Don’t Ask: Rick Sieman Answers Your DirtBike Questions, July 2017

Well, go ahead, but if your question is stupid, you’ve been warned…

If you choose to email a question to this forum, then you must conduct yourself accordingly. Therefore, the following rules are in order:

1. Do not write your email to me IN CAPS. If you do so, I will print out your question and do terrible things to it.

2. Do not request a personal e-mail response. Since I get thousands of questions each month, trying to answer them all would cut deeply into my leisure time, which I value more than your current state of confusion.

3. Try to spell at least in a semi-correct fashion. If you choose to mangle the English language, expect no mercy from this quarter. You might be mocked severely.

4. Do not ask for me to send you copies of my many manuals and literature. I am not in the library business, nor do I want to spend the bulk of my day at the copy machine just because you’re too lazy to ask your dealer, or look around a bit.

5. Don’t bother me with truly stupid questions, like how to get 50 more horsepower for a buck and a half.

Many sports have created clothing trends. Remember the old photos from the 30s that showed frizzy haired dudes frolicking in horse riding pants? How about those Banlon golf shirts with little grinning alligators on the pockets? Or when every college kid in the country was wearing a football jersey with number 69 on it? Nowadays track shoes and bicycling shirts are the big deal. But go to a bike race and you’ll see that a printed T-shirt is the thing to wear.

Sometimes bikers go to great lengths to wear their T-shirts and be trendy. For example: last winter I went to a motocross race up north; snow was flurrying, as they say, it was colder than an NGK B 15 spark plug. Here’s this guy sitting on a tree stump wearing only a T-shirt and 1 million goosebumps. I stared at him for a minute, trying to figure out what his story was. That it dawned on me that fella is just a careful dresser, that’s all. Just like some people wouldn’t think of going to the opera without wearing a black tie and tails, this guy wants to look right at the races. Never mind that his ”Ernie’s Zaneville BSA” angle is covered with snow.

So I say (feeling sorry for him), “Far out T-shirt you got there.”

“Thanks,” he says, and disappears into the parking lot to fetch his coat. Someone noticed.

Often the desire to be well-dressed is merely foolish instead of outrageous. Consider the businessman who comes out to see his kid race for the first time. You know he hasn’t worn anything but business suits or JC Penney pajamas the last 25 years, and there he is, in a Suzuki Fun Center shirt–clean, pressed, and tucked in all around. The short sleeves revealing skin that hasn’t seen ultraviolet rays since that business trip to Miami in 54, and a prime rib spare tire (6.70 x 15) hanging over his belt. Arm in arm with mom, who is forsaken her Saks or Dior for a T-shirt, modestly draped over a blouse. Your eyes have seen the glory.

Anyway, that’s enough background information on T-shirts.

You’re probably wondering what I’m getting at. A revelation: I am a T-shirt addict. I hereby announce my addiction in a national amazing. Without guilt or remorse. Sorry, Mom.

Yep I’ve got more cycle T-shirts than there are there entire all Junior-day at Indian dunes. That’s a lot. More t shirts even then there are back-ordered Montesa parts. More T-shirts then there are CZ shocks in trash cans. More than there are cheap plastic trophies that self-destruct by Sunday night. More T-shirts then there are neutrals in a Sachs gearbox.

As an addict (who has no desire to kick the habit), I have found that there is more to T-shirt collecting than meets the eye. I run into some problems; a fine example is when I’m down to my last clean shirt.

Washateria time… Load up about 12 cardboard boxes with damp, limp, mungy T-shirts; possibly one of the foulest concentrations of pure stench anywhere. I try to stuff the shirts in the washing machine as discreetly as possible so the folks in the Washateria won’t notice my addiction. But the real problem is taking them out of the washer and folding them. Then the people always notice. Before I learned to live with my addictions, I used to jam them all in a bag and make it out of the door as quickly as possible… feets get moving. Only trouble was that by the time I got home, the T-shirts would be in a wad again, a clean wad, but a wad nonetheless.

So now I fold at the Washateria. After first few shirts, some people start to notice, and they’re very curious to see what’s written on these shirts. They hope it’s something obscene or, possibly, a radical political slogan to confirm the impressions they formed of me while I was pacing nervously through the wash and dry. At first, they just glance from the corners of their eyes, then they get bolder and give me the old stare. Then a few more catch on, and after a while a crowd gathers. Usually, when I pluck and especially fine shirt from the basket. I’ll hold it up and show it to the folks who are so damn interested, and by now unabashedly gaping at my wardrobe. When there is someone knowledgeable in the audience, I get a polite applause when I hold up a rare or difficult design.

On one occasion I held up an original Hungarian Horex shirt and got a standing ovation. Sadly, such times of glory are few and far between.
Wash day is mostly a nightmare. I remember one in particular. Like a damn fool I had an accepted from a well-wishers, a T-shirt advertising a product for sports cars. It was blue with white writing. The name of the company will remain anonymous to avoid reprisals (all addicts are paranoid). So I flung this T-shirt it was with about 20 others, dumped in some soap, inserted a quarter, and let her rip.

After the machine stopped, I opened the lid and almost cried. One lousy sports car T-shirt had ruined some of the finest shirts in all of cycledom. I fell to my knees and wept. Old women huddled in the corner, inspecting the act of violence, or better yet, suicide. Needless to say, the friendly fellow who sabotaged my T-shirt collection got his shirt back, along with 20 others of the same color, but none of the same ruinous ilk…. Hmmm, I wonder what the guys proctologist thought.

While on the subject of washing: don’t ever believe what the label says. Always buy extra large (or XL) and shrink to fit. Trust me.
After you get into T-shirts, they began to assume a personality. You begin to have favorites, and also find that some don’t quite make it. I used to name my favorites; my best Steve’s Bultaco t shirt was named Fred, and a nice blue South Bay shirt was named Joe. People thought I was nuts, so I quit doing it. Amazing what public opinion will do; cause many people to go underground.

Even T-shirt addiction can get boring after a while, so I went on to the harder stuff. Rare T-shirt addiction. Just like a Salvador Dali painting is worth more than, say a high school art student’s work, so some shirts are worth more from a sentimental or prestige viewpoint. Here is a list of the most valuable T-shirts to own. You notice that there are a few non-motorcycle shirts on the list. I’m no chauvinist pig. The order in which they appear is purely coincidental.

1. Swedish Husqvarna shirts with what looks like a big gear on the front. Supposedly, these are available only to factory racers. That leaves us out.
2. A Maico T-shirt from the era when Maico used the slogan,” Get serious”. Keep this one away from CZ freaks.
3. The original Wonder Warthog T-shirt (circa 1956 – 66). Too nice to even wear. Save it for your grandchildren.
4. The current Norton shirt that has a word misspelled on it. By now it has probably been superseded by one that has two words misspelled.
5. A Harley-Davidson T-shirt that says on the front,” My daddy rides a Harley Davidson ” above a picture of a Hog w/ King of the Highway accessory group. This one doesn’t come in extra large, darn, but the bike does.
6. Fabulous Furry Freak Brothers shirt. Give yours to grandma for Christmas and wear a mincemeat pie home.
7. Any American Eagle shirt. Same as the Husky shirt, except with a different name.
8. Old Pooperoo shirt. Give one to dad if he won’t let you have a bike.
9. Yamaha shirt displaying a picture of the DT-1. Koni, Ceriani, Girling, Curnutt, and Betor are used to distribute these.
10. A John De Soto Cycle Products shirt. Only valuable if you steal it off John’s back. Good luck.
11. Any BSA shirt. Liable to become an instant classic.
12. Any personality shirt; i.e., Jimmy Weinert, Joel Robert, etc. More valuable if you are the personality.

This is just a partial list. I can’t seem to think of anymore. Must be an addiction that’s withered my brain. My gray matter has been silkscreened, shrunk, and tie-dyed. My eyes cannot bear the sight of buttons. Since T-shirts are fun things, and only fun things are addicting, and since everyone has at least one addiction, you might look forward to a time when T-shirts play a bigger role in forming the fashion consciousness of the public at large. I noticed this item on the society page of the newspaper the other day. May a lightning bolt leap from the sky and zap me if I’m lying.

“San Francisco, November 12, 1972 – last evening Brad Lackey threw a wiggy bash for his friends at the Zoo Capri arms. The view of the bay was dazzling, but the city lights were outshone by Brad’s lovely guests and their “with it” attire. Mr. and Mrs. Tim Hart arrived early, both clattered matching red and yellow Cycle Land shirts. Mrs. Brian Kelly was seen laughing on the staircase with Mr. and Mrs. John De Soto. Mrs. Kennedy was clad in a precious Competition Accessories shirt done in gorgeous mauve. The De Soto’s Kawasaki shirts, of course, followed the Hawaiian motif. But this hit of the evening was Mr. and Mrs. Super Hunky, tripping the light fantastic with Mrs. H’s arm around her husband’s “Barum, don’t wear ’em” T-shirt. The gathering was particularly taken with Mr. Hunky’s Maico shorts, fashioned from masculine burnt sienna double knit…”

My lust for T-shirts is blowing my vision. All of a sudden I find myself wearing any T-shirt that I can find … Oh no! I find in my collection a Youth for Nixon shirt, and Lordy Momma, adjudged by a route shirt! I have sunk to the depths. But worse, I see my friends and coworkers groveling in the gutter with me. Today I scored a Woodland Hills Sport Cycle shirt, and wore it back to the office. The gang saw it and chorused, “Hey, where’s mine? Didn’t you get me one, too?”

“A pressure test is a good idea but be sure they also do vacuum test, as this is what will show if oil is entering the crankcase. For this machine, the seals should be fairly simple job….will need seals and the seal plate gaskets. I have seen cracked seal plates cause leaks too.