The 555

So I could go on and on about how we are normal guys that work our asses off to make motorcycles a part of our lives, and also how riding shit-box old bikes create an everyday adventure in the like that most would never dare to venture.  These are the breaks for choosing to have style, creativity, and the lack of money that comes with the decisions that create these things that many people call "dreams".   There is still adventure out there, and it requires getting tired and dirty, busting knuckles and the bank if you must.  You only live once, and some bad ideas are just too good to pass up.

 So enough about us.  I now present...



--- the 555 ---.

This is a cross country trip that has been running for 3 consecutive years.  Coming up is the 4th annual event of motorcycle masochism.



3 Rules:

1)  1975 or older
2)   500cc engine or less
3)   $500 or less -- buying and restoring (minus tires and papers)




Goal:     to build, and then to ride.




History:   In a dark basement in Tennessee cluttered with old bikes, scattered tools, gas fumes, beer cans and wise-cracks, Mike and his brother, Cody mused over Cody's new purchase of a $100 CB350. Mike, having just returned from a trip to Panama on an old BMW/5, was ready for another trip.  Cody, never having crossed west over the Mississippi River, was also ready.  The idea was born to visit their other brother.  Wanting an even playing field, Mike decided not to take the BMW and roll with a shitbox of his own.  Then, they invited the guys.  They presented the rules, 7 in all showed up, and then they rode...


...to Portland, Oregon.

Bonneville Salt Flats, 2008


In the story of the 555, this is the beginning.

A Quick Glance

 Returning back to Knoxville found us hiding from a society that we felt could crush us if we jumped in too quicly.  So we hid out at the Cycle Stop where there just happened to be some old Hondas in need of immediate repair.  Mike jumped at the chance to hide and make a little cash. 

 We trany-wrestled a hot rod, and I pulled my broken scoot into the shop for a total breakdown repair.  I needed wheels. 

Mike happy messing with broken stuff.

 For the first week back, Mike fixed bikes while I tore the engine out of mine.  This is my parts bike.  I forgot to take pics of the tear down, but it didn't look any different than this.

 But, after a lot of work and help from the guys, she is ready for the road.  A 1972 Honda CB350.
This is a gigantic gesture from Mike and my friend Dick Awkward.  When Mike returned from Colombia and I stayed in Ecuador for 3 months, Dick gave Mike this bike for me.  I did not know this either.  Mike came across a parts bike and started cutting and pasting.  By the time I got home, it needed just a little more work to get going.  It had been in rough shape.  With some late night drinks in the garage, we got her going, and she ran till just before the time to head back to Colombia for Chapter 2 of the South American run.

This was Dick's bike on the infamous 555, the original run...the run that started it all.

After a week of prepping the bike and pulling off the sidehack, we scavanged up some work out of town in Charlotte, North Carolina.  The project is to build a "shed".  This is also a chance for us to get back into the swing of things.  Needing the truck for the work, we loaded up the scoots and were fully prepared to venture off.  There were plans of a road trip up to Pennsylvania to visit Mike's family. 

We are in fact normal guys.  We live simple lives as caprenters, moto mechanic, and canyon guide.  We saved and saved and then headed out into the wild reaches of South America.  So now we're back and have no money.  The work begins anew as we stretch to get ourselves back onto our feet. 

     

Our friend Cody had a plan for the "shed" which quickly got renamed as the "Laboratory". 

 We needed the truck, because this is the only truck our Cody has.  He runs a handyman service out of this rig.

 He's a clever chap.  He made this chalk board out of mortar and paint on a piece of wood.

 Then it began.

It may be hard to believe, but coffee, boozin, and biking can take its toll.  Starting work with creativity and freestyle felt good.  We custom made the doors.

Experimenting steaming wood to bend for the curved frame of the front door.

It turned out nice.

Time-lapse Video of the LAB

Returning Home

Leaving South America.  Returning home?  We were ready; however, apprehension of the oncoming onslaught of emotion of the transition and work yet to commense piled up into our minds as we emerged back into a world which had been very far away for a very long time.  We would soon find out if we were even the same people we had been when we had left.   

Landing in Knoxville, Tennessee is like sweet tea on a hot afternoon. It is a wonderful place for us to get our feet back under us after launching ourselves off the planet that we had previously known. Coming back to "reality", as so many people say, found us in good hands.  Below is Mike watching Mikey Barillaro try to start a bike that had been in hybernation for many months.  They had hope, for "I sprayed the kickstand!", Mikey said.

  First order of business: transportation.

We needed wheels, and they lay around in garages or in pieces here and there. So, it was time to dig up anything that could help get us going, for there is no time to waist when the excitement of an epic adventure drips from your fingertips.

 The Lead Sled. 
It is getting very close to time to introduce you to an event of extreme proportions, or at least extreme fun intertwined in bad ideas...but not yet.  The Lead Sled is the first hint.  This is a 1972 Honda CB350 that was brought to life last summer.  The sidecar was built from scratch and attached for a cross-country run from Knoxville to Portland, Oregon in the fall of last year.  Mikey and Mike created this articulating contraption for less than $500 in total. 

 Mikey Barillaro.  He is a 3rd generation welder whose rapid fire wit and mechanical skills are amazing inspiration for some really terrible ideas.  They got the rig fired up and we were off for a spin before pulling off the car for everyday transport. 

 The sidcar rocked a fully functioning '57 Ford Fairlane tail section.

 Oh yeah, and this is an articulating pivot, so the bike can still lean.

Mikey's garage is a hot rod haven.  Note the bike in pieces sitting on the shelf in the back it: is the beginnings of something great to come.

 Mike Fairman's Green Pile is another project that is in the works that you will see again in time.  There are some interesting ideas at work here.

 Mikey has his own projects up his sleeve.  He's not shy to make something out of nothing, literally.  By his own hand, he restored, customized, and painted every inch of this 1956 F-100.  The only other hands on this truck were that of the pin-striper and the leather interior which he did not have the time to learn himself.  Their Hot Rod shop is the Barillaro Speed Emporium ( http://www.barillarospeed.net/ )

 So with the Led Sled running and the side hack disconnected, we have one bike ready for the road.

Next stop:  the house of Who the Hell is the Handsome Headless Kansas City Dave Walker (KC or other variations for short, or longer).  He has been holding a pile of mine that has been handed down from a friend.  Not running, it has some major repairs to look forward to.  This bike has some history as well. 

  

Post Motorcycle

A bus took us from Uyuni to La Paz overnight. This trip in reverse took us at least 4 hard days of brutal cold, rain and hail. From the bus we emerged sleepless into a huge city, and we had to carry ALL of our things. We understood immediately why our racks had broken every other day. The burden those bikes had carried was an amazing feat.

Our last week in South America was a game of waiting for the inevitable, our flight home. Meanwhile, we wandered through tight market alleys and crowded narrow streets that climbed the mountain in search of anything of interest. There are fabrics of all colors, intricate carvings, huge bags of coca leaves, presidential parades, and far out drugs in dirty little bottles that were gnarley even to look at. Through the Witches' Market you can find all these things wrapped in an explosion of color. My favorite, I think, are the llama fetuses that are sold for offering for "tu Pache Mama", Mother Earth. They are creepy, and I wanted one. However, I don't think customs would have been as thrilled as me. We got haircuts and straight razor shaves.  By the look on the face of the barber, I guarante that my long blond locks were the first to ever see the floor of that shop.  We stayed up late and ate our fill of weird food.  Then we called it good, for we were ready to move on to all the things that had been rattling around in our helmets for the past year.

We waited for our flight for a week with nothing to do.  The morning of our departure, the alarm was set to a different time zone causing us to scramble from our South America in a frightened pace, chewing our nails to the airport and sweating in the long line that stood between us and our ride home.

We squeezed onto our flight, all of them in fact by the skin of our teeth. On one, the guy had to check to see if the runway was still connected to the plane. In one way or another, whether our fault or not, we almost missed every flight we had from La Paz, Bolivia to Lima, Peru to San Salvador, El Salvador and finally to Los Angelas, California. It had taken us over a year to get down there and 13 stressed-out hours to get back...and of all places, to L.A.

However, our trip was not ending, only transitioning into a different form... and this time on our own turf and in our own language. Connecting with some wonderful friends in LA, we were very lucky to arrange a visit with a famous motorcycle builder, our hero, Shinya Kimura.

He invited us to visit his shop, and we were honored to ablige.  Above is the wheel to his 1917 Indian which he was working on and is in running condition for the upcoming Cannonball Run.  That bike will take him across the country in September.  Our utmost respect for Shinya's ideas and his work left us giddy with excitement as we weaved through LA traffic to get to his shop, Chabott Engineering. We were blown away by the kindness and humbleness of he and his partner, struck silent by the artistry of his shop, and left punchdrunk by the quiet power of his craftsmanship and handbuilt bikes.  Meeting these two was a pleasure and a highlight.  Please visit his site at www.chabottengineering.com.  You will be doing yourself a favor.

There are so many things yet to come. We may be broke and having to start again into this crazy North American life, but we will be hitting the ground running. With fresh ideas and renewed courage from the insights, inspirations, and friends, our lust for travel, especially on motorbikes, will forward us into even more terrible two wheeled ideas.  Stay tuned, you might like it.

to be contined...

Uyuni Salt Flats, Bolivia

After days and days of freezing rain and torential hail storms freezing us to the bone, the sky opened up and gave us a sun we had long forgotten.  It was the day we entered Uyuni.

A bird flew into Mike's spokes leaving some of itself.

The entrance into the town of Uyuni was a joy in the blazing sun.  It was a gift for pushing through and reaching our last destination.

Rolling into town was surreal.  Knowing we had reached an end brought mixed feelings trumped by deep feelings of pride.

We taped a handmade sign onto our motos announcing that they were for sale for $200 each.  A lady bought them within 5 minutes with the stipulation that we were going to ride the salt flats.  All the locals cringed when they heard this, saying that we had "given" them away.  This is the road to the flats from the town of Uyuni.

Finding the salt

  We got to the edge of the flats and found it to be flooded.  Many motorcycle travelers skipped this place.  They made a huge mistake.  With everything we owned strapped to the bike, we rolled up our pant legs and eased into the salty water.  Mike went first.  We sunk half way to our crankcases and prayed that we would not stall.  We made it past the dip and rose to the consistant 6 inches or so that continued into a reflecting blue eternity.

We laughed for hours in total disbelief, for this place is beyond the imagination.  The human eye, nor the brain, can handle the spectical.

The clouded blue sky disappears into the reflection of itself and swallows you whole.  The image is randomly broken, yet enhanced, by flocks of pink flamingos flying in formation until they too disappear into the vastness.   I've never before known where on the planet flamingos live...its here.

A faint trail lingers in the wake of the bike.

Islands jutting out of the flatness add perspective, yet confuse it.

Victory!!

1974 Honda XL250

Salt is harvested from the these flats.  Piles sit at random like ice upon a calm arctic sea.

The slat is hard as a rock

1974 Honda XL350

Salt was everywhere, it covered our legs like we were wearing a cast.

  

Salt Pile

Somewhere in the middle of the flats stands a salt hotel.  We rode at least 2km out and were told by a passing tour guide that we still had another hour to ride before we would reach it.  Riding all the way across it, Chile and Argentina lay in wait.  We stood and faced an eternity laughing, knowing we tried our best. 

We definitely won...

...and then turned around.

Building made of salt blocks.

We said our farewells to the long road at the shores of the end of our worlds.  Satnding there were 4 Chileans whom had walked the 25km from town.  We gave the two girls a ride back.  It was the last ride on this XLint adventure, through the sunset.

Before turning our bikes over to their new owner, we gave them their first bath.  They were encased in a salted crust.  The guy that washed Mike's bike wore Mike's helmet the whole time, for about 45 minutes...we're not sure why.

Their new home, a new place to leak oil.

The next day, the reality hit us that we no longer had our somewhat trusty friends with us.  It was very disorienting.  In the fading sun, we walked to Uyuni's train cemetary.

Later, we caught our first bus to the capital city of La Paz to bumb around for a week till the day of our flight.  We quickly realized the freedom we had with our bikes as we bounced down the long dirt road through the dark night.  The trip could no longer be the same.  The motorcycles had taken us far from the reaches of a common journey and placed us in the hands of the gods of adventure and the mercy of the random.  They had opened up the doors to all the places inbetween that to most are just a passing blur through the window of a big metal box.  Without seperation, we faced all that there was for us to encounter.  Exposed and vulnerable, open and accepting, we found the dream that hides under all the layers of our secret fears and noblest ideas.

We have moved on from that moment of the fading sunset from atop a dying train.  We have found color and life, people and their work, and thoughts of our next steps.  There is a lot more to come.  We have found courage throughout these hapless wanderings and found the strength that comes from an idea coming to fruition.  There is not much one cannot accomplish. 

Stay with us as we move on to the next adventures.  I promise, this trip is not the last thing up our sleeves!