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Sharkbait's at it again

You might have thought that an old guy would know better, but NO. Apparently, the Shark subscribes to the 'more is better' school of thought. If 12 volts is good, then 24 must be better, and 240 volts AC will really "Make her spin"! The Mate now has new switchboxes, trigger, stator, regulator, selonoid, enrichener, coils, and engine alarm unit. The next step is a new radio and booster. Somehow, the tach, fuel gauge, and hour meter thankfully escaped damage. I'm thinkin about hookin him up to 240 volts and seein how well he spins...
 
Jimway said:
You might have thought that an old guy would know better, but NO. Apparently, the Shark subscribes to the 'more is better' school of thought. If 12 volts is good, then 24 must be better, and 240 volts AC will really "Make her spin"! The Mate now has new switchboxes, trigger, stator, regulator, selonoid, enrichener, coils, and engine alarm unit. The next step is a new radio and booster. Somehow, the tach, fuel gauge, and hour meter thankfully escaped damage. I'm thinkin about hookin him up to 240 volts and seein how well he spins...
Click to expand...
Its only a shock if you dont know what to expect!:poke:
 
Now usually, when you repel down the tree on your own rope that is long enough to reach the ground, you push off from the treetop and whiz down the trunk a ways until Mr Gravity pulls you back up against the tree trunk. You hit the trunk with your feet and push off again and so on , down the length of the tree until you reach ground level where you hopefully decelerate before comming into contact with the ground. You can control your rate of decent( an important consideration) by playing the rope through the hardware on your harness. A prudent faller will send his valuable saw down to his groundman before the repel, or will pull up just short of the saw hitting the ground so that his expert ground man will grab the saw and unhook it from its lanyard. Once on the ground, the prudent faller will make a notch perpendicular to where he wishes to have his tree fall in said trees trunk, followed rather quickly by a falling cut that goes most of the way through the trunk from directly behind the notch. the small amount of uncut tree trunk that is left, is used as a hinge to control the direction of the fall, on a good day anyway. If the tree has other ideas, it may try to fall in any direction other than that which the prudent faller has selected. When this happens(you may have noticed I said when, not if...), the prudent faller will have in his possesion, a selection of 'wedges' to pound into the cut to convince the tree to fall correctly, and without vengence upon expensive stuff. It may go without saying that the prudent faller will have a 'pounder' of some sort in his possesion also, as using your expensive custom falling saw to pound wedges into the tree trunk is universally considered to be 'Bad Form'. Usuing someone elses saw to pound with, can and will result in damage to ones self, in addition to the saw. The Shark, as is his way, sought to make a display of his trip down the tree's trunk. He pushed off at the top and hurtled down the trunk. the short rope end whipped out into the air and curled upward. As the Shark neared the ground, he sought to grab up some tension on the rope and decelerate to a stop right at ground level. The Shark's snaggletoothed grin and gaze, was attached to me , and not the short rope. I might mention here that whenever one repels from a tree, Mr Gravity, Mr ground, and Mr Death become keenly interested just as you push off from the tree, and will try thier best to inflict bad stuff upon you as you float toward the ground. As the Shark put the brakes on, the end of the rope that was curled up into the air, snapped down upon his pointed head and quickly removed his hard hat. The look upon his face was priceless. The look upon his face as the rope dissappeared from his grip was even more so. The loud whump, and following silence as the Shark came into rapid contact with Mr. Grounds embrace was uncomfortable. As the rope snapped him in the head, it also oriented the Shark face down toward the ground. A swift jab from Mr Ground, emptied old Sharks diaphram as he hit the ground. Several uncomfortable moments passed as the Shark tried to get a mouthful of air. During this time, the Sharks rotten blue eyes looked up with a blank stare from his gastly pale face. Shortly, the color began to return to his face as he began to gasp air back into his lungs. As his eyes began to focus, I said to him, "Maybe you could take your break against that tree over there, so's I can cut this one here down". "Mebe you could hep me up?" said the Shark with disdain. "No thank you" was my reply. As the groundmen stepped forward to help the Shark to his shakey feet, he described me with several adjectives, most of which I've heard before, a couple of them might even be true.
 
My groundman stepped forward with the falling saw, already warmed up. 48 inches of bar was sticking out from the powerhead, not quite enough to get half way through this giant. The Sharks eyes narrowed at me and he was uncharacteristically quiet as he was still gasping for breath and holding his hand to his chest. To put on a show for the groundmen, I revved the saw as my groundman checked rpm and exhaust temp with this cool little hand held tool. The Sharks groundmen fell silent and just looked on. The Shark shook his head back and forth and looked at the ground with disgust and said "He's jist showin off". I stood at the base of the giant and looked up. Sure enough, it was leaning toward the cabin. I kneeled down and sighted across the yard. The homeowner suggested caution. I replyed that "Shoot, there's a first time for everything. Usually I only get to cut em into small peices. First time I've tried to land one whole, hopefully we'll miss most of your place though." The homeowner seemed even more pale and nervous than ever before. I could just get the saw into the trunk on the cabin side and made a cut. The saw, a ported, polished, massaged, modified masterpiece, happily ate its way through the trunk and emmitted a plume of chips and shavings. I moved to the opposite side of the trunk and made the second cut even with the first. Had to make three more cuts across the bottom just to get the wedge out. Had to make cuts on either side of the back and drove in some wedges to control the lean. "You shore this is gonna work?" asked the Shark as he looked on nervously. "It'll be fine" I said. "B'sides, a first class carpenter like you can fix any smashed up parts of the place when I miss" I added. "WHAT?" said the homeowner loudly. I waved my arm from front to back and said "Everybody back." I began the last cut, removing material carefully and stopping to drive in the wedges every so often. I would pull the saw out and say "uh oh," and hit the wedges a few blows, and then go back to cutting. As the cut began to grow wider, signaling the start of the trees fall, I shut off the saw and stepped back. Slowly, the giant began to lean in the right direction. Feeling confident, I looked at the homeowners pale face and said "Oh no." Her mouth fell open but no words came out as her mouth moved. As the giant began to fall more quickly, I said to the terrified homeowner, "You forgot to say 'Timber'." The tree crashed to the ground. I stepped over to old Shark and said "Lookee there, missed the cabin and hit the stake. I guess somebody needs to go to the store cause I'm mighty thirsty, how's about you guys?" The groundsmen, who are almost always thirsty, agreed with me. "Fust of all, you din't hit ta stake dead on so's thet dont count none." " Second off, twarent nothin but dum luck thet you didnt crash tha cabin." "Thirdly, I'm really startin ta not like you" said the Shark to me. I smiled.
 
jimway1
Well, this is agravating, it's the dreaded red X where there is supposed to be a picture to go with the story, (insert bad word here and throw up hands in disgust!)
 
I would have liked to share a couple of pictures of the tree cutting expedition but cannot seem to make that happen. I do feel like gathering up the computer and breaking it's back across my knee before throwing it down and grinding it into the ground with my right shoulder similarly to how a 500 pound linebacker might treat his unfavorite Quarterback...
 
Shark at the bottom?

This just might be a new installment in the life and times of the Shark, that rotton old acquaintence of mine. Rumours are rampant this very morning, that the Shark is the owner of a submarine and is about to undertake (perhaps a fitting description) sea trials. I must say that I'm very doubtful concerning this present rumour and suspect that a prank has been fired off in my direction. I do feel that the old Playmate would make a great 'Destroyer', and I'm wondering if the Surplus Store has any WW 2 depth charge launching equipment laying around out back. If I can keep my vessel running on all six cylinders, I don't think I'll have any trouble with torpeedoes, but you never know. The time might be ripe for a covert, late night foray across enemy lines, for a little inteligence gathering operation. I'm going to have to dig deep into the 'Bag of Tricks' to escape Mrs. Jims direct observation, and also to penetrate the Sharks lair without being seen.
 
I'm having a great deal of trouble believing that the SharkKapitan could possibly come up with a workable submerseable, let alone operate it. When I let him use my boat, he screwed it up royally in no time at all. I am finding it easy to believe that the old rascal is planning to prank me. I must be on my game when I materialize out of nowhere in his neck of the woods. You might remember that the Sheriff up there in Sharksville views me with suspiciousness. An informant, in town, has glimpsed some kind of craft behind the Sharks old Ford pickup. He says it is about the length of the truck, and maybe four feet tall but was mostly covered up. Says it was yellow colored (I know..). I have gone to Defcon 3, and am keeping my eyes peeled. I have requested photographic evidence from my informant, but if I get such evidence, I'll probably need some help posting it, as I'm having trouble with that aspect. Trouble is, the informant has a low tolerance to alcohol, and just might be a double spy, so I have to be careful, let alone skulk out of view of Mrs. Jim for awhile. I've got a scouting mission set up, just to test the perimeter to see what might be out there. I'm thinkin that the best defense is gonna be a good offense, and maybe offens-ive too...
 
Hey Jim, havnt heard much out of the cadaver {Ace} lately, Just
wonderin if hes doing ok or still alive or what seems like the old
Sharkster would be lost with out him. (Love this stuff man.)
 
As I sit here typing this one, I am sad. I guess I knew time is sneaking up on all of us, but I thought I was doing pretty good still, anyway, on to the story. The game is a-foot , as they say. My suspicions have been confirmed. I ran a little test on my informant in Sharksville. He is indeed a double agent. Instead of sneaking in during the late night hours, I made a flanking move and went in during daylight, with backup. I let my informant know that I was comming that way, but We were already there, having a sandwich on a hill above town with field glasses to survey the small town happenings below us. The Sherrif was down to the west end of town in no time, hidding in the trees. I smiled to myself, at my ingenuity. They were all looking for a little Ranger pickup, not for two guys on motorcycles comming into town from the east side. It was a nice day for a ride, and I hadn't been on two wheels for a while. The sun was out and it was even close to 60 degrees in the afternoon. This Buddy of mine, a guy I call Speed, has been interested in joining in on a covert operation for a while, so I asked him along on this one. We were riding some old bikes from the seventies. Speed was born with the knack for going fast. Not only can he ride fast, he is also adept at driving, thinking, walking, and running fast, to name a few. Proudly, I have shared some secrets with him over the years, in respect with things fast. We have worked up some two wheeled fury, and were able to implement some of this fury on this fact finding trip. Both of the bikes that we were on are actually several bikes bolted together in no particular order. An engine here, a heavily modified frame or three there, a swingarm from back there and a set of forks from somewhere up there, and you more or less get the picture, maybe not pretty at that. Things were quiet at the sharks place. There was no evidence of under water vehicles anywhere on his place. There was no evidence of old Shark, or Ace for that matter, and I for one kept looking about uneasily all day for the Shark might just pop up from behind any old rock, tree, or hole in the ground...
 
So Speed and I finish our lunch and drive, or should I say, ride, down to the convienience/gas store, as the old rat bikes we are riding are thirsty, when it comes to fuel. I keep my helmet on to keep my identity hidden. At the pumps, our old bikes attract the attention of a group of riders on their fancy shiney superbikes. They are attired in new color matching riding outfits. Speed is wearing his fancy riding outfit. I am wearing a set of ancient nearly white racing leathers festooned with all kinds of sponsorship patches from way back in the day. The leathers show signs of off track excursions and carry scars on the knee pads from being drug during cornering. I saunter out and flip out the kick start lever, for this bike never had an electric start option, and I rear up, and give the lever a brutal stab. 750 cc's of three cylinder, two stroke fury, announce to the surrounding group, through a tuned set of expansion chambers, that you have just met Dirty, Wicked, Mean and Nasty. Speed's weapon of choice is a few years newer than mine and has a magic button ( Electric starter ). His is also a two stroke tripple with all of the speed goodies, but he rides a Suzuki, and it happens to be water cooled versus my old fashioned air cooling. Speed lights up the Kettle ( an old nickname for the Suzi ) with intent to drive. The bikes have a unique sound, even more so through the multiple tuned pipes, even more so for an all out race tuned engine. Speed and I slowly exit the station onto the road that leads out of town. The Superbike riders practically run toward their bikes to follow. Oversize carburators hiss as we slowly accelerate toward 35 mph. The engines stumble and surge and complain at low rpm. After a few blocks, the speed limit rises to 45 mph. There is very little traffic to speak of. I glance in the right rear view mirror and see headlights just pulling out of the convienience store. The speed limit raises to 55 mph. Speed and I growl along at 60 mph. He is at my right, with his visor on his full coverage helmet open. Through my open visor, I say to Speed, " Class is now in session, Grasshopper, now watch Old Dad". Speed lifts his chin up about an inch and quickly lowers it again, in the affirmative. I look into his eyes, and it is like looking into the eyes of a fighter pilot who is fixated on his target. Speed drops two gears and lofts the front wheel of his machine as he accelerates and then applies the big disc brakes to generate some heat. I drop a gear and apply the front and rear brakes as I roll up to 70 mph. The road rolls left and speed falls back in to my right. The superbikes are cautiously coming up from the rear. The road rolls right and straightens up for about a mile. I drop another gear and roll on the throttle. The rpms begin to build, the engine is cleared out and ready for combat. I twist the short throw throttle to the stop, the tach jumps to the redline and I lift the shift lever with my left toes. Third and forth gear quickly pass, so does about a mile. In the rear view, Speed's front end lofts at the same time as mine and he hardly changes the distance at which he is behind me, almost like we are attached.
 
The road gradually sweeps to the right as we put some pressure on the front forks under braking from around 120 or so. We become a little airborne on a rise just before crossing a bridge. We are down to second gear and around 70 mph as we lean left after the bridge. My left knee brushes the asphalt just before I twist on the throttle. The front wheel comes up from the pavement as the power comes in. Third gear brings similar results. Hit forth gear and tuck your legs and elbows into the bike and put your chin down on the tank. Fifth gear and the bike is pulling like a freight train right up to redline. Probably see 163 to 165. The motor howls as all three carbs are completely open. Up ahead, is a few nice slower corners, and then a good stretch of straightaway, and then a hairpin curve we call Franks Gultch in honor of a guy who applied a good coating of gravel rash to his hide when he tried to go around the corner at around 60 mph, it is posted at 10 mph. At these speeds, sitting back up on the seat can almost pull you off the bike as the slip stream hits you. You can also stick your knee out into the passing air to help slow down too. Brake too soon and the guy that is really good at hitting the brakes at the last second will blow right by like you are in reverse. Hit the brakes a split second too late and find yourself in bruises, contusions, and broken bones. As I grab all of the front brakes that I can, the front forks practically bottom out. Speed rolls up even with me on my right. I think I detect a little air under his rear wheel under braking,, he is that good. We sit up at the same time. We stick out our right knees at the same time. The bikes fishtail back and forth since alot of weight is transfered to the front wheel under maximum braking. We downshift while simultaneously blipping the throttles in stereo. Inches seperate us as we lean into the corner. I'm back on the throttle while still braking, and that is the only reason that I get through the corner with a nose ahead. Speed drops back but passes me on the inside of the next corner as we drop below 70 or so. He makes it look easy as he dances over the edge of control for a split second. Through the next corner, He slams the door shut by cutting across my path. I smile. Before us is a nice peice of straightaway. Second, third, forth, and fifth gears come and go. We tuck in to the bikes. Speed drops his left hand from the clip on hand grip bars and reaches down to grasp it around the left fork tube to make his body as aerodynamic as possible. The anchient Kawasaki is able to generate a few more ponies than the old Suzuki, and I inch slowly forward over the course of a couple of miles.
 
On the straight, we are both tucked in and wide open. One of the superbikes is incredibly fast and gains steadily on us. In the middle of the straight he is abreast of us and then steadily pulling past. The machines are at full song and the superbike must be seeing close to 175 as he walks past us. It is very impressive. Franks gultch comes into view. The superbike owner begins to slow down. We rocket right by, still wide open, each looking for an edge. Speed looks over at me and shrugs his shoulders. We roll off the throttles, and come out of the tuck. We grab great gobs of brake and begin downshifting, blipping the throttle between gears. The bikes fishtail this way and that. We stick out our right knees and hang over the right side of the bikes in preperation for dragging our knees into the first part of the curve. Speed taps into the rear tire of my bike. He has used me to help slow down enough that he can just get inside me on the first side of the corner. I smile to myself. He has tried this tactic before but it leaves himself positioned on the outside of the remainder of the corner, making it a longer path around the radius. The entrance of Franks Gultch is a downhill right that then hairpins to the left. You drag your right knee and then, fast as a blur, you hang over the left side of the bike as you come all the way down to first gear and throw the bike left with everything you've got. On the bike that I am riding, all of the shift pattern is made by lifting up on the shift lever, which extends from each side of the engine so that one may mount the shifter on either side of the machine. If you forget which gear you are in in the heat of the moment, and stab down one too many times on the shifter as you enter one of the tightest corners around, you can easily find yourself in neutral when you need lots of power in first gear to keep from flying into Franks Gultch, and renaming it Jim's Gultch. As we lean into the hairpin, Speed reaches out with a gloved left hand and grabs the frame under the tank of my bike. In this way, he is able to hold on to the corner and begin to accelerate sooner. I barely feel a pull to the outside, and am astounded. He pulls himself ahead into the next corner approach. I follow and watch for a chance to pass but find none as Speed slams the door on a chance to pass. A few turns and then a sprint toward where an old logging trestle used to cross the road. In a sport where riders talk of mere tenths of a second, I am a full bike length behind Speed as he passes the spot where the trestle used to be. He takes his left hand from the handlebars and makes a fist and pumps it once close to his chest. We slow to the posted limit. Speed pulls in close and yells "The Force is strong within me" while he points upward with his left index finger. We laugh at ourselves as we lope along. "My Student become Teacher" I yell back and pat him on the shoulder. A Father and Son share a moment in time. Speed holds up his left hand in a fist and I bump my fist into his. He then tries to reach for the ignition switch of my bike, in the ensuing tangle, he misses the switch but I end up with the glove from his left hand. I smile to myself as I dangle the glove in the air.
 
Did I drop the glove onto the road there or did I give it back, or did I stuff it into my coat so that someone had a rather cold left hand by the time we returned back to the garage?
 
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