Moto Broad

I met a dear old friend (old as in longtime, not as in, um, old) for lunch today. He was riding his commuter scooter in the 40-degree weather, so I couldn’t very well wimp out, could I?

I put on two shirts, two pairs of socks, my nice thick balaclava (Biker’s Comfort in Action Stop-Wind, from BikeBandit), and my winter Cortech Scarab gloves. If I’d had more than 20 miles to go, I’d have donned the Olympia C4 Thermolite glove liners, too. But the gloves have a Thinsulate lining, and that was plenty. My HJC AC-12 helmet has a removable chin deflector (it makes more difference than you’d think), which keeps the wind from aiming directly for your eyeballs. Only the tops of my legs were cold, and once they went sort of numb, I was pretty comfy.

My friend’s scooter is great! it has a roomy little trunk and comfy seat, and he just rolled it right up onto the sidewalk in front of the restaurant (let’s face it: when you’re riding something this cute, you can get away with anything).

I only saw one other rider out, a hunkered-down leather-clad sportbike rider. It was worth it to see my old friend, and to bask in the clear blue day. And when I got home, my neighbor took me for a short ride in the gloriously rumbling Mustang show car that he’s prepping for the World of Wheels event next weekend in Atlanta. Wahoo!! So loud you can’t hear yourself think, and wondrously over-powered. I was squealing with joy as we fishtailed down the country road. You’d think such a display would scandalize the locals, but most of us are hotrodders around here, anyway, so that throaty blast is a welcome sound.

Now I see why people love eBay; it’s the Everything Market. (I know: I’m a late bloomer.) So I went back.

I was hoping to find a miniature of my bike, but nobody seems to make a naked (non-faired) model; I guess they aren’t deemed racy enough. But I found the closest thing, a tiny SV650S (with a tiny price to match — thanks, Philip!), and it was too cute to pass up.

The detail is astonishing. How do they do it — with some sort of “Honey, I shrunk the motorcycle” ray? Little radiator and oil cooler, tiny chain, perfect exhaust . . . even the instrument panel is anatomically correct. So what do you do with such a thing? I’m not sure: maybe twiddle the teensy handlebars while making vroom-vroom noises on a cold winter night.

I like tools. Always have. When I was a kid, I took things apart (and, for the most part, reassembled them successfully). So it’s no surprise that I liked Tim Allen immediately when I saw his first cable special, “Men Are Pigs” in 1991 or so. I laughed. I cried. I grunted.

I taped it and passed the tape around to all the guys in my neighborhood, and it struck the same nerve with them. Soon, we would greet each other with grunts, and communicate with those primal tonal utterances: “How’s it going?” “Aruhhhhh!”

I became a faithful viewer of “Home Improvement,” and so wished Tim would put out a line of super-powered, over-engineered Binford Tools. Alas, Binford remained a fictional entity, but he did partner with some tool manufacturers to market some power tools and hand tools, as well as some kids’ toy tools and project kits. I missed the chance to get any of the offerings while they were current.

Shortly before Christmas, during a “Home Improvement” marathon, I had a sudden urge to check eBay. Now, I’m actually the last person on Earth to purchase something from eBay — I was an eBay virgin, believe it or not. But, lo and behold, there it was: a Tim Allen Signature Ryobi cordless drill, model RRR722 (I kid you not). For a whopping six bucks.

It’s not perfect, of course. No battery, and clearly it’s been much used. But the seller threw in a charger, and a spiffy holster and belt.

And — guess what — I found a battery! On eBay, natch. I guess this is how it starts.

I have no idea if the battery will hold a charge (probably not), but at least the drill will be complete. If I can’t resurrect it, I’ll put it in a shrine.

[Later entry: the battery is pristine, looks like it's never even been in a drill. But it's dead as a dadgum doornail. No amount of cajoling, wiggling, or sanding the contacts could bring it back to life. Guess I'll dig a hole and bury it.]

Some people use those cheesy pine tree air fresheners hung from the rearview mirror. Not me. I went for the fully-organic, completely natural solution:

Of course, I’ll never get all those pine needles out of the upholstery…