I am in love with the Internal Combustion Engine (ICE). Harnessing the power of exploding hydrocarbon mixtures billions of times in rapid succession inside cylindrical containers appeals to an elemental part of my psyche - my lizard brain of locomotion. The immediate response, both in acceleration and aural orchestration, to a twist of my right wrist never fails to bring a smile to my face and a song to my heart. Tonight I rode a 33 HP single about 20 miles and it growled like a little lion as it cavorted around the tachometer dial in search of the peak of its torque curve. Of my bigger machines, the Triumph triples tend to tickle that fancy the most, one in particular that exhales through an Arrow pipe, making sounds like a little Formula One car (before they were neutered).
I loathe the idea of twisting a throttle, only to be greeted by “HUMMMMMMM” even if they can generate wicked acceleration. I’ll take my oily, smelly, dinosaur-burning babies any day and I won’t have to search - mostly in vain - for a charging station where I can while away several hours as fossil-fuel powerplants miles away replenish my ride’s energy storage units. I vividly remember last summer’s experience with a four-wheeled machine of that ilk and the hours it took to restore even a fraction of its charge. No way: give me a pump with mid-octane, corn-squeezins-free, aromatic hydrocarbons and set me free!
Rathjen, Kamil, and I were browsing the York swap meet a couple weekends ago, reveling in a panoply of amazing vintage motorcycles and a couple acres of parts for them. I said to Brian, “I hope this never goes away. Can you imagine coming here looking for a battery for your bike’s propulsion system?” We agreed that it would be a real downer to walk up and down aisles of lithium-ion cells, wiring bundles, and various types of circuitry. We are not electricians, we are mechanics! That isn’t solder paste under our fingernails and in the cracks in our fingers, it’s oil and grease! Saying something like, “Excuse me, sir, but do you have the Exceleron EEEX-THX-1138 mega-cell with the early CMOS power controller?” would be the stuff of nightmares for me.
Those of you who appreciate vintage, ICE-powered British motorcycles will also recoil in horror at the following request: “Excuse me, sir, but do you have the electric motor harness for a 2030 Triumph Green Triple - you know, the one made by Lucas?” Yes, friends, imagine the Prince of Darkness making not only the stuff that controls the lighting, but also the motor! The old joke about Brits drinking warm beer because Lucas can’t make a proper refrigerator either is apropos in that case. I have seen the results of a Lithium-ion thermal runaway and to say it is bomb-like is putting it mildly.
You can call me a luddite if you want, but anyone who has ever chased electrical gremlins through any kind of machinery will tell you that it is the pinnacle of frustration. Right now, I have an almost-new KLX-250 that runs wonderfully…until it pops the 10 Amp ignition control fuse, which it did several times at the Shenandoah 500 and led me and the bike to complete the first day in the back of a pickup truck. I still have not found the culprit, but I have gotten very adept at finding and changing that fuse (regrettably, after having to remove the seat each time). Usually, with an ICE bike, other than totally blowing the engine (which I have done), I can usually nurse it home. My experience with electrical stuff is to the contrary.
No, I want eternal combustion! I want my fossil fuel burned directly underneath me and at my behest, not a hundred miles away. I want the sound and fury of barely-controlled explosions happening multiple times a second, commanded by my right hand. I want to smell the result, especially if it is race-gas from the bike adjacent to me on a track or the two-stroke emissions of my trail-riding buddies. If they leave me behind, I can frequently track them, like a Castrol bloodhound, by their smells. If I shut my own motor down, I can also find them by their sounds, which sure as hell aren’t HUMMMMMM and WHIRRRR and THRUUMMMM. People want to ride Thumpers, not Hummers, or at least the Usual Suspects and I do.