Dirty Betty Smiles
#1
01-14-2010, 07:31 PM
Dirty Betty Smiles
There's a direct connection between exhaust pipes and a girl's heart.
On Christmas day, Miz Roo's beloved "Dirty Betty" opened her presents and found a handlebar-mounted timepiece and an engine guard...oh, Wheelies of Joy!
Such accoutrement one does not entrust to a master mechanic like MopHead. That would be downright insulting. MopHead would balk, and with good reason. "Girls can't tell time!" he'd say, pitching the chrome clock into a bucket of sludge.
"Engine guards?! Why'dja BUY engine guards?? I coulda made you a set out of that old refrigerator out back!" he'd say, tossing the instructions into a smoldering ashtray.
Paranoia? YOU be the judge.
Nope! Instead, I called Bruh Ray, my neighbor and best buddy. In a quick two hours we got that pesky clock's C-clamp to stay put on the handlebars. Seems the instructions leave out a few details, like what kind of hammer to use. The engine guard was more delicate, so we decided to drive Dirty Betty down to Young Tom's place.
Young Tom works on anything. He's a general practitioner, a wrench monkey, a Renaissance Man. We called him and told him that we wanted him to put the engine guard on Dirty Betty. He asked us to refresh his memory (not everybody names their rides).
"Dirty Betty," we repeated. "You know, Miz Roo's 883."
"Oh yeah," he said, a surge of recognition in his voice, "I remember. Bring it on down. I can do Suzukis."
Miz Roo saddled up Dirty Betty, patted her tank reassuringly, and got down to business. Or tried to. She turned the key, checked for "N"eutral, pulled the enrichener all the way out, gave the throttle one quick turn, hit the "On" switch, and pressed the START button.
Dirty Betty said "Uh-oh-uh-oh-uh-oh."
Miz Roo said "Damn!"
Again.
"Uh-oh-uh-oh-uh-oh...Damn!"
"Uh-oh-uh-oh-uh-oh...Damn!"
"Uh-oh-uh-oh-uh-oh-uh-oh-uh-oh-uh-oh-uh-oh...Bloop-Pop-Pop...potato-potato-potato.."
Miz Roo babied Dirty Betty for the next three minutes until she was finally satisfied with the tone and timbre of the exhaust note. Then the two of them set off for the six-mile run to Young Tom's, with me following dutifully in the minivan.
Tom got right to work, and then the temperature dropped to ten degrees.
In Mississippi, ten degrees is colder than cold. It's DARN COLD. The deer go into rut, feverishly mate, and then freeze to death. Foxes grow elegant pelts, get hungry, and then freeze to death. Sparrows and finches flitter down into the winter bean fields, fluff their feathery coats, huddle together for warmth, and then get eaten by the cagey fox. Then the fox...well, you know the rest. Nature ain't pretty.
During the cold snap, the engine guard shrank and was now too small to fit around Dirty Betty's proud aftermarket pipes. Young Tom took matters in hand and adapted the bottom bracket with a few taps of the hammer...and a plasma cutter, a MIG welder, and other kitchen implements.
Saturday came and the thermometers still refused to work right. Miz Roo was determined to brink Dirty Betty home despite the cold weather. She put on her cold weather gear. Socks...check! Outer socks...check! Inner bra...check! Thermal outer camisole...check! Arctic leggings...outer fleece bra...inner underpants...outer overalls...overcoat underlayer...check, check, and check!
Helmet...check. Chaps...check! Keys...
Keys. Keys?
After some frantic searching and a sweaty striptease, the keys fell out of the helmet and we were off to Young Tom's.
Dirty Betty saw us coming and turned demurely, showing the glint of new chrome. She posed...just...so, showing off her pipes. Then she pivoted on her front wheel, and the new engine guard gleamed. Miz Roo beamed and jumped on, keys at the ready.
"Uh-oh-uh-oh-uh-oh...Damn!"
For the next five minutes, she flailed away at the recalcitrant bike, but to no avail. Dirty Betty had lost her spark. We drove home inside a warm and soundproof cage, leaving the old girl at Young Tom's.
We returned time after time, day after day. For a solid week, we tested all of the connections. We read the shop manual, and then ran continuity tests. We read Clymer's, and then ran voltage tests. We read Drudge, and then ran windings resistance tests and...suddenly, a ray of hope! The secondary showed zero resistance!
The coil was bad! Overjoyed, I found a replacement coil on eBay for $10 plus shipping. A week later, it arrived by UPS. I tested the secondary windings on the new coil and got a good 11K. Off we went to show Dirty Betty her new sparker!
As soon as we got there, we could see she wasn't feeling well. Her chrome highlights had streaks of gray peeking through. Her blue gas tank was dull, and her fenders were sagging.
"It's OK, old girl," Miz Roo reassured her. While Dirty Betty was distracted, I pulled heer plug wires loose and ran a quick check with the ohmmeter. Oh, no...20K! There was supposed to be infinite resistance, and now I was showing 20K!
We hooked up the spark tester and cranked the starter. No spark. This looked bad. Very bad, indeed. No longer so self-assured, we had to concede that the ignition module may have failed.
We tried to hide the bad news from Dirty Betty, making up a story about having to go home and fetch some wire ties or something. Miz Roo pulled the sheet over Dirty Betty's head and we drove away in silence.
A new ignition module was trouble. It was expensive. It was major surgery.
Miz Roo mentioned something about a trailer, and something about Harley, and then something about MopHead.
"You can't take Dirty Betty to MopHead," I pointed out. "He'll rip out her ignition system and replace it with points from a Toyota pickup truck."
"Well," she offered,, "maybe we should try something more empirical." Miz Roo recommended going back to Young Tom's and simply replacing the old coil to see what would happen.
"Worst case," she said, "it's a bad ignition module. We're right back to where we are now."
"I can't afford a new ignition module," I confessed.
"Sell an organ," she recommended with a smile.
The sun was dropping below the trees when we got back to Young Tom's. As luck would have it, he was home. We explained to him that we thought Dirty Betty needed a new ignition module. But we weren't sure. He agreed that one more test was in order.
He started pulling wires loose from the frame. A moment later, the new coil was hooked up to Dirty Betty. It hung an inch away from the front cylinder, dangling out into space like a mountain climber on belay. It wasn't secure, but it was good enough for what we had in mind.
Young Tom connected the spark tester to the rear plug wire. I fished the keys out of my pocket and cranked the power ON. Then the Run switch licked ON, and then I hit the starter. Tom looked at the blinking neon light in his hand and grinned at me.
We switched wires and tested the front cylinder. The spark tester lit up again! I turned and looked for Miz Roo. She was sulking in the car, unable to face the inescapable bad news.
I gave her a thumbs up sign and motioned for her to come over. She geve me a quizzical look. As she walked to the garage, Young Tom hooked up the spark plugs, pulled the enrichner, and hit the starter switch again.
"Uh-oh-uh...da-da-da...POP-POP-potato-potato-potato...."
Dirty Betty's tank looked a little bluer, her chrome a little more silvery. She sounded happy.
Miz Roo's face popped into a wide, toothy smile and her step quickened. She touched Dirty Betty and felt the heartbeat of a warm engine. Then she turned and hugged Young Tom. Embarrassed, he grinned in self-defense.
I'm not sure whether I was smiling, but I remember that the air was warmer and life once again held the promise it had offered in my youth.
-------------
(Excerpted from "The Incredibly Normal Adventures of RoosterBoots")
On Christmas day, Miz Roo's beloved "Dirty Betty" opened her presents and found a handlebar-mounted timepiece and an engine guard...oh, Wheelies of Joy!
Such accoutrement one does not entrust to a master mechanic like MopHead. That would be downright insulting. MopHead would balk, and with good reason. "Girls can't tell time!" he'd say, pitching the chrome clock into a bucket of sludge.
"Engine guards?! Why'dja BUY engine guards?? I coulda made you a set out of that old refrigerator out back!" he'd say, tossing the instructions into a smoldering ashtray.
Paranoia? YOU be the judge.
Nope! Instead, I called Bruh Ray, my neighbor and best buddy. In a quick two hours we got that pesky clock's C-clamp to stay put on the handlebars. Seems the instructions leave out a few details, like what kind of hammer to use. The engine guard was more delicate, so we decided to drive Dirty Betty down to Young Tom's place.
Young Tom works on anything. He's a general practitioner, a wrench monkey, a Renaissance Man. We called him and told him that we wanted him to put the engine guard on Dirty Betty. He asked us to refresh his memory (not everybody names their rides).
"Dirty Betty," we repeated. "You know, Miz Roo's 883."
"Oh yeah," he said, a surge of recognition in his voice, "I remember. Bring it on down. I can do Suzukis."
Miz Roo saddled up Dirty Betty, patted her tank reassuringly, and got down to business. Or tried to. She turned the key, checked for "N"eutral, pulled the enrichener all the way out, gave the throttle one quick turn, hit the "On" switch, and pressed the START button.
Dirty Betty said "Uh-oh-uh-oh-uh-oh."
Miz Roo said "Damn!"
Again.
"Uh-oh-uh-oh-uh-oh...Damn!"
"Uh-oh-uh-oh-uh-oh...Damn!"
"Uh-oh-uh-oh-uh-oh-uh-oh-uh-oh-uh-oh-uh-oh...Bloop-Pop-Pop...potato-potato-potato.."
Miz Roo babied Dirty Betty for the next three minutes until she was finally satisfied with the tone and timbre of the exhaust note. Then the two of them set off for the six-mile run to Young Tom's, with me following dutifully in the minivan.
Tom got right to work, and then the temperature dropped to ten degrees.
In Mississippi, ten degrees is colder than cold. It's DARN COLD. The deer go into rut, feverishly mate, and then freeze to death. Foxes grow elegant pelts, get hungry, and then freeze to death. Sparrows and finches flitter down into the winter bean fields, fluff their feathery coats, huddle together for warmth, and then get eaten by the cagey fox. Then the fox...well, you know the rest. Nature ain't pretty.
During the cold snap, the engine guard shrank and was now too small to fit around Dirty Betty's proud aftermarket pipes. Young Tom took matters in hand and adapted the bottom bracket with a few taps of the hammer...and a plasma cutter, a MIG welder, and other kitchen implements.
Saturday came and the thermometers still refused to work right. Miz Roo was determined to brink Dirty Betty home despite the cold weather. She put on her cold weather gear. Socks...check! Outer socks...check! Inner bra...check! Thermal outer camisole...check! Arctic leggings...outer fleece bra...inner underpants...outer overalls...overcoat underlayer...check, check, and check!
Helmet...check. Chaps...check! Keys...
Keys. Keys?
After some frantic searching and a sweaty striptease, the keys fell out of the helmet and we were off to Young Tom's.
Dirty Betty saw us coming and turned demurely, showing the glint of new chrome. She posed...just...so, showing off her pipes. Then she pivoted on her front wheel, and the new engine guard gleamed. Miz Roo beamed and jumped on, keys at the ready.
"Uh-oh-uh-oh-uh-oh...Damn!"
For the next five minutes, she flailed away at the recalcitrant bike, but to no avail. Dirty Betty had lost her spark. We drove home inside a warm and soundproof cage, leaving the old girl at Young Tom's.
We returned time after time, day after day. For a solid week, we tested all of the connections. We read the shop manual, and then ran continuity tests. We read Clymer's, and then ran voltage tests. We read Drudge, and then ran windings resistance tests and...suddenly, a ray of hope! The secondary showed zero resistance!
The coil was bad! Overjoyed, I found a replacement coil on eBay for $10 plus shipping. A week later, it arrived by UPS. I tested the secondary windings on the new coil and got a good 11K. Off we went to show Dirty Betty her new sparker!
As soon as we got there, we could see she wasn't feeling well. Her chrome highlights had streaks of gray peeking through. Her blue gas tank was dull, and her fenders were sagging.
"It's OK, old girl," Miz Roo reassured her. While Dirty Betty was distracted, I pulled heer plug wires loose and ran a quick check with the ohmmeter. Oh, no...20K! There was supposed to be infinite resistance, and now I was showing 20K!
We hooked up the spark tester and cranked the starter. No spark. This looked bad. Very bad, indeed. No longer so self-assured, we had to concede that the ignition module may have failed.
We tried to hide the bad news from Dirty Betty, making up a story about having to go home and fetch some wire ties or something. Miz Roo pulled the sheet over Dirty Betty's head and we drove away in silence.
A new ignition module was trouble. It was expensive. It was major surgery.
Miz Roo mentioned something about a trailer, and something about Harley, and then something about MopHead.
"You can't take Dirty Betty to MopHead," I pointed out. "He'll rip out her ignition system and replace it with points from a Toyota pickup truck."
"Well," she offered,, "maybe we should try something more empirical." Miz Roo recommended going back to Young Tom's and simply replacing the old coil to see what would happen.
"Worst case," she said, "it's a bad ignition module. We're right back to where we are now."
"I can't afford a new ignition module," I confessed.
"Sell an organ," she recommended with a smile.
The sun was dropping below the trees when we got back to Young Tom's. As luck would have it, he was home. We explained to him that we thought Dirty Betty needed a new ignition module. But we weren't sure. He agreed that one more test was in order.
He started pulling wires loose from the frame. A moment later, the new coil was hooked up to Dirty Betty. It hung an inch away from the front cylinder, dangling out into space like a mountain climber on belay. It wasn't secure, but it was good enough for what we had in mind.
Young Tom connected the spark tester to the rear plug wire. I fished the keys out of my pocket and cranked the power ON. Then the Run switch licked ON, and then I hit the starter. Tom looked at the blinking neon light in his hand and grinned at me.
We switched wires and tested the front cylinder. The spark tester lit up again! I turned and looked for Miz Roo. She was sulking in the car, unable to face the inescapable bad news.
I gave her a thumbs up sign and motioned for her to come over. She geve me a quizzical look. As she walked to the garage, Young Tom hooked up the spark plugs, pulled the enrichner, and hit the starter switch again.
"Uh-oh-uh...da-da-da...POP-POP-potato-potato-potato...."
Dirty Betty's tank looked a little bluer, her chrome a little more silvery. She sounded happy.
Miz Roo's face popped into a wide, toothy smile and her step quickened. She touched Dirty Betty and felt the heartbeat of a warm engine. Then she turned and hugged Young Tom. Embarrassed, he grinned in self-defense.
I'm not sure whether I was smiling, but I remember that the air was warmer and life once again held the promise it had offered in my youth.
-------------
(Excerpted from "The Incredibly Normal Adventures of RoosterBoots")
#2
01-14-2010, 07:44 PM
Extreme HDF Member
I'm happy for all of ya that Young Tom was able to save that little Sporty.
.......It surely did look hopeless for the longest time!
.......It surely did look hopeless for the longest time!
#3
01-14-2010, 08:43 PM
Road Master
You mean to tell me that you will fork out the money to get yourself a brand new ,top o the line,triple chromed, kuryakyn hip joint ,but you wont pony up for a new ignition module for Miz. Roo.
You a selfish old bastud aint'cha.
Glad y'all were able to get her bike running. And kudos to Miz.Roo for even contemplating riding Dirty Betty in the temperatures we've had lately.
You a selfish old bastud aint'cha.
Glad y'all were able to get her bike running. And kudos to Miz.Roo for even contemplating riding Dirty Betty in the temperatures we've had lately.
#4
01-14-2010, 09:20 PM
Dammit, CR! Ya got no pitchers, nothin' in the garage, no hints AT ALL as to who you might be. I mights hasta invite you to my comin' out party in February. It'll be cold. Remember the fleece inner panties!
#5
01-14-2010, 10:15 PM
again your stories have offered me some great midnight entertainment while i lack the ability to enjoy the pleasentries of my mistress as she sleeps during her fridgid facelift
#7
01-15-2010, 08:40 PM
Road Warrior
And remember folks-- If welding on the scoot, disconnect the battery first. Another good story Mr. Boots!
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#8
01-15-2010, 11:25 PM
I should take this opportunity to correct a social error, albeit delicately (lest anyone take offense). Readers of my "normal" stories frequently write little "attaboy" notes as a form of gracious applause, which I enjoy reading tremendously (so don't quit). However, as seen in the post by Classic Eagle (et. al.), some of them address me in the formal vernacular as "Mister Boots."
This implies that my name is "Rooster Boots", two words which make up a Christian name and a surname, and imply that I have a middle name, which I do not. Nor do I have a navel. I was born sans umbilicus, as my dear Mater might say. I remember quite clearly using that silly thorn-wart on the end of my beak to hack and chip away at the porcelain shell surrounding me (my first memory, in fact).
Alas, my shell was thick and my neck...well, as you can see it's somewhat less than muscular. So within a few minutes I was stuck fast inside the remnants of my shell. My brothers and sisters were already free, and had busied themselves pecking at the ground like little fluffy bourgeois egg yolks with ugly feet. They'd pick at the ground, point at me and laugh in their teenie high-pitched meaningless "gonna be nuthin' but a chikken till after dinner" chirp-laughter.
"Chip-chip...you're stuck! Hey look everybody!"
"Chip-chip...what a goose!"
Mama was gettin' anxious, so she called Dad over and gave him a series of wing-pointing gestures, ground scratches, and short grunting commands.
"Free my baby, NOW, ROOSTER!" she ordered.
"Weeelllll, Okay Momma but I dunno if'n I kin pull his fat **** outa they'uh witauht snappin' 'is leetle bitty neck, awwww ain't he cute?"
"DON' MAKE ME WHUP YOU AGIN, ROOSTER!" Mama ordered. She grapped Papa Roo by the shoulder pads and spun him around. "Use that teeny weeeny brain o' yores you useless hunk of schmaltz! Evict Him! GIVE 'IM THE BOOT!"
Which Papa Roo did, which made Mama Roo very happy, so they named me Rooster ('cause I are one) Boots ('cause of that strange birthmark). On the Certificate of Live Birth, I'm listed as one word - RoosterBoots.
So, you see, it's improper to call me Mister Boots. It would be far more accurate to simply say dear "Roo." That's what my friends call me. If you take the time to write down your applause, then you're my friend.
Roo
This implies that my name is "Rooster Boots", two words which make up a Christian name and a surname, and imply that I have a middle name, which I do not. Nor do I have a navel. I was born sans umbilicus, as my dear Mater might say. I remember quite clearly using that silly thorn-wart on the end of my beak to hack and chip away at the porcelain shell surrounding me (my first memory, in fact).
Alas, my shell was thick and my neck...well, as you can see it's somewhat less than muscular. So within a few minutes I was stuck fast inside the remnants of my shell. My brothers and sisters were already free, and had busied themselves pecking at the ground like little fluffy bourgeois egg yolks with ugly feet. They'd pick at the ground, point at me and laugh in their teenie high-pitched meaningless "gonna be nuthin' but a chikken till after dinner" chirp-laughter.
"Chip-chip...you're stuck! Hey look everybody!"
"Chip-chip...what a goose!"
Mama was gettin' anxious, so she called Dad over and gave him a series of wing-pointing gestures, ground scratches, and short grunting commands.
"Free my baby, NOW, ROOSTER!" she ordered.
"Weeelllll, Okay Momma but I dunno if'n I kin pull his fat **** outa they'uh witauht snappin' 'is leetle bitty neck, awwww ain't he cute?"
"DON' MAKE ME WHUP YOU AGIN, ROOSTER!" Mama ordered. She grapped Papa Roo by the shoulder pads and spun him around. "Use that teeny weeeny brain o' yores you useless hunk of schmaltz! Evict Him! GIVE 'IM THE BOOT!"
Which Papa Roo did, which made Mama Roo very happy, so they named me Rooster ('cause I are one) Boots ('cause of that strange birthmark). On the Certificate of Live Birth, I'm listed as one word - RoosterBoots.
So, you see, it's improper to call me Mister Boots. It would be far more accurate to simply say dear "Roo." That's what my friends call me. If you take the time to write down your applause, then you're my friend.
Roo
#10
01-16-2010, 06:50 AM
Outstanding HDF Member
Roo, what a great break from the bickering threads of which jack, 1% and old school debates. Thanks!