Costa Mesa Bigfoot

By Keith May
(Originally appeared in OC Weekly) 


“Does it take everyone this long to get into a Bigfoot costume before robbing a bank?,” my friend Jeff Beals joked as he prepared to surprise Big Gulpers at the 7-Eleven on the corner of Placentia and Nineteenth. But we weren’t there to rob the joint, Jeff was simply going to pose at the pay-phone and with day laborers tossing quarters. And ride a nearby kiddie-ride for flamboyant effect before heading to a few other locations before calling it a night. “I’ve been psyching myself up all day,” Jeff admitted. But when we walked into an indoor volleyball game, all eyes turned to the man in fur and we sheepishly walked back out. The limits of our bravery had been reached.

“What’s my motivation,?” Jeff often asked while trying to get into character. “You’re a Costa Mesa Bigfoot,” I’d respond.

And what’s my motivation for staging these Bigfoot sightings, you ask? Honestly, I have yet to find a reasonable answer. As a photojournalist, I do prefer working on things in the larger context of a series. Like riding a motorcycle across the country in search of Americana. Like traveling through California in search of working dogs. Like exploring the Mississippi Delta in search of Robert Johnson. Like exploring coastal beachtowns on a vintage dirtbike. And apparently, like staging Bigfoot sightings in Orange County.

I wouldn’t consider myself a Bigfoot-fanatic, but I was influenced by the broadcast of Leonard Nimoy’s “In Search of…” television series, which featured the big ape in 1977. For a puny kid who’s favorite book was Where The Wild Things Are and who related most to outcasts like Casper and Ziggy, the idea of this ultimate outsider hiding from his slightly evolved cousin stirred deep sympathy. I wanted to believe Native Americans still existed, too.

“Some anthropologists believe that the creature could have come to the Northwestern United States along with the Indians, across a land bridge that once connected Siberia to Alaska,” Nimoy offered. “Many people feel they must kill it to prove it exists,” he warned. “Bigfoot may well be waiting for some sign that we are ready,” he concluded.

Thirty years later, I was riding a Yamaha FJR1300 through Redwood National Forest headed for California’s Lost Coast. My only companion, a ukulele bungeed onto the duffle-bag which served as a backrest. Leaning in to the endless, sweeping curves on a beautiful October afternoon, I entertained myself with notions of Bigfoot hiding among the forest surrounding me and whimsical rhymes began to flow. By the time I checked in to a cozy motel in Ferndale, “Ballad of Bigfoot” was complete. The ukulele came off the bike and a melody soon followed. In a Minor Key, of course.

On the ride back home, ideas for a Blair Witch-style video for the ballad came to mind. Possibly finding someone to dance around in the Bigfoot costume while I performed the song at open-mics as “Skeeter Jackson.” But when I finally got around to ordering a Bigfoot costume, I posted the following request on my Facebook instead…

"Who wants to help stage Bigfoot sightings by wearing a Bigfoot costume and when are you available to do so? Kamikazi-style. Quick and painless. There and gone. Thanks in advance for your cooperation."

Many are thrilled to wear the costume but some flatly decline. “When was the last time you washed that thing?” One friend commented. Mention the idea to friends (or strangers) and an avalanche of ideas follow. “Surfing!” “Getting a haircut!” “Getting (or giving) a massage!” “Having sex!” “ Walking a dog!” “Playing drums!” “Shopping at Wal-Mart!” “Driving a school bus!”

What have I begun?

 

Call (714) 403-3581 or email keithterrillmay@gmail.com

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Time Machine

By Keith May
(Originally appeared in Cycle World magazine) 


My Dad’s a truck driver and so was his Dad. And a few uncles, too. I'm not a truck driver, but I do enjoy haulin’ ass across the country.

As a child, I naively pictured the adventures Pop might be having on the road. Like B.J. and The Bear or Smokey and The Bandit. Infinite convoys of grizzled drivers, dropping freight and moving on. A brotherhood of mesh-capped warriors, communicating over the C.B., warning of traffic and county-mounties. Bucketing along the interstate, occasionally stealing a nap in the sleeper-cab, a big diesel purring steadily underneath.

Occasionally, Pop would take me along on local runs and I was in heaven, reading comic books, watching the world go by below us. Pop talking on the C.B. as though he knew everyone, exchanging colorful handles and “Ten-Four, Good Buddies.”

This was the rural South. The highway carving infinite swaths through Georgia’s blue-green mountains and red clay hillsides. Unchecked kudzu clinging to everything in sight. Boiled peanuts promised at every exit. Stuckey’s for pecan logs and moon-pies. Eventually, lunch at a quiet truck stop, conversation limited to weather (more rain) and the Atlanta Braves (this could be the year). Politics off-limits and religion never questioned. The bible-belt. The old South before it was new.

Twenty years later, it was again my destination. But this time, on a faithful silver Harley.

Call (714) 403-3581 or email keithterrillmay@gmail.com

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Nano-Polish

By Keith May
(Originally appeared in Cycle World magazine) 


Nano-second, nano-byte, nano-this, nano-that. For those of you without an engineering degree, “nano” is short for one-billionth. One-billionth of a meter or 1/750,000 width of a human hair. But don’t call it “small-stuff,” nano technology has provided breakthroughs in water-purification, electronics, gene therapy, space exploration and everything else under the sun. For those of us polishing wheels and engine cases, Eagle One’s nano-polish provides deeper penetration and coverage than anything you may be used to. Carnauba Wax? That’s so last century.

Removing grime and tarnish isn’t rocket-science and all metal polishes perform as claimed with enough elbow-grease. Yet all of us have a favorite brand we turn to sub-consciously. Whatever Dad used. Or a favorite Uncle. Perhaps you’re a connisseur of fine cleaners and polishes. Hording for the apocalypse (or winter), an entire shelf dedicated to their display. Either way, you may consider making room on that shelf for a 5 oz. can of Nano. If you find something that works better, write us a letter.

Creamy blue Eagle One Nano Polish glides smoothly over metal surfaces penetrating deep into abrasions revealing a brilliant shine requiring no additional protectants. Sound like ad-copy? It’s not, but it’s all true. Showroom shiny not shiny enough? Final touch on a restoration? Each application of Nano improves on perfection. Previously tarnished hardware becomes hypnotically reflective. It’s hard not to stare in amazement.

The evolution of metal polish continues, but it’s hard to imagine where it goes from here.

Keith's Little Honda (Part 3)

By Keith May
(Originally appeared in Cycle World magazine)  
 

A gleaming white tank dangling in the shadows of a photo taken at Brown’s Cycles in Paso Robles (Eureka or Bust) inspires a weekend on Highway 101. The tank will hopefully improve the resale value of a certain ’89 XT600 while providing a sense of completion never gotten around to. “You can have Friday off if I get a Blog out of it,” the Boss warned. “And I’m not paying for a room this time.” Fine. Somewhere along the coast was a fire-pit with my name on it.

But first the tedious escape from the ominous catacombs of L.A. County. “Gas prices soar… Iran wants nukes… War goes on… Ozone depleted.” NPR blares through traffic. Two hours later, when Santa Maria’s 99.1 greets me with Rush’s Tom Sawyer, my smile broadens for the drive through central California.

“Twenty dollars a night,” the pretty Ranger answers at Pismo State Park. “Two nights please.” I respond with no hesitation. Off the Ford comes the Honda and off we go in search of chowder. Hustlers, One-percenters, unemployed and newly retired crowd the claustrophobic sidewalks down Pismo’s Main Street. Another dirty beach town littered with tattoo parlors, taco stands and surf shops. Ah, feels just like home.

Back at camp, I meet the neighbors. A real humanitarian, Shaggy’s big dream is scoring a license to sell medicinal pot. Until then, his girlfriend Gabby (the quiet one) and their friend Andy, a malnourished Goth are looking for jobs and a cheap apartment. Around their fire, topics range from Yellowstone’s inevitable eruption to neo-Nazism to other dim world views. With nothing to add, I return to my nylon blue domicile glowing like a candle in the blackness of night. Eucalyptus filters the gusty ocean breeze, the ground is soft under my bag and I fall peacefully to sleep while dreaming up big plans for tomorrow.

The sun rises at my feet as nature greets the day in a symphonic crescendo. A swift kick wakes the Honda and we storm Grover Beach trying to stay upright in the silty drifts. After setting up a few photos in the sweet morning light, the Honda’s back in the Ranger on the 101 to Paso Robles. Closing soon for racing, I have to get to Brown’s early.

David sets me up with the tank and off comes the XL for local exploration but only yards from the shop “Snap” goes the throttle. Back at the counter, David is sympathetic but realistic. No cable in stock and no XLs on the lot. Same response at Miller’s Honda down the highway. Only slightly disappointed I return to the beach and explore the dunes like an avatar in Second Life. Piecing together some kind of web-story to satisfy the boss.

Keith's Little Honda (Part 2)

 By Keith May
(Originally appeared in Cycle World magazine) 


Trust: assured reliance, a person or thing in which confidence is placed.

Trust established and camera in backpack, the XL 250 and I head north Sunday morning on Highway One in search of coastal backdrops. Newport Beach. Huntington Beach. Sunset Beach. Seal Beach. Speedo reads seven-zero through wetlands of Bolsa Chica, but vibrations rattling my vision convince me to slow down. Dodging blind intersections and distracted commuters, the confident bite of a disc brake is sorely missed. Boy-racers curiously shadow us before disappearing into the distance. The Honda’s silhouette an icon for childhoods revisited, she continuously receives nods from sporties and cruisers alike.

When an errant fuel-hose forces a stop on the shoulder, an old landscaper approaches curiously. “Nice bike. Ever get it dirty? Used to ride one myself but not an Enduro. I would of broke the lights off,” he reflected, pushing his wheelbarrow away. He was probably my age when this bike was new. Things were a lot different in 1972.

“Maybe you should start a club,” Editor Edwards mused when the letters began rolling in: “It’s good to know I’m not the only one who likes simple, fun, practical, good old bikes from yesterday…” “Everything you discovered is true, it’s a simple, reliable, inexpensive bike to own and a ton of fun...” “The Honda 250 Motosport will always be a special bike in my book. The styling still looks good today. I call it a classic.”

I began convincing myself the Honda was a collector’s item, so dreaming of possibilities, we visited Boris at California Cycle and Watercraft Design for a paint-estimate. “If you’re looking to get your money back, you won’t,” he said plainly. A well-regarded craftsman, Boris comes highly recommended. “It’s a good-looking bike though. Nice commuter?” “Solid. No complaints. Starts every time.” “I can do it for nine hundred, but personally, I’d leave it alone.” His opinion follows local consensus: “Fine as is…” “I like the patina…” “Looks like a survivor…” “You’d be painting over its history…” “Would only shine a light on other flaws...” “That bike makes me smile.”

So, paint-job or leave it alone? Have an old XL yourself? Send me photos. Maybe I’ll start a club after all.

Keith's Little Honda (Part 1)

By Keith May
(Originally appeared in Cycle World magazine)

How many old bikes have been left to rot for nothing more offensive than rust, leaks or stripped splines on a kick-shaft or lever? Sure we live in a wasteful, consumer-driven society that demands we replace scratched toys with shiny new ones, but this is also an information-age where OEM, salvaged or aftermarket parts are only a phone call or mouse-click away. And it appears the abundance has created a buyers’ market, so keeping less-than-perfect bikes on the road and out of a land-fill has never been easier. Especially for popular models like the XL pictured above. Breathing life into a discarded bike is hard work, but a fun adventure. Just ask me.

Not everyone can spend ten thousand dollars on a new bike. Or even ten hundred. Not everyone needs to go 200 mph. Or even 100. Some of us enjoy simpler things. Like old dirtbikes that happen to be street-legal, too.

“Someone's coming to look at the bike but it would be easier to sell if it were actually running,” a friend of mine said over the phone. “Can you come over and try to push-start it?”

“Sounds like fun. I'll be right over.”

Said friend was relocating to Monterey with her new husband and the non-running 1973 Honda XL250 Motosport had become a liability. Its only problem was a stripped kickstart shaft and lever but the repair had become a lesser priority since she became an “honest woman.”

The XL failed to start, but the bike began to grow on me. The size of this little charmer was perfect for a plan I'd had in mind for years—a “Plan B,” if you will. There's much to be said for having an exit-strategy and mine is riding off into the sunset like a 21st-century Dharma Bum. No strings, no bills, no schedules. Working odd jobs, jamming at open mikes, sleeping under the stars. Cash? Check. Gear? Check. Ukulele? Check. Crazy? You bet. The only item missing was that street-legal dirtbike.

Until now.

Cycle World magazine’s review of the XL 250 in April of 1972 provided inspiration for the work ahead. “The best off-road bike Honda has ever produced for sale to the public.” “Astonishing.” “Quiet.” “Sophisticated.” “Outstanding.” “Minimal vibration.” “Easy to start.” “Excellent gear spacing.” “Long wheelbase.” “Low center of gravity.” “Damping right on.” “Fine handling.” “80mph.” “An instant best-seller.” The XL also surprised everyone by dominating its class that same year in Baja. There’s a reason why Honda established such a strong hold in the U.S. bike market. Their machines have consistently proven to be practically bulletproof. Just gas and go. Follow the leader, he’s on a Honda.

Shaft and lever were delivered from APF Motorcycle Salvage (.com) for $120. Complete Hap Jones gasket set via ebay for only $20. Removal of a circlip on clutch allowed enough play to free the faulty kick-shaft and repair also provided the opportunity to polish engine cases, sanitize the Stator and shower all moving parts with WD-40. A swift kick easily brought the Honda to life. Noodling with carb corrected minor hiccups and all appeared sound on local shake-down runs. Starting first-kick hot or cold.

To celebrate, I meticulously repainted the blacked-out Motosport badge on the exhaust heat-shield to match the original colors. All that finger-painting finally paid off. Possibilities began dancing in my head. Baja? Four Corners? The video store? Unlike my Yamaha XT600, regardless of engine temperature or alignment of planets, the XL is ready to go when I am. No leaks, no smoke, no excuses.

You never know when you might need an exit strategy.