Minot, ND >> Breakdown en route to International Peace Garden >> Minot, ND 78 miles ridden/1 hour (+ tow back to town)
I was feeling good about getting back on the road again until the bike died en route to the Canadian border, so it’s a few more days in Minot for me… Austin at Pure Honda is guessing an electrical issue. Looks like another $300 for the tow back to town and then lord knows how much in diagnostic and parts.
Oddly, while one side of the road had no cell reception, when I walked into the cornfield opposite I was able to catch a signal. Since I had no idea what town I was in, I gave the tow truck driver some landmarks and finished with: “I’ll be the guy on the side of the road standing next to a bike.” Given the amount of traffic in the area, I felt pretty sure he wouldn’t be able to miss me.
Funny thing is, while heading to lunch before leaving town, I thought the bike sounded different – like the engine had a different cadence – but just assumed that was a good thing since it had all new filters and parts in it. To an extent, this is getting old fast… The oil and tire fix was $800, plus a tow, plus costs unknown. Great. Trip might be over sooner than I expected at this rate unless I find a money tree somewhere in central Canada. We’ll see what they say once they have a chance to open it up and look at it.
If there were ever a day when I needed a drink, this would be it. Fresh off the high of Sturgis and the relief that came with having a major issue like an oil leak fixed – it was so bad I felt as if I was pouring oil directly from the bottle onto the ground, simply using my bike as a conduit – I was more than a little surprised when the bike shut down ~60 miles outside of Minot. I was even more surprised by the attitude of the service rep who seemed dismissive of the information I was giving him about the breakdown, especially considering I was told the bike was “perfect” when I left the shop with it this morning. Tomorrow should be interesting.
Assuming they can diagnose it in the morning and order parts for Friday, I’m not even sure I feel safe leaving before a weekday. There’s another Honda dealer ~40 miles past where I broke down, and it would be a little bit reassuring knowing they’re open should I be in the neighborhood. It’s not that my confidence in the bike is shaken, it’s my confidence in Pure Honda’s repair. Their attitude reminds me of the local shop that worked on my bike right before it broke down in Maine a couple years ago.
I need to be in a better mood when I talk to these guys… Oh Lagavulin, wherefore art thou?
Possible suspects:
- Electrical (seems unlikely after Golden)
- Fuel line
- Clutch/gear issue
Back at the KOA campground, I introduced myself to my new neighbor, a young man who had just been assigned to the nearby Air Force base and was waiting for housing to open up. Although he originally dreamed of being on the bomb squad, he failed the test too many times and now worked in maintenance. “I’m safer handling a broom than a bomb,” he said. Tough to argue with that logic.
The next day, the campground owner had her son give me a lift to the shop, very kind of her.
The problem was ID’d as a faulty CDI box. After replacing it, they tested the fix by sending a mechanic out on a 10-minute test drive. Since I’d been riding for about an hour when the bike died last time, I was a little suspect of the accuracy of this assessment; it didn’t seem like enough time to determine whether the issue had been resolved. We agreed to disagree.
“All signs point to this,” the rep said, but would not indicate a 100% positive diagnostic. Talk about instilling confidence.
The bill: $430 + labor.
Plus, they discovered a small leak in the oil sending unit:
(P/N: 355-00-MJ4-024 $34; 15-min fix)
Add that to the list of things to upgrade at some point…
My last day in town (hopefully… no offense, Minot), I went exploring this morning after picking up the bike.
Although barely noon, I couldn’t pass The Saloon without stopping in for a drink so powerful was the draw of its old-timey western-style signage. Upon entering, I was surprised to see a full house! Turns out bars here only close an hour or two every night so they’re ready to slake the thirst of workers coming off the oil rigs at 6a.
And what a cast of characters! A self-professed alcoholic bartender who poured more free drinks than ones she charged people for; a pool shark who threw his first game in an attempt to lure me into a bet on a second; about a dozen oil field roughnecks; mail carriers; and a handful of others. People eyed me warily when I walked in, but I broke the ice by playing a few Hank Williams, Jr. tunes on the jukebox and soon we were swapping stories.
Back at the KOA, two of my neighbors and I made plans to go out that night. Despite not knowing how to drive a stick well, one of them had a car with a manual transmission, so I became the designated driver. The first place we hit was a dancehall playing country & western hits. After about an hour, we left to wander around downtown and ended up visiting what can only be described as the worst strip club in the world.
Now, while by no means am I a strip club aficionado, I’ve been to my fair share of bachelor parties, so I’ve got a bit of experience under my belt. For me, the first red flag was no cover charge… I mean, come on! People pay a “cover charge” to go to a movie, museum or concert and most strip clubs, so this seemed a bit odd. Then, once inside, I realized all the lights were on… That was also pretty atypical and didn’t do much to enhance the ambience, which I can only describe as “’70s basement rec room chic.”
Also, there was no deep-voiced emcee introducing each act: “Mumble mumble mumble… Let’s give it up for Ginger! Mumble mumble mumble … and don’t forget to tip your waitress mumble mumble.” But this, I could deal with.
What was over-the-top bizarre was that each dancer was also her own DJ! So as each song neared its end, the performance onstage would stop abruptly, a dancer would go to the side of the stage, fumble through her CD notebook – we’re talking cutting edge technology here, folks – and swap CDs in the boombox (during which interval there’s no music), find the next song, hit PLAY, and start this travesty all over again. It was a new level of awfulness.
Notably, at this hour on a weekend night, we were one of only three groups in the place, so although a bit harsh, my assessment could not be too far off the mark.
Mr. Brooms-not-Bombs was smitten with one of the performers, but was having no more luck pulling her heartstrings than removing the correct wires from a bundle of fake explosives. After 20 minutes of painfully stilted conversation, my other campmate and I made an executive decision to call it a night and made our way back to the KOA.