New plug wires for the Disco

Note product description number 1 on the box:

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Are motocross boots overkill for your adventure?

The short answer is, yes. The long answer is, opinions may vary.

Chances are if you disagree with me, you are a more hard-core rider than I am. I ride big-bore BMWs off-road in rocky terrain, in the mud and sand when I have to, and on forest service roads that get me away from the main highway. But I leave demanding single-track and boulder hopping to the lighter bikes and the skilled riders who can maneuver a heavy, big cc motorcycle in technical terrain like it was an extension of their limbs. It’s just not my style of riding, although I am constantly impressed by those whose it is.

Still, I wanted to give motocross boots a try because of their protection. I see a lot of adventurers wearing hard-core boots, so I wanted to see what it was all about. It was an expensive lesson in what works and what I am comfortable in.

Six months ago I bought a pair of Gaerne SG-10s, based upon great reviews and that claimed “best comfort” for a motocross boot. While the latter proved to be true, more so what I found was that motocross style boots are too bulky for my kind of riding. They’re heavier weight than the “adventure style boots” that have hit the market in the past few years. When comparing 5 pounds per boot to 2.5 pounds per boot, it might not seem like a lot, but after a few hours of wear your feet may beg to differ. Luckily the options for motorcycle footwear are growing and manufacturers are listening to new demands. Every year, new adventure boots hit the market, whether they are original designs or re-vamping old styles with new and lighter materials.

One may argue that the protection is worth the weight. I would not disagree with them unless it hindered performance. For me, it did. More than once I found myself floundering for the gear shifter, or not able to move my feet in time away from a falling bike. When I ride, I like to feel the dexterity of my feet while shifting and have the agility to move out of the way of a 500lb motorcycle plunging toward the ground (which has been known to happen on occasion). Maybe with more time I could learn to work with them, but six months is long enough to decide whether I like it or not.

While the Gaerne’s were comfortable for a motocross style boot, they are a stiff boot and they leave a lot to be desired when walking for any length of distance. If I know I am going to do anything off the bike, then I bring my Sidi On-Roads. Age and use have made the leather of those boots soft and the soles worn down, and thus the most comfortable pair of boots I own. Unfortunately, there is little protection and waning life left in them and would not consider them for long distance or long duration travel.

The final deterrent for me considering taking a pair of motocross boots: they are not waterproof. Unless you are solely riding in the Atacama Desert, which receives less than 0.5” of rainfall each year, you are bound to encounter rain or river crossings. Where I live in Central America receives an annual average rainfall of 75” per year, so I must take this into consideration. Riding in wet gear is not nearly as bothersome as riding in wet boots. Soggy socks and clammy feet are so uncomfortable that I tear off my boots and drain my socks as soon as I get to a stopping point. There are alternatives such as Gore-Tex socks, but they don’t help the squish of a wet insole when you step down on it. That and the smell of wet Gore-Tex after a few days of use can get a little strong.

Although motocross boots did not work for me the way I expected, I would still use them for skills practice (I hope to one-day ride a big bike on single track, but that is many lessons away) and day rides when I know I will be on the bike the majority of the time. But if I am going to explore off the bike, I do not even consider taking them. I want a comfortable pair of boots with good protection. Is that too much to ask? It might be so, since I am still on the search for the perfect pair of boots for my motorcycle adventure. 

For more motorcycle reviews and travel stories by Alison, check out: AlisonsWanderland.com

Tips for new mechanics

Here’s an axiom for budding mechanics, whether amateur or on a career track: Never, ever, ever, ever say, regarding a procedure you are about to perform on any vehicle, “Oh, this should only take (fill in the blank) minutes.” Or hours. Or days. Or years for that matter, if you’re tackling, say, a ground-up restoration on an S2 Lotus Elite.

Our recently acquired 1997 Land Rover Discovery, which will be used for training at the Overland Expos, came with the usual assortment of issues one would expect on an $1800 Disco. Most noticeable was the fine and rarely experienced view into the interior of the passenger-side exhaust manifold, courtesy a quarter-inch wide crack that split it into two pieces, each held more or less in place by its bolts but leaving ample room for un-muffled exhaust gasses to escape just inches from the combustion chambers.

A bit of web searching regarding replacement turned up plenty of exclamation-point-strewn stories of frozen bolts, bolts broken off flush with the engine block, extractors, bulk purchases of Liquid Wrench, Helicoiling, etc. etc. Thus, along with a scrap-yard replacement for the manifold, and suitable gaskets, I procured a full set of new manifold bolts, plus studs and nuts for the manifold/exhaust pipe flange—and studiously avoided any mention or even thought of how long the job should take.

And . . . all eight manifold bolts came politely free with little effort, and even the flange nuts came off from underneath the vehicle with just a bit of octopus-like wriggling to get my ratchet and extension in there for access. The old manifold (should I refer to it in the plural?) dropped off into my hand, leaving not even any gasket residue to clean. The replacement bolted on, I found that the exhaust pipe remained a good inch from the flange, but by first loosening everything again I was able to match them up and then torque it all down (is this tension why the manifolds crack in the first place?).

Amost before I knew it I was finished, and convinced that avoiding any mention of how long the job might take was the key to a smooth procedure. Mechanic’s superstition, perhaps, but hey, if it works . . .

So there I was with hours in the bag. What else? I had only one other job to do that day: replacing the previous owner’s Oregon license plate on the tailgate with the new Arizona plate. Fantastic, I thought, then: This should take 10 minutes, max.

Pause here with me to reflect on the can’t-be-un-said nature of what I’d just said to myself. 

But really, I mean, it’s a license plate, right? What could possibly go wrong? (Axiom for budding mechanics . . .)

The old plate was secured with four rather rusty standard head screws or bolts—I couldn’t tell which. (The rust was my second warning, the first being the colorful metal plate itself noting that this vehicle was from OREGON, where rainfall is officially recorded in furlongs). I applied a screwdriver. With a little effort, the first one turned. And turned. And turned. I tried another, and another. Same result. Obviously there were nuts of some sort behind the sheet metal, and they were frozen onto the bolts. Sigh . . . okay. The open door revealed an upholstered panel, inset  with a set of speakers down right . . . where . . . the license plate nuts would be. Fine. I undid the eight fasteners holding on the speaker grille. Then the bolts holding the speaker assembly (noting that both speakers were completely shot, add to list). Still no access, so out came the set of plastic panel-removal tools I’d just bought for the 911 (highly recommended over a screwdriver). Panel off, and . . . a nice reinforcing inner panel of sheet metal, which supported the opening mechanism, completely obliterated access to the nuts.

They're behind this . . .

Well, almost. I managed to get a set of pliers on one—it was some sort of T-nut with a plastic cover. Screwdriver on the other side, and zero luck—I couldn’t put enough torque on the screwdriver. Out came the vise-grips. With them clamped to the one nut I could easily reach, I put all the pressure I could on the screw. The vise-grips rotated until they jammed against metal, and still the screw would not budge (if anything the vise-grips were further squeezing the nut on the bolt, exacerbating rather than alleviating the problem). And this was the accessible nut—the other three were up in the one-inch-deep space between the inner and outer sheet metal. 

Have you ever noticed that when someone says, “To make a long story short,” it’s generally too late? In the end I had to file down the head of each bolt flat, then drill it out. (My right-angle grinder, which would have made a second’s work out of flattening each head, was out at Ravenrock.) Finally that damn Oregon plate came off, revealing a strangely ornate laser-cut Land-Rover-logoed rubber backing plate—an odd bit of style in a spot that ensures very few people will ever see it.*

Right—new plate, blank holes. Forget T-nuts, I got new stainless (!) bolts and nylocks, but, er, how to get them in place behind that one-inch gap? Fortunately I’m married to a woman who’s retained her slim figure, and with much cursing in harmony we were able to have her slide up the nuts behind the panel with two fingers while I inserted the bolts. A scant half-hour after inserting the first one, we were finished, and replacing the license plate had officially taken me longer than replacing the exhaust manifold.

As we were walking away, it occurred to me: “Aren’t we going to paint this thing?”

“Yes.”

“Normally you remove the plate to paint behind it.”

A pause, then: “They can mask it.” And, “Did you take off the front plate?”

Uh oh. Mentally sticking my fingers in my ears and muttering a firmly non-time-committal abadabadabadabadaba, I walked up and looked at the front plate. Magically, one bolt held it in place. I held my breath and applied the correct 11mm wrench. 

And it came right off.

Followed by a three-foot-long piece of bumper trim . . .

So much for superstition.

*An update from Land Rover honcho Bob Burns: "So a bit of Land Rover history for you. That laser-cut rubber mat was a port-installed “damper.” It seems the speakers and subwoofer in the rear door of the Discovery were powerful enough that, regardless of how tight the bolts were holding the license plate on, the speakers made the plate buzz against the rear door. So that was our contribution toward quelling NVH on the Discovery. Now you know the rest of the story."