BEST OF JODY’S BOX: THERE ARE 8 MILLION PIECES OF DIRT IN MY GARAGE. THIS IS THE STORY OF ONE OF THEM

By Jody Weisel

There are eight million pieces of dirt in my garage. This is the story of one of them. As dirt goes it was not the biggest chunk; not the smallest; just the right size. I met its acquaintance on Saturday night when I decided to change the spark plug on my YZ250 because it had started missing at low rpm. I wanted everything to be perfect for the next day’s race — it was important, as it was the only race I was going to that day.

As I unthreaded the plug, the back of my hand gently brushed against the bottom of the gas tank, dislodging a marble-sized chunk of terra firma. Swoosh! It didn’t touch the rim. Kerplunk! It vanished down the gaping spark plug hole directly into the innards of my engine. Yikes! I knew that my dance card for Saturday night was full. That dirt and I were going to dance.

I CLAMPED DOWN ON ONE OF THE EXHAUST PIPE SPRINGS WITH A PAIR OF VICE GRIPS. SPROINGGGG! THE SPRING ROCKETED ITSELF SOMEWHERE INTO THE DARK RECESSES OF GARAGE SPACE THAT MORTAL MAN HAS NEVER TROD.

“No problemo,” I said (although there was no proof that the chunk of dirt spoke Spanish). Now, I had to pull the cylinder head to get to the ball of dirt. I removed the tank, drained the radiators and clamped down on one of the exhaust pipe springs with a pair of vice grips. Sproingggg! The spring did a SpaceshipOne imitation and rocketed itself somewhere into the dark recesses of garage space that mortal man has never trod.

After an exhausting search, and the spring safety back from orbit, I pulled the head and peered down into the cavernous bore. Eureka! There it was, resting just out of my reach on top of the piston. Hallelujah! My night was not going to be a bust. All I had to do was crank the kickstarter over a half turn and the dirt would rise to me like manna from heaven. I gave the kickstarter a gentle prod and watched in horror as the piston descended down into the cylinder. Cripes! The mini-boulder of dirt did a slow rim shot around the piston crown and dropped directly down a transfer port.

Justifying that the engine could use new rings anyway, I proceeded to pull the cylinder (tearing the base gasket in the process). Shucks! the clod was nowhere in sight. The dirt must have fallen down into the crank. This wasn’t my first rodeo, so I put a dab of wheel bearing grease on the top of the crank halves and rotated them through their stroke. The theory? The dirt clod would stick to the grease and come back to the surface like a coal miner rescued from a cave-in. A quart of grease later and I had two problems: (1) I still had a chunk of dirt in my lower-end and (2) it was well lubricated.

I NEVER ACTUALLY FOUND THE CHUNK OF DIRT BECAUSE, IN THE END, MY ARCH-NEMESIS HAD DISSOLVED INTO LITTLE MORE THAN GRAINS OF SAND. “ADIOS,” I SAID.

So now I had to pull the engine out of the frame. A simple task. I ripped through it with minor damage to my knuckles. My newest plan was semi-brilliant. I’d flush the crankcase with gasoline, slosh it around, flip the engine upside down and the dirt clod, grease and bad vibes would spill down the drain. Voila! Easier said than done, but done it was. I never actually found the chunk of dirt because, in the end, my arch-nemesis had dissolved into little more than grains of sand. “Adios,” I said, sticking with the concept that this piece of dirt was from South of the border.

All that was left was to button the whole kit-and-kaboodle back together again (after finding my spare base gasket curled up in the bottom drawer of my tool box). The pain and suffering was behind me now as I applied the final touch of getting my bike back together — pulling on the pipe springs while shielding my eyes.

The next morning, as I stood astride my mechanical achievement before practice started, I felt that I had met adversity head on and dealt with it. My sense of pride in handling a difficult task with grace could only bode good things for the day to come. I fired my bike to life, snicked it into gear and headed for the track. Shucks! It wheezed to a halt ten feet from my truck.

I had forgotten to change the plug.

 

 

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