Trail Report: August 10th 2003

A long time ago, when Quinns was being re-discovered by the populus, an early second settler by the name of JAW bought a trailbike. Now JAW's brothers-in-law Mik and Mark had been for a ride on that trailbike, and thought it was good, but both being strapped for cash neither could get themselves a bike.

In a completely but as yet unrelated event, JAW's neighbour Stu worked next to a motorbike shop. He noticed a pile of old bikes near a bin and asked the owners what they were. "Take one" they said. And he did.

The bike he selected was a 1981 import Yamaha SR185 road bike. Between him and JAW, they stripped it of its fairings and other unecessary parts and got it running. Suprisingly, the motor ran very well. (Suspicions arose that the bike may have been yellow stickered, someone made an attempt was to re-register it including fitting a new set of rings, but it failed to pass and was then given up on.)

After some time Stu ceased to be interested and sold it to Mik and Mark for the sum of $100. Both Mik and Mark learnt to ride on it, in the dirt, complete with the road tyres it wore. Shortly after Mark bought a "proper" trailbike leaving Mik as the one and only owner of The Hog.

Mik and The Hog had many many adventures, covered a huge amount of distance. All the while, The Hog was showing its failings. The front suspension was not good to start with, and continued to get worse. It had no damping capability at all for most of its life, the bearings and bushes were shot. The electrics were a constant source of intermittent problems until one day it was rewired from the ground up; revealing wires that looked fine from the outside but were actually corroded and broken on the inside.

The chromed under-peg cruiser style exhaust had several holes and was very thin. This was eventually replaced with a straight through piece of pipe. The electric start always worked - even though the switch was a bit of tin plate across two bolts...

Being a roadbike the gear shift was a fixed thick metal shaft without a retracting arm. The gear shift spline was ruined very early on from tumbles, thereafter repeatedly welded, snapped off and rewelded before eventually the selector shaft sheared inside the engine. A piece of rod was sourced, the bits from the old shaft welded to it and it was put back into service. Quite successfully.

The inevitable happened halfway between Lancelin and Wedge Island in 2000. It stopped. Later pull down revealed the exhaust valve had snapped at the collet, banged a few smiley faces into the piston, bent, and come to a rest.

It was about this time that Mik bought himself a nice proper trailbike. The Hog sat, dissasembled, in the weather for some time. Mik moved house. The Hog continued to sit, engine in a bucket, in the weather.

Eventually Mik decided it was time to go to the tip. Brad jumps in and says, nah, give it here, I'll get it going again.

Quietly over a period of time Brad cleans the sand, weeds and insects out of the engine, sands the rust off the internals, sources a second hand valve from a tray of old valves ("this one measures up the correct size, what's it off?" "A Yammy Ag Bike".) Finally, he fires it up in his shed. Away she goes, but a lot of smoke.

This proves (amongst other things) to be a bit of a downer and The Hog is put to one side aside. JAW later steps in and drags it back to his shed and assembles the last pieces. Some levers, bit of welding here and there, finally it is ready. Which brings us up to date.

The morning was looking pretty bleak as JAW tows The Hog to the time trial with Mik following on the two fiddy. Rob arrives as it's being jump started off the truck. Bang, she's away, but still way too much smoke. JAW peddles her up to the sand berm and back. "Not delevoping a lot of power guys."

Brad and Phil arrive in Phil's 4x4. Fire it up again. Mik takes it for a lap, gets 3rd gear and even a bit of a jump over a lump. Then; pah. She stops. Seized. After examination of the spark plug with a crushed tip cathode, some screwdriver investigation of the piston top ("There's a hole in the piston dear Henry dear Henry") it becomes obvious it was not meant to be. "Right fellas, she's getting mounted on the old windmill.

The rain pelting down dampered the progress of the team hoiking her up the side of the frame but not enough to stop her finding her final resting place; halfway up, forever doing a great mono in the sky.