highway. That poor brown Goldwing really hated gravel roads. The Husky TE510 with motard wheels was close, but damn was the maintenance schedule scary. For a guy who can’t fathom neglecting an engine, that high-strung single-cylinder stuff is mentally exhausting. What’s that ticking noise? Why did it go away? Is it back?

This big KTM just … works. Sure, there are reminders that you are not on a 450 rally bike despite the fact this turns in like one. The V-twin is rev-happy and playful once up over around 4500 rpm. Riding over fast, flowy gravel is a delight with proper body position. Get up and attack, and you can throw nice, manageable power slides at will, all with a thundering boom from the twin Akra cannons mounted under the seat.

This motorcycle reminds me that trucks are the vehicles that killed the sedan. Modern pickups are basically no-compromise vehicles that do everything well. I’ve ridden over 2000 dirt miles on my KTM 950 Adventure S in the first month of ownership and another 1000 or so running around town and making excuses to ride two counties over for lunch.

Those 1000 street miles were racked up just by bobbing around town. Commuting to coffee shops, riding over to a friend’s place for a bourbon, sitting in traffic during the National Cherry Festival in its yearly descent on Traverse City. Never did I want for another motorcycle, though half the time I was leaving some of the KTM’s capability on the table. My enjoyment of this do-it-all motorcycle is just one example of what I think to be a larger trend.

The motorcycle market is narrowing. Yamaha discontinuing the R6. The 250s that were once standard entry bikes have now ballooned to 400cc. Adventure bikes sell on appearance and functionality. KTM alone has four different displacement ADV machines, from 390 to 1290cc. Yamaha offers only three supersport models but already two adventure machines. Honda comes in at three supersports and four ADV bikes. Sound familiar? Like when Ford axed all its cars except the Mustang and stuffed its lineup full of trucks and SUVs?

ADV bikes have become the trucks of the motorcycle world. The BMW G 310 GS is the Toyota Tacoma. BMW R1250GS is the Ford F250 Super Duty Platinum. KTM 1290 Adventure R is Bronco Raptor.

Drivers no longer have to compromise. Fuel mileage with an SUV or truck is a bit down compared to a sedan, but the raised seating position makes for easier entry and exit, plus a better field of view. Toss in hauling and towing capability with a dash of off-road competence, and it’s hard to argue that a modern truck is not the best solution to, “What vehicle should I buy?” We are used to having the option to do anything all of the time, and it’s hard to consider sacrificing one of those options.

The luxury motorcycle brands are in on it, too. The top-selling Ducati for the last two quarters has been the Multistrada. Sounds a lot like Porsche and the Cayenne just a few years back. The GS line brought much-needed life to an ailing BMW back in the 1980s and has been Motorrad’s staple since. Just as the 911 GT3 RS exists thanks to the Cayenne, the M1000RR gets to live because of the R1250GS.

Will the rise of the generalist motorcycle lead to the death of the specialists? I doubt it. History has proven that the one thing that promises to solve all your problems can’t even solve most of them; it merely makes you feel as though it can. My newly acquired KTM has blown me away with the breadth of its capability—I could see myself doing a track day on it just for laughs—but it’s not my track bike. My non-street-legal XR250R, for instance, is so much better in the sandy Michigan singletrack than the KTM that it’s worth the hassle of transporting the Honda to the trailhead.

This is just my personal experience, but it reflects a trend in the market. In 1921, Ford had 61% market share with the Model T, the original do-it-all vehicle. If you consider the selections in the new-vehicle market as a balloon, in 1921 the balloon was probably as contracted as it will ever be. Over time the market swelled with specialized machines—trucks, roadsters, station wagons, limousines. Today, we’re in another contraction: Dealer lots are filled with so many versions of the same, multi-function SUV. It is only time before buyers—even those who don’t consider themselves enthusiasts—beg for specialized vehicles. Hardcore enthusiasts are only the first, and loudest, to protest the narrowing range of selections.

We evolve just like the companies who produce—or used to produce—the machines we enjoy. Today’s generalist machines enable us to find our specific interests by purchasing just one machine. No longer must you dedicate yourself to a single activity only to find that you don’t like it, sell everything to explore another discipline, and repeat the process. Buyers might be hot on generalist machines right now, but that creates a vacuum in the market. Specialist vehicles will return—likely, stronger and better than ever. And, if my KTM is any indication, Swiss Army Knife vehicles don’t have to leave; the best ones are too much fun.

***

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It can be so simple and so complex to explain why my garage is filled to the brim with a perfect, 50/50 mix of tools and broken stuff. Not long ago a close friend pointed out—immediately receiving a photo of the latest hulk of a project I was hauling home—that if I would stop buying junk bikes, I could probably afford something nice, ready to ride, and interesting. To which I replied:

“Yeah, but where is the fun in that?”

He wasn’t wrong, though. 1986–95 Honda XR250R motorcycles have begun to duplicate like rabbits around my garage. There are currently two engines sitting mid-assembly on the workbench and two running bikes posted up on stands. Carefully organized in tubs on shelves are enough parts to build two more complete bikes, plus spares for spares. That’s only the physical storage space: My web browser is full of bookmarks for random forum threads and chats where others have shared a sliver of knowledge that I will certainly need at some point in the future.

What started all of this? A dare from a few friends, when I sent along a Marketplace listing for a non-running XR250R that I thought I could bring back to life. They called my bluff and encouraged me to go buy the stupid thing. Four years later, here we are.

I’ve made a lot of money disappear in tiny increments to make these junky old bikes look and function as Honda intended. That sunk cost is not why I can’t get rid of them, though. The disappearing stack of cash is not the question, either; my bank account would be bled dry by something, so why not motorcycles, cars, and other projects?

Some of us wander through life like golden retrievers, taking interest in whatever is directly in front of us and forgetting about it a mere two minutes later. Then one day a thing enters our lives and we can’t let go. It’s interesting on a mechanical and perhaps a historical level, and we enjoy looking at it. If that thing is also something we can afford, it quickly ascends to become a part of our personality, perhaps our identity. It’s not always clear why we fell in love with what we do, and the less time I spend trying to figure that out, the better off I am.

Maybe you are like me: If a project is not requiring you to learn or grow, you get bored with it. Some of us seek out our vintage cars because they represent a comfortable space in which we are experts. Some love the wave of nostalgia that comes with operating antiquated machinery: When restored properly, those machines can offer something akin to time travel. The rest of us need the entertainment provided by continuous upkeep and restoration.

It really doesn’t matter why or how we enjoy the objects we do because, at the end of the day, they are just that—objects. That concert T-shirt is just cotton and ink, but since it stirs a positive memory in the brain, you deem it more valuable. Toss in all the times when something positive happened while you were wearing that shirt, and it becomes a prized thing. Thanks to my cadre of Honda XR250s, I’ve met some downright amazing people and had some wild experiences.

We all have to admit the opportunity cost of any path we choose. At some point, though, calculating that cost becomes a fool’s errand. And maybe, explaining our respective obsessions is even simpler: We do what is fun.

Rehabilitating and building up Japanese motorcycles of the late ’80s is just fun for me. For every hour I spend on the track or trail-riding one of my XRs, I have probably spent eight hours with it in the garage: The hour meter on my road-race bike reads 18 hours, and I didn’t stop racing it because I hated wrenching on it.

I can afford a bike that needs no fussing, but a motorcycle with no needs would likely struggle to hold my attention. It’s just the way my brain is wired. Once you figure out how yours works, you’re best to just roll with it. What’s the fun in arguing?

***

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After much consideration, I have to admit that there are voices in my head. You probably have them, too. Not the voice that tells you to buy another rusting shell of a car, despite the threats from your significant other, but the voice talks you through how a mechanical system works and helps you diagnose its problems.

I would be more concerned if you didn’t hear a voice like this.

An internal monologue is critical for those who spend hours in the garage. The latest example in my life happened when I was standing in the driveway of a friend next to a 2005 KTM 950 Adventure S, which I had recently purchased from him. The motorcycle popped and snorted, its engine barely running and only with the choke fully engaged. I thumbed the kill switch, and before the engine was quiet again, my brain had debated through and settled on problem and solution.

My friend agreed with my diagnosis. I could tell by his sigh: Like me, he had accepted that the junk lodged in the jets of the KTM’s two carburetors was not going to loosen up and disappear on its own. Each of us had stories of putting fresh gas in a motorcycle’s tank and riding the bike carefully until the solvent nature of gasoline worked with the vacuum of the engine to “self clean” the metered orifices of the carburetors. This would not be one of those times.

I could tell by the tools he grabbed that we had just walked the same mental path: Remove the left gas tank, lift off the air filter plate, flip the carb rack but leave it assembled so you don’t have to re-sync the cables and butterflies. Each of us knew that the float bowls on those big Keihin carbs were held on with four screws, and that everything was sealed with O-rings rather than with gaskets; the job would require only a little delicacy.

We tore into the bike.

Experience allows this sort of unspoken analysis. The more ways you have seen mechanical problems solved, the more creative your brain will become. If you have done a water pump on a small-block Chevy from the 1960s, you likely have at least a little confidence that you could tackle the job on a small-block Ford of the same era. Only the foolish mistake this combination of experience and confidence for recklessness or insanity; Understand the basic principles of a system, and suddenly the actual task is not so bad.

Think of someone who can look at an object, whatever it is, and understand how it works. You know this person. If you are like me, you are probably annoyed by them, because it feels as if their brain works so much faster than yours. I remember watching as Hagerty’s own engine expert, Davin Reckow, tore down the flat-four VW engine for a Redline Rebuild video a few years ago. Holding greasy parts in both hands, he looked down into the depths of the engine and cocked his head: “Huh, I’m surprised they did it that way.”

Did what how? He had never seen inside an engine like that one.

Before Davin ever picked up a tool, the voice in his head had run down what he expected to see and how the components would work. Sure, sometimes he is leveraging the fact he has done the same job hundreds of times. But in the case of the VW, he relied on his extensive understanding of how an engine is designed to work, and why certain parts in it look and function the way they do.

The voices inside of our heads actually make us sane. They allow us to process, unpack, and sometimes overcome the hurdles and challenges of decades-old technology. Your internal monologue is partly a scanning of your mental filing cabinets and partly an examination of prior experience: Both sources of information will inform the course you chart. Once you recognize it as a the tool it can be, and learn to trust it, this voice will become incredibly powerful.

Or maybe it is a sign that, like me, you really are crazy.

***

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If you are like most car people, you probably buy and sell a fair amount of stuff. Vehicles, memorabilia, and general junk all come home with us from swap meets, garage sales, or random houses. Occasionally the other party is close to home. Friends, family, close acquaintances with good sob stories. Theirs is the right home for a thing you own, and you want them to buy it—but there is a hitch in the negotiations . . .

Enter the “Friend Price.”

This is defined as the deal that friends get and give to one another when exchanging goods and services. A case of beer can ring up at just $16, yet some of us accept it as sole payment for a two- or three-hour project. That’s for a friend; the public pays by the hour.

Who gets the friend price, and most importantly when they get it, is a highly personal decision. Feel free to use my personal “Friend Price Formula” that has been developed, refined, and occasionally blatantly ignored over the last few decades:

The Friend Price: The value of the base product, accepted in exchange for the premium version of that product.

An example from personal and recent history: The real nice, sorted XR200 motorcycle that had been sitting in the corner of my garage for a few weeks too long. Let’s say it’s worth $X, and a scruffy but solid version of the same bike is $Y. I’d sell a friend my bike, worth $X, for $Y. Usually, the friend price carries a significant discount, but the math is not standardized. In fact, this formula is more fluid than any I have ever encountered. Other variables can weigh into it: my current investment in the machine; the length of my relationship with the friend; their age; their proximity to me; and what they plan to do with that machine if they buy it.

By the time you are reading this, I will be on a plane bound for the East Coast. I’ll be picking up a motorcycle—a KTM 950 Adventure S—that I could only afford because one man’s personal Friend Price formula weighs the value of an adventure quite highly. This friend had once hinted at selling the KTM, and when we were both drinking whiskey at a racetrack—the racing was done, mind you—I took the opportunity to hint at my buying the bike.

I didn’t offer a price. I only told him what I wanted to do with the bike, and he negotiated with himself before arriving at an exact dollar amount: How much he would effectively short-change himself in exchange for being a part of a ridiculous idea.

In our state of endless optimism, a promise was made: If he sold the motorcycle to me, I would book a one-way ticket and ride it home. I’d plan the trip so he could ride a chunk of it with me.

Before we could uncork the bottle for a nightcap, I had cracked open my checkbook.

The convenience of not fielding a flurry of tire kickers and “is this available” messages is powerful. Are you really going to say no and sell your machine to the highest bidder? They will likely require some time and effort to find, and will likely subject your beloved machine to untold horrors, like spoke covers and duct-tape seat patches. No, you let the known overrule the unknown.

Though this person gave me the friend price, it’s inaccurate to say that the transaction put a price on our friendship. Rather, he put a price on how much money he would give in exchange for time. Specifically, time together, doing something we both enjoy. A rare, big adventure, full of stories that will more than likely be trotted out for years.

We gave ourselves just six weeks to pick a date. We didn’t plan so much as throw darts at a calendar, but we have finally managed to snatch a break from it all and escape. The trip is happening.

How extremely rare it is that schedules lined up, and we are both the kind of people whose closets hold a pile of gear marked “motorcycle trip.”

My “new” KTM 950 Adventure S is sitting in a storage unit. Once I arrive, I’ll throw all my gear in the bike’s luggage and head west. My friend will be joining me for a day or two on his KTM 1090 Adventure, when we’ll navigate a handful of sections of the North East Back Country Discovery Route before he heads back home. Then, I hope to navigate back to Michigan across Pennsylvania on as much dirt and trail as possible. Even before putting on my helmet, I already know both of us have forgotten the financial aspect and are instead reveling in the prospect of time together. There might be a way to calculate that time’s value to both of us, but that is math we’ll never do.

***

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Of all the annoying things that people put on a pedestal, one stands above the rest: Doing a project yourself, at all costs.

A few years back, my father’s Model A coupe entered my garage in need of a second lease on life. One of the key upgrades was changing the battery cables. The Model A starter circuit requires massive amperage loads: When firing the 200-cubic-inch four-cylinder required more than 1–2 seconds of turning with the starter motor, the cables got warm to the touch. Considering how slow the starter cranked, that happened quite often.

In such a low voltage system there is only one way to maximize the amperage, and that is to reduce resistance. New, 2/0 gauge cable would solve the problem, so I decided to go order some.

I quickly realized I was looking for a part that didn’t exist—at least, not as a ready-to-install component on the shelf of a nearby store. However, I could buy the parts that comprised the cable and assemble it myself.

The job sounded easy enough—and it was. I bought some bulk cable, a few ends, and the cheapest crimping tool I could find. After five or six whacks with a 3-pound sledge, I had myself a brand-new set of cables. The ‘T had never started better, and the upgraded system continues to be dead reliable.

When a Model T in need of a new ring gear landed in my shop this fall, I immediately noticed the corroded 2-gauge cables. Thanks to the job on my dad’s ‘T, I knew exactly what this one needed.

This time, as I shopped online for cables and ends, I ended up at a website that would custom-build cables. After I priced the parts needed to do it myself, my cursor slipped, clicking the box for “build it for me.” The price of the order rose from $55.97 to $80.11. As I walked across the room to retrieve my wallet, I chewed on that price difference.

I’ve sunk endless time and dollars into projects of questionable validity. Farm bikes from the 1980s were never meant to road-race—but that hasn’t stopped me. Measuring, cutting, preparing, crimping, heat shrinking, and then finally installing those cables on the ‘T would take about an hour—an hour I could spend fixing the cylinder-head temperature gauge on my Corvair, or prepping one of the motorcycles for a weekend of riding. You know, things I wanted to do. And the cables were produced in Kentucky, right here in the U.S.!

The decision took about 20 seconds. I spent the extra $24.14.

I’m not rich, but there is a point at which opportunity cost weighs heavy. Why save pennies at the cost of the one thing you literally cannot purchase? You or I are not any less of a mechanic for making the choice to prioritize our time, and spend it on the tasks we enjoy. The decision doesn’t make us less knowledgeable; in fact, it makes us smarter.

The rewarding feeling of DIY projects is well understood in the Smith garage, but my priority lies in completing projects that enable me to grow. (Or minimizing the risk of damage, in the case of oil changes. I do those myself.) Building a set of battery cables was unlikely to teach me something new the second time around. Sure, I’d enjoy saying, “I built those,” but losing the bragging points was not that big of deal.

Seriously consider outsourcing projects to your advantage. Forgo DIY and instead enlist an expert, shop, or parts order—and feel no guilt. Most of us have have the luxury of choosing what we will become experts on. You may or may not have found where your expertise lies. I know I haven’t. But whether your time is worth anything? Well, you can figure that bit out on your own.

***

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If you want to see a car person squirm, ask them how much they’ve spent on their car. Most of us don’t have the number handy. If we do, we are lying about it. I know this because I am guilty. There has long been a number in my head totaling the money I’ve invested in my ’65 Corvair Corsa over the last six years. After saying that figure out loud to a friend the other day, I decided to check myself.

I was off by about 30 percent.

Could it be because we tell ourselves that $5 here and $100 there doesn’t add up across paychecks? We are likely all guilty of some “creative accounting” when it comes to our project cars, and I hold myself as example number one. We apply this to other people’s cars, too. 

Last weekend, David Freiburger listed his 1969 Ford Mustang Mach 1, better known as “Disgustang,” for sale on Facebook, asking $75K. My first reaction was surprise at the fact that he was selling it publicly. The second was confusion—by listing it on Facebook, he was probably losing money. (He could likely get more on Bring a Trailer. Clearly, he wanted it to go to a fan.) Even if he was being helped by sponsorships, Freiburger has a lot of dough tied up in that car. Anyone could find the parts list by reviewing dozens of episodes from the three different video series he leads.

When you want OEM+ looks and effective air-conditioning, you don’t have many choices. Freiburger didn’t even try to hide the cash he put in: The front drive alone for the built Ford small-block under the hood was $3000. Then there was a set of Air Flow Research cylinder heads, and hours of tuning to make the car ready to drive daily—and comfortably, at that.

Despite the handle, Disgustang is a true restomod that puts modern function into a beautiful vintage wrapper. The design brief never included the word budget.

And yet a dozen comments on his post railed that Freiburger was taking advantage of people: “You got those parts for free.” “You got paid to install them.” “I could build the same thing in my garage for $15K.”

Freiburger laughed in the faces of a few commenters, and rightfully so, but I can see both sides. He is not completely off the hook. The brand in which he has so carefully wrapped himself centers on labeling project vehicles as “junk,” and rescuing such “garbage” by doing the right thing the wrong way. If you’ve paid attention, you’ve seen that while his schtick has remained consistent, the ambition of the projects he undertakes and the level of polish on the resulting builds has steadily risen.

Lots of fans didn’t catch the point when the Disgustang’s ratty look became only that. Everything not cosmetic was redone, and a bunch of carefully selected mechanical upgrades were installed. The shift didn’t click for me until I saw the for-sale listing.

We didn’t realize how much Freiburger had invested in that car because we often fail to acknowledge how much time and money we have invested in our own cars. Those who label his Mustang a $15K car are the same people still spouting off about sub-$1000 LS swaps. I mean, technically an LS swap that cheap is possible; but is that level of hackery really what you want to spend your limited amount of time doing? Why not just do it right?

Owning vintage cars is not cheap. If you think it is, you have been at this a long time.

Experience allows for creative accounting. A part or piece “just sitting on the shelf” often didn’t get there for free; yet you’ll pull it from storage and install it on your project with a zero next to it on your mental balance sheet. Look no further than a drawer of specialty tools in the tool chest of your favorite veteran wrencher. The first time they used those tools, the thought of their cost probably hurt. After two decades, suddenly that tool is basically free. It’s been paid off and costs nothing to keep. It has value, but the act of using it rarely triggers a thought of the original receipt.

Creative accounting isn’t limited to dollars and cents; it applies to time as well. A 15 minute job for you or I is a solid hour or possibly an entire evening for someone new to that same project. Experience creates efficiency, which we can leverage into value. Did you buy a project off Facebook Marketplace, something the last person gave up on, because you knew it would only take you an hour to rebuild the fuel system? That’s creative accounting. So many of us value our time at zero—or somehow less than that—but opportunity cost is real.

It’s easy to become jaded and thus unwelcoming when talking to those with less time invested in cars or their maintenance. We convince people that things are easy when in fact they are not, yet act surprised when newcomers are put off by the time, money, and emotional investment required to do things “right.”

The fact of the matter is next to nothing pertaining to our old cars is approachable, easy, or cheap. That’s not a good thing, or a bad thing, but it is a fact. The moment we stop lying to ourselves and accept this, the entirety of our hobby—and all the people on its sidelines—come into focus.

Some of us are good at finding and taking advantage of deals. Others use creative accounting. Regardless, we often end up with way more money tied up in our projects than we realize. I’m not calling for everyone at a cruise night to have a window sticker that says how much money they have tied up in their car—though I have seen it. I’m just asking that when people who are new to the hobby ask how much a build costs, we be honest. Nothing is more frustrating than getting excited about building a cool car for $5000 only to find out there is no way you can afford it.

Normalize being honest, and ditch the flair of “I did X or Y for so cheap!” Such a claim can be impressive, but it is more often disingenuous and makes us all look like liars who squirm when asked about specifics.

I suggest a rock-solid “I love this car enough that I don’t keep track. The car matters more than the money.”

That’s the truth, right?

***

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The post Car people are lying to you about their budgets, and I have the receipts appeared first on Hagerty Media.

The vehicles we love so much come from a family of objects that have been proven to last centuries—assuming they’re cared for. The hands of time are cruel, though, and pretty much anything enjoyable you can do with an old machine will expose it to all kinds of damaging factors. Whenever the subject comes up, I’m reminded of how classic-boat people say restoring a wooden boat is like rebuilding a grand piano and then throwing it in the lake.

Restoring a car or motorcycle, in other words, is the easy part. Bad things attack only once you go to enjoy it. On a long enough timeline, everything returns to carbon, sure, but in between, we have to have fun. Therein lies your responsibility.

By way of example, I recently pulled two engines off my storage shelf. Each was removed from a motorcycle that I purchased for parts and was assumed to be nothing more than parts—a core that would one day be restored, piece by piece, keeping little more than the casings. When I brought those engines home, I naturally held out a bit of hope that more than a few of their parts could be reused, but in situations like this, it’s always better to walk in assuming the whole thing is garbage, then be pleasantly surprised if it isn’t.

Tearing down an unknown engine is a time when even a vehicular optimist like me gets pessimistic. Me, the guy who was gung-ho about throwing an old farm bike onto a track with purebred road racers. Few people’s glasses are more rose-colored than mine when evaluating a project vehicle . . . until I start thinking about engines. Then it’s gloom and doom.

No sane person would assemble a motorcycle they actually intend to use around an engine with unknown history. I don’t remember what the seller told me about this particular pair of powerplants, but even if they had said each was a fresh rebuild, I wouldn’t try to run them. Trust but verify, and all that. What a letdown it would be to drop the kickstarter on a freshly assembled bike only to be met with a wheeze and enough blow-by smoke to fog half the state.

Open-heart surgery on a freshly painted bike is a nightmare I have endured and won’t subject myself to again. I value my time pretty low, but not that low.

Beyond that, there’s this weird feeling that I owe something to the parts themselves. To do right by them. Each of these 250-cc, single-overhead-cam singles was originally installed in a Honda XR250R in the late 1980s. The cylinder heads are aluminum, with the cam supported by three bearings. The outer pair use drop-in roller bearings, but the center bearing is a smaller, machined-in-place plain journal—the head itself is the bearing surface. Insufficient oil flow will cause cam and head to destruct in a manner typically reserved for reality-TV relationships. Everyone leaves scarred.

Repairing that damage isn’t easy. The cam can be saved, at least, if you have the center journal welded up and ground back to the correct profile. The head, however, is designed in such a way that it simply has to be replaced. The shape and arrangement of the cam saddles complicate the possibility of a simple weld-and-machining repair. The weld itself wouldn’t be difficult, but properly reshaping the aluminum saddles would require a special cutter and multiple special fixtures.

The measurements that define the location of that center bearing in space are unique. A really good machinist could probably figure out how to effect a repair, but they would basically need a copy of the engine’s original plans from Honda, or at minimum, a known-good original part from which to reverse-engineer a process and tooling.

(I haven’t met that machinist yet, but if it’s you or someone you know, email me: klsmith@hagerty.com)

Making matters worse, new-old-stock Honda XR cylinder heads are basically unobtainium. If you can find one, the part is comically expensive even considering the fairly strong state of the XR market. If these bikes ever return to their lower, pre-2020 prices, things will get even worse. These are motorcycles bought by a lot of people—including myself—for a dollar or two per cubic centimeter. An XR250R that doesn’t run? Five hundred dollars is fair.

In other words, if you’re about to throw a new-to-you engine into service, a little diligence goes a long way. Would I risk borderline irreparable damage or a total write-off to one of these motors simply because I’m too lazy to pull a side cover and check the health of the oil pump? Nope. We owe this kind of attention not just to the machine, to the mechanical work of art, but to the next owner, and the owner after that, ad infinitum. We all want our cars and bikes to be remembered forever, right?

This kind of thinking applies even to small tasks. It may take a little more time and an extra trip to the toolbox to get the right wrench so a bike’s original hardware can be reused. Why throw away originality over a few steps, let alone cost yourself the price and headache of finding replacement parts, simply because you damaged something through lack of care? Caring is free—it can happen regardless of the size of your bank account.

Those heads aside, one of those Honda engines also has a stripped drain-plug hole. A previous owner or mechanic overtightened the plug, probably trying to cure a leak, and cracked the engine case.

Do I technically need these cases? No—but I’m not going to be the one who lets a repairable part go to waste.

I owe it to the machine to do my best. To repair the flaws I find properly, rather than create a ball of Band-Aids for someone else to deal with. I didn’t create the problem, but I’m the one who’s going to solve it. 

***

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Book-smart is one thing. We can all sit in a warm spot and read any of the innumerable books that outline theory on automotive repair, including every service manual ever printed, and still not be very helpful when it comes time to pick up the tools and get work done.

Most engine tune-up items are easy targets for this kind of armchair diagnosis. It’s easy to say “just replace the points” or “give the carb a good cleaning” from the comfort of your La-Z-Boy, but in reality, those tasks are only simple if you have at least some practical experience. That experience is also called institutional knowledge and it can sometimes create an overconfidence that needs to be checked.

This realization came across my mind recently when a “carburetor” project entered my garage that I was confident I could address quickly and easily, until the part was staring back at me from a perch on my motorcycle lift.

After rebuilding seemingly innumerable numbers of the small carburetors found on mopeds, scooters, motorcycles, and any manner of yard implements, I rarely do any research before diving into a carburetor rebuild job these days. The real-world experience of having done it so many times outweighs the time I could spend reading a manual on the specific job at hand. Only rarely does this confidence bite me.

When I went to work on this Chrysler Sno-Runner, it did.

The Sno-Runner is an odd machine for a variety of reasons, with the main one being its origins. The late 1970s was not a pretty time for Chrysler, which desperately attempted to produce any product that could make it money. Someone in a boardroom saw all kinds of pitches and at the end of the day, with an exasperated sigh, declared: “The snow-bike thing. Build that.”

The result was the Sno-Runner. A one-person snow machine that packs a single-cylinder engine yoinked from the chainsaw assembly line of West Bend, which Chrysler had purchased in the 1960s.

Originally destined for saw use, the 134-cc, two-stroke engine put out 8 horsepower. Later in the production run, changes boosted the power output closer to 11 hp.

The second was the version that landed in the back of my van after a friend called me saying he bought the Sno-Runner off Facebook Marketplace because he thought it was cool. Of course, it started right up for the seller, but once the friend got it home, it wouldn’t run. He put in a new spark plug and tried starting fluid once or twice before deciding he was in over his head and that help needed to be called. Of course, I answered.

Confidently, at that. I brought the orange tube-framed machine back to my shop to make the work a little easier, but I told the friend the job wasn’t a big deal. Probably just some dried-up gunk in the carburetor after the machine had been left to sit for the summer. Take the engine apart, clean a few things, put it back together, maybe 45 minutes of work. The friend had the Sno-Runner’s service manual, but I wasn’t any too worried about needing it. A small engine with a carb—how hard could any fix be?

That’s when I noticed the fact that the sloping tube frame was also the gas tank.

That seemingly random observation lit off alarm bells in my head. That meant fuel wasn’t gravity-fed. This little engine had a fuel pump? That seemed absurd. But it had to.

Where would the pump go? How would it work?

The answer is that a Sno-Runner has a fuel pump and a carb—combined. The fuel pump is part of the carb. Or the carb is part of the fuel pump? Whichever way you want to say it, the Tillotson 820A serves as both but I didn’t find that out until I stared at the “bike” for a while before retreating to the safety of the service manual to do some book learning.

The Tillotson name meant something to me, but only from the Model A Ford community. Many Model A owners happily ditch Tillotson carburetors in favor of the often better Zenith ones. Maybe this little engine was suffering the terrible Tillotson clog that affects Model As. The issue stems from the small horizontal passage in the bottom of the carb, which can get clogged so badly that it has to be drilled out.

The diagrams told me that wasn’t the case. The “carburetor” is mounted on the engine case and lacks a float bowl and the myriad of passageways typical to an apparatus tasked with metering and mixing air and fuel as they enter the intake of an engine. Instead, there was a pancake clamped to the bottom of the intake throat, which was throttled only by a single brass plate.  The arrangement really didn’t make much sense—until I read the manual’s description of the carb’s vacuum ports.

This is a vacuum-operated fuel pump that pushes fuel directly into the engine.

What a wild thing. The reciprocating motion of the piston causes the crankcase volume to expand and contract, creating a pressure swing that can be leveraged to do work for the engine. In the same way that a turbocharger uses the pressure pulses of exhaust gasses leaving the cylinder heads to spool its turbine, this Tillotson uses the cycling of vacuum and pressure in the two-stroke engine to operate a diaphragm in that bolted-on pancake, which pumps pre-mix up from the sloping tank.

It was all so clear once I realized this engine was designed for saw usage, which all but guaranteed it had to run in off-camber situations or, generally, when the gas tank was not located directly above the intake.

The diaphragm pulls fuel from the lowest point of the tank thanks to a hose, which is capped with a screened pickup, to make sure it stays submerged in any sloshing fuel. The hose exits the tank with a dry-break fitting that looks a lot like a basic air-line disconnect.

From that connection, the hose runs straight to the fuel side of that vacuum diaphragm before pushing fuel past a simple needle and seat and, as fuel enters the crankcase, into the airflow. A small bit of schmoo had trapped the needle in place and was preventing the fuel from pumping into the engine. A little spritz of aerosol carb cleaner and careful reassembly led to the engine springing right to life after a few pulls on the starting cord primed the pump and got the fuel flowing.

Could I have figured out this “carburetor” based on instinct from previous experience? Probably, but fixing it would have taken a lot longer and likely led to me doing at least one thing wrong and having to deal with the repercussions. That confidence, which usually allows us to dig into projects in a fun and effective way, stopped being a safety blanket and instead became a trap of my own making. Who would have thought that experience and confidence could be dangerous things?

I fall into ruts all the time with my garage projects. The rut comes from a desire to feel productive, successful. There are many parts of life where getting anything done requires real work and time investment. In the garage, the institutional knowledge I carry becomes my safety blanket and often keeps me doing the same handful of projects time and time again. The fact I have a veritable fleet of the same generation of Honda XR250R motorcycles built up in different forms should tell you something. It’s a shortcut to being able to pop out into the garage and take on a project with which I know I will be successful. That search for comfort projects stunts growth.

It was blind confidence that brought the Sno-Runner into my shop, but dropping that pride allowed me to leave in better shape than when I received it. That institutional knowledge might not be so dangerous after all—at least, so long as we don’t blindly follow it into ignorance.

I would have never learned about this odd mixture of fuel pump and carburetor if I didn’t step back and put the tools down to pick up the shop manual. Humility is as important as confidence in the garage. Of all the knowledge to be gleaned from a 1970s Chrysler product, I sure didn’t think it would be that.

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Almost every garage holds one thing that every DIY enthusiast thinks little about: an aerosol can. These nifty cylinders give us the superpower of a quick and easy solution for everything from pigment application to the accurate dispersal of lubrication.

To be frank, I’m not sure how a lot of garages would function without access to aerosol products. But where did they come from?

For all the convenience it now gives, the aerosol spray can was born in utility bordering on necessity. The technology was patented in 1927 by a Norwegian engineer searching for a faster way to wax his skis. Its first wide use, however, came in World War II. Of all the things that conspired to kill American service members in the South Pacific, mosquitoes—and the malaria they carried—proved the hardest to fight. To battle a brigade of flying bugs, the Army turned to a pressurized canister dispersing the pesticide DDT. When the war ended, the technology made its way to civilian life and many other uses.

Those early aerosol cans kept their propellants at high-pressure and were quite volatile. Refinements to the vessels and their delivery valves resulted in something that could safely be sold to consumers, but the transition to low-pressure propellants was critical in making mass adoption possible. The initial propellant solution was a family of chemical compounds called chlorofluorocarbons. Shorten that long word down and you get a three-letter acronym: CFCs. Those compounds offered safety and utility but unfortunately didn’t age well. The trouble lay in a chlorine that attacked the ozone layer and potentially contributed to climate change.

In 1978, CFCs left the cans found on consumer shelves. New government regulations mandated the change, pushing for a transition to liquified propellants more kind to the environment. Names like isobutane, butane, and pentane now push product from most modern aerosols.

Propellant is just one third of a recipe that the National Aerosol Association says makes an aerosol product:

1. Active ingredients (soap or disinfectant, paint, cleaner, etc.)
2. Inert or inactive ingredients (i.e., water or another filler)
3. Propellant

Of course, there’s also the ball bearing that helps to mix the can’s ingredients. It gave us the common nickname: rattle can. And while the chemistry of those cans is complex, their use case is stunningly simple: That three-part formula enables home-game restorers and road-trip warriors to easily tackle a multitude of projects.

My garage now holds around three dozen aerosol cans. I’ve even defended spray cans in the comments under a previous article of mine that documented the painting a motorcycle frame. The crux of the disagreement was the idea that aerosol paints are not a lasting solution for frame paint. This is both true and false.

At one point, any cured paint sprayed from a shake can was relatively fragile and low-quality, at least compared to pigments applied with permanent, nondisposable spray equipment. Those days are over. It’s now possible to drop by your local automotive-paint supplier and have the person behind the counter not only mix up the exact color you need, but put that color into an aerosol can so you can apply it at home. While you’re there, you can pick up a two-part catalyzed clear coat identical to what a professional painter would spray from their DeVilbiss gun and expensive, purpose-built air compressor. On top of that, the nozzle can be trusted to give an even, and often adjustable, spray pattern, one worlds better than what was available even 20 years ago.

In short, the phrase “it was rattle-canned” should no longer carry a negative connotation. The final quality of cured aerosol paint often has just as much to do with an applicator’s prep work and skill as the chemicals in the coating itself. Non-catalyzed paint will always be less chemically resistant compared to a true two-part product with a hardener, but if you use it right, that diminished durability will be the only difference. Any orange peel or adhesion problems—or the lack thereof—will likely be rooted in technique.

Finally, there’s the beauty of those tidy little stabilized storage containers. My chemical drawer holds a can of silicone lubricant that I stole from my father long ago—it wears a vintage Sears price label, that’s how old it is. Yet not only does it still spray, the lube inside is still good.

The ability to store a variety of chemicals easily and safely for long-term periodic use makes the aerosol can the unsung hero of the garage. The idea that my ability to paint terrible flames on a motorcycle gas tank is rooted in soldiers trying not to die from mosquitoes? Both funny and humbling.

So many parts of our hobby have roots in odd places in history. But few have lived as long, and been as widely loved, as the aerosol. I’ll celebrate by raising the nearest one in a toast, then giving it a quick rattle and shake as salute. Seems appropriate, right?

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Last week I hopped a flight from Michigan to California on the invite of Sam Smith to join a motley crew of likeminded amateurs running an endurance race, the 25 Hours of Thunderhill. Since there was already a team of five drivers significantly more qualified than me to take the wheel of the spec E46 BMW, most of my time would be spent keeping tabs on the drivers over the radio headset and holding the fire extinguisher during refueling.

The goal of any endurance race is to turn as many laps as possible within the time allotted. This means outright speed is not always the solution; refer to the old saying about finishing first and first finishing. This crew brought a car ready to run for 25 hours, had drivers prepared to turn laps, and a crew primed to support. Sounds like a recipe for success? It’s not always that simple.

A lot of strategy goes into a successful endurance race: Who will drive what hours of the day, how the pit stops are handled, and of course balancing speed with reliability to keep the car alive for the duration of the race. It’s something I only have a small amount of experience with and was excited to learn—but I also knew the lack of sleep would likely take its toll on my memory, so I set an alarm on my phone every hour. Each time it went off, I wrote down what was happening around me.

Here are those notes, only edited for clarity. Enjoy a brief picture of what it felt like to be a part of a 25-hour race effort.

***

7:20 a.m., Pacific. Waking up from a good night’s sleep curled up on the couch of an RV just to the side of our pit stall. Carl, one of the mechanics, walks in with coffee looking for Mental, aka Christian Ward, one of the drivers, who is nowhere to be found. I think he’s in the shower. Carl shrugs and hands me the coffee: “This is a you-snooze-you-lose type of deal.” 

8 a.m. I’m taking a shower. The warm water feels amazing, since I know that the forecast for the day is brisk and wet. I take a note that the shower is an option for later. It takes three layers of clothes before I feel confident enough to open the door of the track bathroom and let in the 40-ish degree air. 

9:15 a.m. Rain moves in. A drizzle. I’m crouched in the race car where the passenger seat should be, moving the radio that plugs into the driver’s helmet in the hopes of solving a communication problem. Some drivers can hear and talk to the pit crew, some can only hear them. Luckily, the problem is mostly solved. The resident hotshoe, Troy Ermish, has a different microphone in his helmet that doesn’t play nice with the team radios. He says he will just deal without it. 

10:25 a.m. We are taking the car to the starting grid. It’s drizzling and maybe 50 some-odd degrees. None of us have umbrellas or any shelter from the weather. Everyone is jovial. Car looks slightly out of place in a grid full of really tarted-up racers. We look like the underdogs we are.

11:01 a.m. A Toyota GR Corolla is leading the field for a pace lap. It pulls into the pits but the flag stand at the end of the front straight holds off on waving the green flag to start the race. The spitting rain continues. Somehow the start is botched—the field of cars is too spread out. The whole situation feels chaotic. At one point the pace car goes counter-course to regroup the field. That is a huge no-no in any normal situation. Extremely odd to see that happen.

12:30 p.m. Our first pit stop: driver change and fuel. My task is holding a fire extinguisher pointed at the man dumping fuel into the car from 5-gallon race jugs. Two drivers help get the new driver belted into the car while the 10 gallons of fuel goes in. After the car leaves I get a talking-to by the NASA pit-safety man because I was standing in the wrong place. This pit stop felt especially bad due to the car coming in a lap earlier than expected, putting all of the crew behind the 8-ball, scrambling to get our jobs done.

1 p.m. The weather continues to be gray and gloomy. My feet are wet and they’re sucking the heat out of my body. Fresh, dry socks come out of my bag. I devise a plan to keep them dry by quickly eating two snack-sized bags of Cheez-Its and using the foil bags to cover my toes so that, even though my shoes get wet, my socks won’t. Why didn’t I pack boots or waterproof shoes? Great question. Running shoes were definitely a mistake. Luckily, Cheez-Its are tasty, and the bags are both water- and wind-proof, so my toes will survive.

2 p.m. Unexpected pit stop with Sam driving. One jug of gas dumped into the tank before pulling into the pits alongside one of the RVs to try and diagnose a problem. Rules limit the amount of work that can be done in “hot” pits, areas through which cars are still driving. “Cold” pits are on the other side of another safety barrier, and we can do anything to the car except add fuel. One mechanic cycles power to the ECU in the hopes of resetting the computer and making it think everything is okay. We also swap all four tires. Car sounds better as it leaves. We’ll see how long it lasts.

2:46 p.m. The car comes in again with the driver—I’m honestly not sure who is in the car right now—saying it is down on power. We swap the ignition coils on cylinders 2 and 5 for new ones. Hopefully this solves misfire issue that ECU is calling out.

3:07 p.m. The car comes in again. A code reader says the computer is declaring a moving misfire, now on cylinders 3 and 6, so the engine is again down on power. One mechanic tickles something under the hood and sends the driver back out. 

4:11 p.m. Moving misfire still not resolved. Cheez-It bags are working wonderfully for my toes. Gray weather, team feels pretty gray also. No solid plan for a fix of the engine issue. Consensus is to try a fuel pump replacement next. 

5:05 p.m. With as little gas in the tank as possible, it is time to swap the fuel pump. We have to do so by flashlight because the sun has set. Well, it wasn’t so much a sunset as darkness seeping in through the edges of the sky, blotting out any hope of easily finding what was causing the car to enter limp mode. We refuel as the car goes back out onto the track.

6:18 p.m. I’m beginning to think taking a few Ibuprofen would be a good idea. Somehow I ran competitively for 10 years and today is the first time I’ve ever had shin splints. Probably due to standing on uneven surfaces.

Sat in the RV for a bit to warm up and make small talk. Still have one more warm layer on hold in my bag just in case I need more warmth. Need to dry shoes out for fear of the toes getting worse. 

7 p.m. Pit stop. Scraping dirt out of the wheels after one driver took the car into the dirt on the backside of the track. There is mud on top of the car, so he must have really carried some speed into the clay. Putting my fingers next to the brakes is scary at first, then I realized they were the perfect temperature to be hand warmers. Still feeling strong mentally. Physically, a little rough. Stretching my lower back regularly is required.

9:15 p.m. The weather breaks a bit. Could swear it warmed up five degrees, and a few other team members agree. Thinking about how nice a warm shower would be. Car is not good. Will take a break to walk over and warm up with a shower if the team decides to diagnose the car in the pits for awhile. Will also try and shower if the car goes out and continues lapping in its current state. Probably won’t actually shower, though. Official crew member or no, I feel bad walking away from the pits with so much going on.

10 p.m. – midnight I somehow end up the one with the headset radio, “coaching” Troy through his driving stint. He still has no working microphone and thus can hear me but not tell me anything. One-way communication can be fun. I give regular updates—calling out his lap times and any news from the course/pits every two laps, usually—and also try out all my terrible attempts at standup comedy since he can’t object. This includes goading him into doing a prom-queen wave the length of pit row while being led by the pace car for a few laps due to the need to change out the corner workers. Surely at least one other team was confused by his waving hand as he passed by on track. I get a good laugh out of it.

12:30 a.m. A pit stop for fuel, tires, and a driver change. I’m starting to feel tired, but not nearly as tired as I should be. Gonna drink some water, brush my teeth and force my eyes closed for a bit to rest. I fall asleep before I find my toothbrush.

1:15 a.m. Sleep. So glorious. Sitting up, no less. I never sleep sitting up, and it feels so strange waking up that I am out of sorts for a good 30 seconds after waking up, a confused state brought on by …

2 a.m. “HE’S IN THE PITS!” I spring from the couch and out of the RV to jump over the wall to hold the fire bottle. The car comes in along the RV after fueling for a tire change. The rain starts up again. I feel surprisingly sharp. I either need to actually brush my teeth or get a cup of coffee. I punch the button on the coffee maker in the RV.

3:07 a.m. The BMW’s ECU keeps putting the car in limp mode and drivers have to turn the car off and back on every lap. We can tell when they do it by watching the lights on the side of the car turn off, then back on eight seconds later as they coast along the track. We have no idea why the ECU is unhappy. 

4:08 a.m. I walk away from the pit stall to take a shower just to bring my core temp up. While I’m warm, a second fresh pair of socks comes out of my bag and goes on my feet before the Cheez-It bags go back on. The air hangs heavy and damp, making the 40-degree air temp bite a lot harder than it’s barking right now. I should feel like shit, but don’t. Almost makes me scared. 

4:45 a.m. While on watch in the pit, I miss the headlight flash that signals our car was coming in, since this driver’s mic is not working either. It isn’t a planned stop. He drives right by where he should stop for fuel or other problems and parks like he means it alongside the trailer in which the car arrived. He waits for me to stick my head in the window to say, “It’s toast.” The clutch is slipping at a nearly un-drivable level, and the transmission sounds like a bag of marbles being tossed down a flight of stairs.

We are now parked. Our race is over.

5:15 a.m. Everyone handles the news a little differently. Some seem to halfheartedly brainstorm a fix, or suggest who or where a clutch could be sourced from. One driver just stands tall for three seconds before saying, “I’m going to bed,” and walking off. No one protests. A bottle of “hot chocolate” appears. Toasts. Shrugs. Laughter. 

6 a.m. The weather shifts and brings on a heavy fog, instigating a yellow flag that slows everyone left still on track. The pit marshal walks up to give us instructions for how to handle the inevitable red flag but I cut him off before he even starts: “We’re hard-parked. Broken. Nothing to see here.” He nods and strolls on by. The red flag follows shortly after, parking all racers on the front straight due to visibility-related safety concerns. 

7 a.m. I’m asleep. Get another 45 minutes this time. When I wake, Sam encourages me to look into shifting my flight to an earlier one than the redeye I had initially booked. Luckily I find one that works. He gets stuck on the redeye.

8:26 a.m. We start packing. It’s eerily quiet since all the race cars are still parked on the front straight awaiting the fog to break. No one is walking in the paddock. I hear that the drivers’ meeting room is filled with people sleeping on and under tables because it’s warmer there. 

9 a.m. The packing is complete and our team loads up into whatever cars we arrived in and heads to a breakfast spot called Nancy’s. Diner fare. Stories of previous adventures and planning of adventures yet to come filled the air. Smiles. Laughter. No one seems phased by the abject failure we just experienced nor acknowledges that the race is literally still happening while we shovel bacon and eggs into our faces.

11 a.m., Pacific. I get dropped off at the airport. I’m on a plane and 30,000 feet over the Rockies before the checkered flag flies for those racers and team still at the track. 

11:30 p.m., Eastern. My flight lands in Detroit and get in into my Chevy Express van, headed for home to sleep. Already wondering how I can be a part of this again.

***

Obviously, this was not a polished race team with all the nicest stuff. The plan was never to shoot for a win: Our car was down on power and up on weight compared to the rest of the faster, better-prepared cars in our E2 class. This was a group of friends bound by shared experience, searching for one more round of chaotic fun—and we got it.

The car will be repaired. Everyone will sleep off the weekend and return to their day jobs for awhile before the phones start ringing: “Should we try that again? Are you in if we do?”

I know my answer.

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Over the years we tackle increasingly complex projects and tasks. That escalation builds a catalog of understanding about how things work and what the best practices are—or aren’t. In short: Experience.

If you look at those you admire, this is often the common thread. In the car world, it means those with the touch and feel to know the perfect time to switch their grip on the ratchet to remove a bolt faster. Those who can seemingly do double the work in half the time.

Gary Swan is one such guy. He’s a veteran of the motorcycle road-racing paddock and decided in 2022 to offer spark-plug reading and tuning tips during Barber Vintage Festival. A small group gathered to try and glean something from his decades of interpreting electrodes and deposits on porcelain.

Watching him read a plug was humbling. His eye picked out so many faint points of information nearly instantly. He spent most of the afternoon holding plugs and spinning in circles: Modern LED flashlights, he said, “just don’t work as good as the sun coming over your shoulder.”

A glance at arm’s length for the timing line, then a look through a jeweler’s glass for the temp reading. “You’re on the edge with that tune-up, I’d back down if I were you.”

Gary can tell what kind of bike you’re racing just by the used plug you hand him. His catalog of experience took decades to accumulate, and he didn’t build it by repeated action alone. It took focused effort.

Watching Gary reinforced what I had learned earlier this year while doing my second motorcycle paint job. I might only be a few pages into my catalog at this point, but I know that every job in the garage can become another line on the page—if I invest care and attention in the work.

The first paint job was one of good intention and okay results. I vowed I would learn from my own mistakes. Those lessons could become experience when put into practice. That’s why, when I decided to do a restomod of my Honda XR100R pit bike so it would match the XR250Rs I race, I spent a whole day on setup. The garage door rails served as a hanging point for thin plastic sheeting, and a furnace filter on a box fan created negative pressure to keep all the overspray contained. I also added some spotlights pointed up from the floor to highlight areas I would likely miss because of shadows.

The finished product was better for my efforts—or so I thought before I noticing the dust in the color coat. Should have washed the floor and sprayed it with water to keep the dust down.

It often takes years, decades even, to gather knowledge. To write your own catalog. The key thing is to be mindful. It’s impossible to build your experience if you aren’t present and thinking about what it is you are doing. People will often talk about the time aspect of building experience, but that is only part of the story.

Doing things lazily or having no pride in your work will rarely turn you into an expert. More accurately, it will turn you into an expert on being lazy and cutting corners. Practice doesn’t make perfect; practice makes permanent. Experience is valuable. Don’t waste the opportunity to gather it.

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If you are in one of those locales that gets tolerable weather year-round, go ahead and skip to the bottom now and make your snarky comment. Not even going to try and take that away from you. What I will say is that I need winter. You might need it too and not even realize it. Seriously.

The snow falling—or, more accurately, the salt truck driving by—signals the end of one season and entry into another. The race tracks are closed. The roads are covered in that nasty mix of sodium and chloride that conspires to oxidize nearly every surface of a car with ruthless abandon. Toss in the whole tilt-of-the-earth bit and how short the days get up here on the 45th parallel and it’s easy to see why seasonal affective disorder is a thing—especially for those of us who enjoy vintage cars.

For some of us, this season is not the sad one, though. These are the exciting times. Okay, maybe not exciting, but at least not the depths of boring. Not because I enjoy the snow or cold, but because it means no more driving. No more racing, except for a few crazies. Significantly less time and money spent traveling to events. Of course, that sounds like hell to most, but feeling truly stuck at home is impossible when you have a heated garage and a backlog of problems and projects awaiting attention.

More often than not, the hardest part of any project is finding the time to do it. During the warm months, it is easy to feel bad about holing up in the garage to work for an entire Saturday when the sun is begging you to swap safety glasses for Ray Bans. Given the opportunity to drive your car, you should. But the shift in seasons means that no one can tell you that your car should be on the road. You don’t have to justify staying inside to work on piddly tasks or spending a whole weekend in the shop just cleaning.

Now is the time to work on a project peacefully and without rush. The batteries in the one clock I have in my shop usually die about now each year. It’s magical timing for sure. A time for getting lost in a task and focusing on all the little details that you have no reason to ignore, since time is not a factor. Deadlines still exist, but they are far into the future at this point. You can take time to breathe and refocus.

There’s also that old part about distance making the heart grow fonder. Being separated from cars for the season only makes me enjoy the sliver of summer that much more. I’ll drive the fun cars at every opportunity, even if the choice is slightly inconvenient. If the weather was near-perfect every day, I would probably never drive my cars, because I would skip over good enough and wait for perfect.

A college roommate once told me about the house he grew up in, just half a mile from a California beach. Can you guess somewhere he had never been, when he moved to Kansas’ McPherson College at 18 years old? The beach. It was always there. They could always go tomorrow. The weather was two degrees less than ideal, so they stayed home. A whole 18 years passed before they knew it.

Everything has a deadline set by Mother Nature. Winter becomes the yin to summer’s yang, and months of driving become months of parking. For some of us the extremes are required. The seasons prevent me from getting lost and never finishing my project cars. Nothing makes driving season quite as sweet as enduring—nay, embracing—wrenching season.

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It’s said that the best days of boat ownership are the day you buy the boat and the day you sell it. That has not been my experience buying and selling motorcycles. Watching one of your bikes ride off in someone else’s truck is hard. It’s especially difficult when the buyer is the type of person my experience suggests would be served better by a different machine.

Two weeks ago, I sold my 1973 Triumph TR5T. As the gray pickup drove away, a war waged in my head. What is the proper emotion when something you care about heads to a new home? Especially when you know that home has different views on appropriate treatment for a vintage object with delicate patina?

Let’s start at the start. A while back, Editor-at-Large Sam Smith bought this wicked-cool Triumph. Just seeing photos on the internet made me utter those dangerous words: “When you are ready to sell that,” I told him, “let me know.”

Months later, my phone rang. The Triumph was a former AHRMA racer, mostly sorted but in need of a few things. Sam got swept up in other projects and needed to move on. On my end, money and projects were shuffled about in order to justify the spend. Before long, the Triumph rolled out of Sam’s Tennessee shop and into a trailer. I drove north, home to Michigan, intoxicated with potential.

This bike attracted me for one simple reason—it looks bad-ass. The TR5T came to my garage in October of 2021, a back-burner winter project. After I set up the Amal carb and hacked together an exhaust, that 500-cc parallel twin roared to life. It then proceeded to annoy my neighbors on a weekly basis, as I used the beast to tow my trash and recycling cans out to the street each Wednesday night. A few members of my small neighborhood probably wish I had left the bike out with the trash.

As fun as that was, it was hardly proper use for something so cool. Guilt stacked up. I began to question if the space and funds tied up by the Triumph weren’t better used for other experiences. Around that time, another friend offered a screaming deal on another bike that I’ve long wanted, one a lot more practical.

A for-sale listing formed. A single Instagram post brought a few replies asking for details, but only one seriously interested party. And that potential buyer brought what felt, at the time, like a serious moral dilemma: Does my responsibility for an object I love extend to finding what I believe is the perfect buyer? Or does it just mean finding someone who can pay my asking price?

To be clear, that’s part of why Sam sold the bike to me. He knew I would spend the time to do the research and make it run right. The Triumph lived full-time in my garage, it was fed only non-ethanol fuel, and it was doted over whenever it so much as hiccupped. I strived to be the perfect caretaker, treating a 50-year-old bike as if it were only two years old.

The Instagram messages from that potential buyer painted a picture. “Just how bad are the brakes?” he said. “I’ve never ridden a motorcycle with a drum front brake.” Then came, “When you say it has a tickler, what does that mean?” My favorite was, “Have you had any trouble with the electronics?”

It’s a Triumph with Lucas ignition parts. Jokes come with the territory.

Still, I supplied honest answers to every question. The window shopper became a buyer, and he sent me a deposit. When we met this fall, at the Barber Vintage Festival, to hand over the bike and its trove of spare parts, I couldn’t help but notice that the new owner was maybe a little green in mechanical experience. When he mentioned plans to park this wonderfully preserved, patina-rich Triumph in the open parking lot in front of his dorm room, it felt like a dagger to my heart. I pictured the bike degrading rapidly.

Around that time, a thought crossed my mind: hand back the cashiers check, then gently suggest that this young man hit Barber’s swap meet and find a little Honda enduro. That would be a better fit for his needs and plans, I thought. He would likely have a great experience, and the bike wouldn’t be as needy or delicate as the Triumph.

Only . . . I couldn’t bring myself to do that. Because if someone would have done that to me, I wouldn’t be who I am.

See, at 16 years old, I bought a Chevrolet Corvair from a scrap yard. It was more iron oxide than car. The owner of that yard probably felt that not selling me the Corvair would have been doing me a favor. After breaking apart the locked-up engine with a scrap two-by-four and a three-pound sledge, I realized the Chevy was never going to drive again. A few smart friends recommended buying a running Corvair to stay motivated. I could enjoy driving, they said, rather than spiraling into the frustration of a never-ending project.

It took an entire summer of bagging groceries to stack up the 22 hundred-dollar bills that ended up being traded for my 1964 Corvair Monza coupe. Without a doubt, the owner was not excited to sell me that car. He knew I planned to daily drive it and park it at my high school. He knew I barely owned a complete set of hand tools.

At that point, most people would have said I had no business owning a car nearly triple my age. That man knew the potential he had to keep that Corvair in great shape and preserved for the future. He also knew that the most powerful thing he could do was let me use that Monza to create unforgettable memories and learn.

That Corvair, along with the hours spent learning to keep it on the road, is what created the oil-soaked, mechanically obsessed Kyle Smith you find here.

I literally would not be where I am, wouldn’t be at this job and writing these words, if it wasn’t for that gentleman in Lawrence, Kansas back in 2007. Who am I to gate-keep another budding enthusiast from diving right in? Sam’s old Triumph, my old Triumph, is a nice, complete bike that came with a lot of spare parts and pieces, but it’s not some rare treasure that belongs in a museum. Like that Monza, it’s an old vehicle first and a collectible second. These machines weren’t particularly special when they were new, and while we do have a duty to be caretakers for the next generation, at some point, we have to let the next generation actually join us, whether it feels right or not.

The service manuals were the last thing I handed Ben before shaking his hand and sending him off on his new adventure. On my 14-hour drive home from Barber, the idea that the Triumph “deserves better” disappeared. It was replaced by the feeling that the new owner was perfect: a young person, excited to learn, who very much wanted to be part of vintage motorcycle culture.

In the end, it did go to an owner like me. Just on a time delay. We all started somewhere in our journey with old cars, and that journey often involves jumping straight into the deep end and learning to swim.

Who am I to withhold selling a motorcycle because I don’t think someone else is ready? That choice isn’t mine to make. But I will say one thing: Ben, if you’re reading this and you end up in over your head, you know where I live. Call any time.

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The racetrack is identical to a Walmart parking lot in at least two ways:

1. You are guaranteed to meet a few characters if you hang around for more than an hour.
2. It proves that people think they always do the right thing, yet often show they do not.

The first is obvious, so let’s talk about the second. I’ll clarify this example for those who may not be as familiar with racetrack antics. The parking lot of your local shopping center will stand in for the race surface. We’ve all been there. We pay for our bag of frozen chicken nuggets and pint of ice cream like the proud 32-year-olds we are and, despite showing our best restraint grabbing other things from the aisles, we exit the checkout line with too many bags to carry. We roll the cart to the car, unload our bags, and are suddenly thrown into heavy psychological warfare as we debate what to do with the cart. Leave it in an open parking spot, or take the time and effort to return it?

If you return the cart to its metal corral, you are a good person. That cart is you and your machine when you are on track, and the corral represents the proper racing line. In the parking lot, there is no incentive to do the right thing. You only return a cart because you believe in doing the right thing and will do it even when the act is inconvenient or otherwise taxing.

The racetrack presents a similar situation. Except instead of a shopping cart, you’re responsible for your machine and your body. Putting them in the right place on the track matters, and being selfish about your efforts affects more people than just yourself.

It’s an odd thought. The uninitiated may look at a closed course and think, “Cool, I can do whatever,” and that is kind of true, but mostly fiction. You can do anything you want—so long as it is predictable and safe. Not “anything you want,” at all. As in that parking lot, there may be fewer hard-and-fast rules compared to driving on the street, but there are still rules—just a different set.

The first is that the race line matters—until it doesn’t. I was sitting in a race organization’s “road race school” last year and early in the session the instructor declared: “The race line is the race line is the race line. There is no reason to be off that line.” I stared off into space for a bit as the two sides of my brain hotly debated if I were stupid or if he were stupid.

The race line is the ideal course around a track, but once you add other racers, that ideal path becomes a suggestion. Maybe that teacher wanted to set us up for success; it is the smartest idea to be able to turn consistent and safe laps on the race line before you introduce the complexity of setting up and executing passes. The race line is also the most predictable place for a “slower” rider to be. Think about returning your cart. If you make a mistake and run off-line for whatever reason, that is akin to taking your shopping cart all the way to your car and it is prudent to return yourself properly to the line and behave predictably for anyone that might be chasing you. The race line is the safest place for your “cart” just like the corral is the safest place in the parking lot for a paint-annihilating, free-wheeling metal basket on wheels. The racing line is where other folks expect you to be. Stay on it, and a faster rider or driver can basically read your mind and easily navigate to get around you.

Yet the hardest thing for some folks is to be shown a wheel going into a corner and exercise the self control required to let that person by. The vast majority of racers—myself included—are hobbyists. We don’t get paid to win, and even if we do, we still need to be at work on Monday to make ends meet. That’s why it always surprises me when some club racer decides to leave their cart out in the middle of the parking lot. Chaos for no reason … unless you count pride.

Hubris can easily take over, and we can’t for a second believe we are in the way or otherwise slow, despite the readily available metric: time. All racers know there is an ideal race line. Leave it, and your lap times suffer. Watch any professional race and you will likely hear some commentator say something like, “Now [the leader] has clean track and it’s going to be hard for the chase group to catch them.” That isn’t because the front-runner is superhuman. It’s because the chase group is playing defense against each other and therefore bleeding time compared to the first-place rider, who can maintain the ideal line without distraction.

Our pride gets in the way and we think we are the exception. We are the person who can ride fast in spite of being off-line. Here, there is actually incentive to do the right thing, yet so many who think the race line is a suggestion, and that feeling fast is being fast. That’s not how it works. In order for you to feel fast, you may be leaving your shopping cart in the middle of the parking lot and screwing the race up for others.

The connection between turn 16 and 17 at Barber Motorsports Park is one such example. I was on a burner of a practice-session lap aboard my SV650 just a few weeks ago. Out of nowhere there was a bike beside me. In front of me. Off in the distance. A MotoAmerica rider had joined the club racers for a weekend. If I had been off-line I have no doubt he could have gotten around me, but not nearly as cleanly as he did when I was in the proper place. My little effort to do the right thing when I thought no one was around paid off: Each of us could pull into the pits under our own power.

Being predictable and doing the right thing can seem boring and often comes with no immediate reward. Yet it is still the right thing to do and unlike that shopping cart scenario, there is a reward: safer, faster laps.

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Hey there. I’m Kyle. My presence on these digital pages is not new, but this column is. Beginning this week, Mechanical Sympathy will explore the ways we interact with machines, both in upkeep and use, and how those stir the soul. Read my introduction to the column here.

A soft touch can be incredibly powerful. Now that you are thinking about that, let me reel you back. This is a family-friendly automotive website and you thought that was where I was going? Shame on you.

No, this is about the key to my 1965 Chevrolet Corvair, and how it became the test for how much respect and space you are going to get when you drive it. My beloved coupe is nothing special. The data plate shows no rare options, the rear quarter-panels have some rust, and the interior is nice but not so much that you’d hesitate to hop in with wet shoes after a nice fall drive. This car is the picture of a “driver” that is meant to be enjoyed.

Keeping ropes around a car is an excellent way to make sure no one cares about it. That’s why I hold myself to a rule that came from someone I’ve never met. While at an event, sometime around 2011, I overheard one person yell, “If you can start it, you can drive it!” to someone peeking in the window of a cherry red Pontiac. This same offer had been a joke with a few of my college friends when I built up a Honda XR650R motard, which required a very particular song and dance to fire up. Not a lot of people got to ride that bike, but there was no shortage of tired legs from kicking it over.

This Corvair starts a whole lot easier than that motorcycle did. Wherever it goes, which is a lot of places, I will toss the keys to anyone who shows interest in driving it. After they slide behind the seat and get a quick rundown of the controls comes the test: Do they know how to turn a key?

It’s so simple. And yet my Corvair key is mangled and bent three different ways.

To be fair, most cars have not used turn keys in years. Even if one does, the system doesn’t require the operator to hold the switch to keep the engine cranking. A flick of the key, and the engine will crank until it starts, at which point the computer takes over, because it knows better. This digital intervention used to annoy me greatly, but after hearing my Corvair starter grind after the engine caught, and after clamping the key in a vise to straighten it for the third time, I am reminded that modern cars are built to preserve themselves from the lowest common denominator. This approach insulates the curious from learning how the machine works because it just works. If you do something wrong, which you really can’t on a modern car, there is no auditory or haptic feedback. You can ham-fist the starting procedure for years and never know it.

Maybe part of the problem is that my car’s key is quite ornate. The head bears a nice Corvair script inset with decorative colors that have aged to a delightful patina. That detailing means the head is wide and give users an unexpected amount of leverage compared to the rounded plastic fob of any key from the last 25 years. Between robust, anti-theft lock cylinders and the smooth keys, it is almost difficult to put too much torque into a modern ignition. Most likely, people don’t realize the force they are putting on an old system—most people haven’t even unlocked a car door with a key for years.

These bad habits set in because drivers literally did not know better and no one said anything to them. Then they get the chance to drive my Corvair and the first bit of feedback is pursed lips and a through-the-nose exhale as the start grinds and the key bends. As much as the mechanical abuse hurts my soul—and the car—it is a necessary evil. Watching how these drivers start the Corvair tells me how the drive will go, and how much coaching I will be doing from the right seat. If you He-Man twist that delicate little key, you will hear the script that is burned into my brain about how a clutch works, followed by a reminder that old brakes are old brakes and you need to treat them as such. A bent key may be an easy repair, but I’m not going to let ignorance cost me a clutch.

Yet I continue to offer this key to strangers. I have to. We have to. Each of us had to start (see what I did there?) somewhere on the journey of learning how mechanical things work. It takes a tender touch to keep the key from twisting off in the dashboard’s cylinder these days, reminding me that the Corvair, like any other machine, is a living thing. It will only last as long as someone takes care of it and wants it around.

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Hey there. I’m Kyle. My presence on these digital pages is not new, but this column is. Beginning this week, Mechanical Sympathy will explore the ways we interact with machines, both in upkeep and use, and how those stir the soul. Read my introduction to the column here.

We all have that one tool that makes us feel good when we use it. The plastic handle of my Phillips screwdriver is perfectly softened by a combination of Brakleen and oil, a texture formed by countless grabs as I worked half by feel and half by pure nostalgia. Things just don’t go wrong when this Phillips comes out. 

Maybe part of its appeal is less concrete. The screwdriver I still reach for on late-night, must-finish, or otherwise consequential projects is the same design as the one nestled in my father’s toolbox. You know, the very screwdriver with which I first learned how to take out screws. When I needed a Phillips for my own toolbox, you can understand my effort to find the right one. It needed to sit in my hand the way Dad’s did.

Except it’s not replacing anything. The object is not the memory. This Phillips stirs up a lot of things within my mind and heart, but what that humble tool doesn’t remind me of—what it cannot remind me of—is a certain black Ford Model A coupe. Dad and I never worked on that car. It just sat. For years I was just short of bitter about it. Then I realized I had it all wrong.

There are only 24 hours in the day for everyone. There were always enough projects, often coming from four or even five places, to soak up every last second of Dad’s time. He could have used those precious few hours to work on his car, though the vehicle could not be enjoyed by the whole family, or even by the two of us, since even then plopping a child on a bench seat without a seat belt was frowned upon. Instead, he chose to indulge me and my interests. He shepherded me through the proper use of tools and techniques to fix my bicycles, R/C cars, and that pesky go-cart that never ran quite right unless Dad was around to start it.

There was always time to take apart another lawnmower that he had found on the side of the road to see why it wouldn’t run and was left for scrap. I think at one point we had 14 push mowers stacked inside the garage door. Sorry, Mom. 

The Model A sat patiently, though it was not languishing, as I once thought. Today, it sits in my garage and it is I who is left to clockwatch through responsibilities until I have an hour—two to three, occasionally—to get out that Phillips and turn a screw or two. Over 1000 miles away, Dad is turning the screwdriver that started it all on his own ’30 DeLuxe coupe. We talk about cars now every time I call home. After all those years of him giving up his time and enabling me to chase whatever shiny mechanical thing caught my eye, he deserves Model A time. This car and a menial, plastic-handled Phillips #2 are as close as I will ever get to going back and doing it all again. The hard part is being honest that I would have had it any other way.   

It’s not the Model A or the screwdriver that ensure I never forget those evenings and Saturdays tinkering in the driveway, but the love and care that I didn’t recognize at the time. His was very much the unconventional approach to make a gearhead son. A strange method, born from necessity. Whether the Model A was in the garage or not really made no difference. It was the support and encouragement he gave me to be curious and understand the mechanical parts. Appreciation for history and beauty was to come later. Because Dad accepted that Phillips screwdriver was going to be used improperly 20 times before I finally understood what I was doing, he allowed me to learn so much more than turning a screw. He taught me trial and error, maintaining tools, fixing mistakes, and when to ask for help—all without touching our beloved Ford.

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Hey there. I’m Kyle. My presence on these digital pages is not new, but this column is. I’m a former runner, B-grade cyclist, musician of the annoying variety, married man, caretaker to three cats, and step parent of four chickens. My property has a humble but hardworking 2.5-car garage that I try my best to keep clean and functional while working on a collection that seems to constantly spiral out of control and retreat to manageable.

That collection currently spans 85 years of technology, which means it’s no surprise that something always needs attention. Mechanical brakes to suspension tuning and everything in between, I do as much as possible myself. Sometimes I do call in for help or borrow some machinery. Don’t we all?

You name the adventure, and I’ve probably done at least something related to it. Cross-country, time-speed-distance rallies in a 1917 Peerless Speedster to hot laps in a 2021 Porsche Cayman GT4. Preparing and showing a 1951 Pegaso Z-102 (not mine) at the Amelia Island Concours d’Elegance in Florida to orchestrating a rally of ratty cars around California’s swanky Monterey peninsula. Riding the canyon roads of California on a wide range of motorcycles to crossing Michigan’s Mackinaw Bridge on a decrepit Honda Goldwing. I hold a novice race license. Whatever roadside repair you can imagine, I’ve probably attempted it. And succeeded.

The breadth of my experience has taught me one thing: You can’t do much if you don’t care for the machine. I didn’t grow up watching racing or reading the instrumented tests typical of automotive magazines 10 to 20 years ago. Sure, I flipped through a few, but consider the buff books background noise in my origin story.

It was working on things that really occupied my time back then. Understanding the mechanics of how something functioned—rather than its performance potential—became the anchor of my universe. A stack of push mowers my father picked up from the side of the road taught me the mechanics of an engine and how the bits and pieces inside interacted. Maybe the can of a cold beverage I drank in my own garage last night was made from the recycled aluminum of a Briggs and Stratton that met its sad end at the hands of a 12-year-old armed with a half-rusty socket set, a carpenter’s hammer, and curiosity. Only taken apart, never reassembled. 

Those magazine tests might have been background noise, but the line between noise and subliminal messaging is thin. For a young person who was yet to slide into the driver’s seat, those driving impressions, quarter-mile times, and 0-to-60-mph stats defined performance. Instrumented testing is a fascinating process that requires a well-prepared car and a good driver who won’t hesitate to flog the devil out of said vehicle. To achieve the impressive numbers—a 0-to-60 run, as an example—the driver must launch the car mercilessly with near-total disregard for the life or wellbeing of the driveline components. That driver has to have zero mechanical sympathy. None.

That’s not me. It never was.

When the kind lady behind the DMV counter handed over the still-warm slip of paper granting me legal access to the Kansas highways and byways, it only made sense that my travel was done with great care for my white Ford Ranger pickup. As the operator of a machine, I was also its caretaker. It was right around this time that racing and high-performance driving entered my worldview, and it didn’t take long for me to observe the sports’ seemingly endless appetites for broken parts and cars. My desire to drive fast and do burnouts faded when I thought about piston speed and valve control.

That mindset was reinforced while sitting in the class rooms and working in the shop at McPherson College, where I earned my bachelor of science in automotive restoration. I sold that beloved 2004 Ford Ranger, deciding instead to keep a 1992 Toyota pickup alive as long as possible. Luckily, that mission only required oil changes and a mid-winter, parking-lot rebuild of the rear axle after the pinion bearings turned to shrapnel. That 22RE engine and five-speed manual transmission did everything I asked of them, from hauling motorcycles to a night of test-and-tune drag racing. I still think if I had the stones to sidestep the clutch on that starting line I would have snuck into the 17-second range. The thought of harm done to clutch and rear axle was too much, though. I couldn’t do that to them.

That’s a feeling some have and some don’t. For humans to put themselves in the “shoes” of a literal cog in a machine is patently absurd, yet that is how my mind works. Sympathy is defined as a feeling of pity or sorrow for the suffering or distress of another. Mechanical sympathy requires more than maintenance. It’s doing the mental work to understand how the machine works best and then basing your care and feeding on that. How do the parts interact? What is the best way to treat this both living but also inanimate object? This column will explore the ways we interact with machines, both in upkeep and use, and how those stir the soul.

A while back, one of my superiors here at Hagerty asked where I saw myself in five years. After thinking for a moment, I realized my truth: I’m here to do fun things and tell good stories. That’s what this column will be. Let’s take an adventure week-by-week. I’m excited about this one. Hope you are too.

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