bobhamlin
12-24-2011, 12:55 PM
On yesterday's ride home, I was thinking was a great bike this has been, and from such humble beginnings. For those who missed the original from my winter 2008 adventure.
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I knew the Nomad would require a physical NY state theft inspection for a clear salvage title. I live in MD. What I didn’t anticipate was the "ready for the road" requirement. Failing a MD inspection is trivial. I just lose another couple hours for the re-inspection. Failing the NY inspection would be a MAJOR inconvenience—a day of work, lots of gas, etc. I even pondered the line that separates a "consideration" to overlook a problem from bribery that results in handcuffs.
My worst case scenario was that the inspection would take place in NY’s snow-prone months. Guess what?
If scheduling the inspection foreshadowed the inspection itself, I was in trouble. NY DMV title information has one telephone number and no holding queue. Want to know what a "busy signal" sounds like? Call that number.
I eventually scheduled my appointment for early morning in Binghamton NY, booked off work and then noticed the weather forecast: SNOW on the return. I have a 4wd SUV, a utility trailer, and have hauled motorcycles—but never through snow through the Poconos.
Intending to leave at 3:30am, I woke around 2, knew I wasn't getting back to sleep, dressed, left, drove for about an hour, then stopped to check the straps. I had hooked the front straps from the top of the engine guard, over the handlebars and down to the trailer (I didn't have the windshield on). They practically "twanged." I congratulated myself.
On pure luck (it was dark out), I noticed that windshield bracket was cutting the right side strap! I had no replacement strap and, between Gettysburg and Harrisburg PA at 3am, little chance of finding any meaningful stores open.
I padded the offending bracket and drove. Dark, unfamiliar highway, radio reports of east-bound snow that had crippled Chicago and Detroit, and a strap that could snap at anytime keeps one awake.
I arrived at the DMV address at 6:30, but the gate was locked and the small sign read "Environmental Protection." (Strange!) I continued to Binghamton for breakfast, hoping to pass a Walmart, AutoZone, etc. for a replacement strap. No luck. I gassed up and returned to the address of the alleged DMV.
A guy in a pickup truck noticed my "lost" look, told me I was at the right place (DMV shares a garage there), that I'd have to remove the bike from the trailer (I had hoped NY was different than MD), and put it "in line." He offered to help, but I declined--initially.
As I unstrapped the bike, I noticed my front tire was flat(ish), and reconsidered Les' offer for help. After the Nomad was in line, Les invited me to sit in his truck to wait. He was an excellent story-teller and regaled me with stories about the salvage aspect of the used-car business in Western NY and upper PA.
Les was particularly gifted with theft inspection horror stories involving people going away in cuffs, "non-receipted" parts being confiscated, inspections failing because of DMV clerical errors, etc. Some people had even tried to get their cars inspected with only primer!
By now, I was convinced that my flattish front tire was a death sentence. And, for a bike that has an original title description of "green and silver," I, with my BLACK and silver replacement front fender, could replace the primer paint scofflaw in Les' future stories.
On time, an inspector directed 4 vehicles and my bike into the garage. I opted for driving the bike into the garage rather than walking beside it, calculating that any damage I did to the tire was acceptable collateral damage IF I could pass the inspection and that driving reinforced the "ready for the road" aspect.
The inspector asked me to describe the work I had done, leave my receipts and go upstairs to wait with the other individuals, including Les. My cohorts were all in the same business, knew each other, and uniformly asserted the wait would be about 20 minutes.
Can you appreciate how long 20 minutes can be when there's probably a NY regulation against under-inflated Kaw Nomad tires? Or, that you didn't actually check to make sure you had a one-to-one receipt match for everything you replaced?
I kept watching the window, marveling that it had not started snowing yet. One of my 4 new friends--none of whom had a care in the world about what was going on downstairs--got a call from Scranton (about an hour south on the return). "It's snowing like hell" was the gist of the conversation.
I was so focused on conjuring potential inspection problems that the implications of “It’s snowing like hell” eluded me. And particularly that it came from someone living in snow country--as opposed to someone from occasional-snow country (like MD).
After a half hour, my new friends were antsy. Inspections didn't normally take this long. I had visions of my bike being dusted for prints and little red lights blinking at Homeland Security.
Suddenly, everyone went quiet. "Here they come." Only then did I hear the jackboots climbing the stairs. I braced for bad news. I would NOT cry.
Well, the best looking member of the world's greatest theft inspection team told us we could go and that our titles would come in the mail. As Les helped me put the Nomad back on trailer, it began to flurry. "Give it your best shot, Frosty," I thought, as occasional-snow country people foolishly do.
I made the best configuration of my 3 healthy and one compromisedtie-down straps as I could, jumped in and drove for about 200 yards. I stopped, got out, retrieved my tools off the trailer, climbed back in and continued on.
My preconceived image of the storm was a north/south squeegee-straight line closing from the west. The northern part of the storm line produced the snow that had crippled Detroit and Chicago. The southern portion was rain, and according to me, I was going to cross the freezing line somewhere north of Harrisburg before the snow had a chance to get bad! My euphoria from the successful inspection overshadowed the eyewitness report on Scranton's "snowing like hell" condition and muted radio reports shouting "6-12 inches!" What, me worry?
Scranton's eyewitness was correct. Traffic on I-81 slowed to a crawl. The only driving lanes became the tire marks of the preceding vehicles. Snow began compacting under the wipers (this is foreshadowing).
Some drivers thought if 20 mph was safe driving, 10 mph was twice as safe. Long up-hills proved troublesome to many cars and some 18 wheelers. I progressed south, slowly.
At one point, I broke free of traffic and felt safe at 45mph. Occasionally, to clear the ice accumulation on the wiper rubber (remember that foreshadowing?), I'd open the window, wait until I could reach the wiper blade, picked it off the window, let it slap down to loosen the accumulation, rolled the window back up, and waited for the next round.
My routine changed one time, and I lost my feeling of immortality for a while. When I reached for the wiper, all of a sudden my SUV was going forward at about a 45 degree angle. I checked the mirror and the trailer was going about 45 degrees opposite. Hmm. Interesting.
I was still by myself on the highway, so there was no proximate threat to/from other vehicles. I calmly (patting myself on the back) steered in the direction of the skid-- and proceeded south at about 40 degrees off center in the other direction, with the trailer and bike making a similar adjustment. This time, I wondered if the trailer was going to flip and actually thought--"It's ok, I got the salvage title cleared."
I corrected my undulating toboggan ride once again, resulting in an even less off-center ride. Eventually, I straightened out, looked around to see if anybody noticed, sat up straighter, was a lot more attentive, and continued my quest.
The next time I had to clear the windshield wiper, I noticed that my foot tended to wander to the brake. I must have inadvertently pressed the brake pedal--initiating my little thrill ride. I nixed that poor habit.
In Scranton, traffic came to a halt. Thinking I might have tapped enough good luck for one trip, I exited I-81, seeking to replace that defective strap. I found a Walmart, bought the strap, put it on, and re-entered I-81. I saw many more cars and 18 wheelers in the ditches.
I broke into the rain somewhere north of Harrisburg—just as I had predicted! But the bike was legal! I could now get it titled, painted, registered and on the road in MD.
Who needs to climb Mt. Everest? We can create our own little adventures.
--------
I knew the Nomad would require a physical NY state theft inspection for a clear salvage title. I live in MD. What I didn’t anticipate was the "ready for the road" requirement. Failing a MD inspection is trivial. I just lose another couple hours for the re-inspection. Failing the NY inspection would be a MAJOR inconvenience—a day of work, lots of gas, etc. I even pondered the line that separates a "consideration" to overlook a problem from bribery that results in handcuffs.
My worst case scenario was that the inspection would take place in NY’s snow-prone months. Guess what?
If scheduling the inspection foreshadowed the inspection itself, I was in trouble. NY DMV title information has one telephone number and no holding queue. Want to know what a "busy signal" sounds like? Call that number.
I eventually scheduled my appointment for early morning in Binghamton NY, booked off work and then noticed the weather forecast: SNOW on the return. I have a 4wd SUV, a utility trailer, and have hauled motorcycles—but never through snow through the Poconos.
Intending to leave at 3:30am, I woke around 2, knew I wasn't getting back to sleep, dressed, left, drove for about an hour, then stopped to check the straps. I had hooked the front straps from the top of the engine guard, over the handlebars and down to the trailer (I didn't have the windshield on). They practically "twanged." I congratulated myself.
On pure luck (it was dark out), I noticed that windshield bracket was cutting the right side strap! I had no replacement strap and, between Gettysburg and Harrisburg PA at 3am, little chance of finding any meaningful stores open.
I padded the offending bracket and drove. Dark, unfamiliar highway, radio reports of east-bound snow that had crippled Chicago and Detroit, and a strap that could snap at anytime keeps one awake.
I arrived at the DMV address at 6:30, but the gate was locked and the small sign read "Environmental Protection." (Strange!) I continued to Binghamton for breakfast, hoping to pass a Walmart, AutoZone, etc. for a replacement strap. No luck. I gassed up and returned to the address of the alleged DMV.
A guy in a pickup truck noticed my "lost" look, told me I was at the right place (DMV shares a garage there), that I'd have to remove the bike from the trailer (I had hoped NY was different than MD), and put it "in line." He offered to help, but I declined--initially.
As I unstrapped the bike, I noticed my front tire was flat(ish), and reconsidered Les' offer for help. After the Nomad was in line, Les invited me to sit in his truck to wait. He was an excellent story-teller and regaled me with stories about the salvage aspect of the used-car business in Western NY and upper PA.
Les was particularly gifted with theft inspection horror stories involving people going away in cuffs, "non-receipted" parts being confiscated, inspections failing because of DMV clerical errors, etc. Some people had even tried to get their cars inspected with only primer!
By now, I was convinced that my flattish front tire was a death sentence. And, for a bike that has an original title description of "green and silver," I, with my BLACK and silver replacement front fender, could replace the primer paint scofflaw in Les' future stories.
On time, an inspector directed 4 vehicles and my bike into the garage. I opted for driving the bike into the garage rather than walking beside it, calculating that any damage I did to the tire was acceptable collateral damage IF I could pass the inspection and that driving reinforced the "ready for the road" aspect.
The inspector asked me to describe the work I had done, leave my receipts and go upstairs to wait with the other individuals, including Les. My cohorts were all in the same business, knew each other, and uniformly asserted the wait would be about 20 minutes.
Can you appreciate how long 20 minutes can be when there's probably a NY regulation against under-inflated Kaw Nomad tires? Or, that you didn't actually check to make sure you had a one-to-one receipt match for everything you replaced?
I kept watching the window, marveling that it had not started snowing yet. One of my 4 new friends--none of whom had a care in the world about what was going on downstairs--got a call from Scranton (about an hour south on the return). "It's snowing like hell" was the gist of the conversation.
I was so focused on conjuring potential inspection problems that the implications of “It’s snowing like hell” eluded me. And particularly that it came from someone living in snow country--as opposed to someone from occasional-snow country (like MD).
After a half hour, my new friends were antsy. Inspections didn't normally take this long. I had visions of my bike being dusted for prints and little red lights blinking at Homeland Security.
Suddenly, everyone went quiet. "Here they come." Only then did I hear the jackboots climbing the stairs. I braced for bad news. I would NOT cry.
Well, the best looking member of the world's greatest theft inspection team told us we could go and that our titles would come in the mail. As Les helped me put the Nomad back on trailer, it began to flurry. "Give it your best shot, Frosty," I thought, as occasional-snow country people foolishly do.
I made the best configuration of my 3 healthy and one compromisedtie-down straps as I could, jumped in and drove for about 200 yards. I stopped, got out, retrieved my tools off the trailer, climbed back in and continued on.
My preconceived image of the storm was a north/south squeegee-straight line closing from the west. The northern part of the storm line produced the snow that had crippled Detroit and Chicago. The southern portion was rain, and according to me, I was going to cross the freezing line somewhere north of Harrisburg before the snow had a chance to get bad! My euphoria from the successful inspection overshadowed the eyewitness report on Scranton's "snowing like hell" condition and muted radio reports shouting "6-12 inches!" What, me worry?
Scranton's eyewitness was correct. Traffic on I-81 slowed to a crawl. The only driving lanes became the tire marks of the preceding vehicles. Snow began compacting under the wipers (this is foreshadowing).
Some drivers thought if 20 mph was safe driving, 10 mph was twice as safe. Long up-hills proved troublesome to many cars and some 18 wheelers. I progressed south, slowly.
At one point, I broke free of traffic and felt safe at 45mph. Occasionally, to clear the ice accumulation on the wiper rubber (remember that foreshadowing?), I'd open the window, wait until I could reach the wiper blade, picked it off the window, let it slap down to loosen the accumulation, rolled the window back up, and waited for the next round.
My routine changed one time, and I lost my feeling of immortality for a while. When I reached for the wiper, all of a sudden my SUV was going forward at about a 45 degree angle. I checked the mirror and the trailer was going about 45 degrees opposite. Hmm. Interesting.
I was still by myself on the highway, so there was no proximate threat to/from other vehicles. I calmly (patting myself on the back) steered in the direction of the skid-- and proceeded south at about 40 degrees off center in the other direction, with the trailer and bike making a similar adjustment. This time, I wondered if the trailer was going to flip and actually thought--"It's ok, I got the salvage title cleared."
I corrected my undulating toboggan ride once again, resulting in an even less off-center ride. Eventually, I straightened out, looked around to see if anybody noticed, sat up straighter, was a lot more attentive, and continued my quest.
The next time I had to clear the windshield wiper, I noticed that my foot tended to wander to the brake. I must have inadvertently pressed the brake pedal--initiating my little thrill ride. I nixed that poor habit.
In Scranton, traffic came to a halt. Thinking I might have tapped enough good luck for one trip, I exited I-81, seeking to replace that defective strap. I found a Walmart, bought the strap, put it on, and re-entered I-81. I saw many more cars and 18 wheelers in the ditches.
I broke into the rain somewhere north of Harrisburg—just as I had predicted! But the bike was legal! I could now get it titled, painted, registered and on the road in MD.
Who needs to climb Mt. Everest? We can create our own little adventures.