There’s no greasy chain to adjust on a shaft-driven bike. But there is regular maintanence. If you don’t do it, you’re liable to destroy the seals and gears spinning inside. The replacement cost will make you wish your bike had a chain.
That’s why changing the final drive oil on a regular basis is key. Many people recommend it be done at 6,000-mile intervals — or about every time you change your motor oil.

Fortunately, it’s even easier than changing your oil.
Here’s what you do on a classic shafty, the BMW R1150RT:
First, gather your tools. You’ll need a torque wrench and a 6mm allen wrench for the filler plug, located on top of the rear hub. A 19mm socket fits the drain plug below it. Get a drain pan and cut a piece of cardboard or other material to keep the oil from draining onto your rear wheel. Also, you’ll need a small funnel and possibly a measuring cup.

For oil, almost any GL-5 rated gear oil in the 75-90 weight will do. I am using Castrol 80-90, non-synthetic gear oil ($6.99 per quart at Kragen). Also, you must have two new crush washers. They are about 50 cents each at the dealer.
Start by positioning the drain pan under the drain plug with the cardboard chute in place. Remove the filler plug first. Then unscrew the drain plug and let the oil flow out. Inspect the plug. It has a magnet on it to catch metalic debris and keep stuff out of the works. If there’s a lot of metal on your plug, start saving for a new final drive.
Clean it off, put a new crush washer on it and screw it back in by hand. Torque it to about 17 foot-pounds.
Fill the final drive with fresh oil. It takes 230 ml or about 8 ounces. You may need a separate measuring cup if the oil bottle doesn’t have markings on the side. Castrol gear oil has a narrow tipped end that is perfect for getting the oil into the small filler hole.

Once you’ve filled it, put the filler plug in with a new crush washer. Tighten to 17 foot-pounds also. Dump the used oil in with the other stuff you’re recycling. I put it all in one-gallon iced tea jugs from Trader Joe’s. I like them because they are clear and have wide openings.

Our deconstruction of an oil-starved Suzuki V-Strom engine continues…
In the last post, I took apart the top end of the engine, finding some cylinder and piston scoring from running the engine dry. Now, to dig down even further into the mystery and find the bike’s exact cause of death.

This was our last view last time; the clutch and basket were off, revealing the oil pump gear (orange), the drive shaft (top), and the lower cam chain sprocket (left).

Grabbing the circlip pliers, I lifted off the circlip, then the oil pump gear.

The oil pump had a small transverse pin holding it in place below the oil pump gear. With it out of the way, the oil pump could be lifted out.

The cam chain sprocket nut was reverse-threaded, and required some bearing down with the rattle gun before budging.

Next it was on to the gear shift plate, with the shift shaft running through the transmission below it.

At that point, I was able to pull the shift shaft from the left side of the engine.

After that was out, I began cracking loose the 8mm case bolts with my trusty T-handle.

With some of the easily-accessible case bolts out, it was time to turn the motor over and remove the flywheel. The retaining bolt needed an impact gun to get loose.

With some effort, it came off. I moved on to the flywheel allen bolts.

Fortunately the shop has a universal flywheel puller on hand; I threaded in the 22mm size end and prepared to do battle with the flywheel (also known as the rotor). It’s on there very tightly, and has magnets cast into it, so removing it is a memorably sweaty task.

I hammered on that flywheel puller and flywheel with my skinny arms for a while, until the hammer flew out of my sweaty hands and nearly hit my coworker. At last, the flywheel came off with a mighty blow.

With the flywheel and supporting plate and gear gone, the drive shaft was exposed.

Then there were a few loose ends to clean up before splitting the cases; I pulled the oil pipe and the star gear from the transmission.

And now, the moment I’d been waiting for–it was time to split the cases. It was my first time, prying apart the halves of the engine to get into the bottom end, to penetrate the secrets of its demise; and it felt like a rite of passage into the realm of internal combustion. I gently worked in my miniature pry bar and began to tap the cases apart with the soft-faced mallet.

With a great deal of tapping and gentle prying, the halves began to pull apart.

And at last, the halves of the crankcase fell apart, revealing all that lay within.

I lifted out the crankshaft and the pistons.

In the other half of the crankcase, the transmission gears and dogs were now visible.

At this point, I began to see sparkly bits of metal deposited on the lower surfaces of the engine–a sure sign of severe lower-end engine damage. Those sparkly bits of metal were torn and sheared off something important…

Something exploded into glittery fragments, leaving the residue here.

When the crankshaft came free, the connecting rods (which connect the pistons to the crankshaft) were heat-blackened, showing that they had endured tremendous overheating and abuse.

I turned over the crankshaft and unbolted the connecting rods.

One of the con rods was just beginning to melt together (and the the crankshaft), and had to be pried apart with considerable force. It was another clue to the nature of the problem.

And when I finally pried off and set aside the pistons and connecting rods, down in the very belly of the beast, the oil-starvation problem suddenly revealed itself. The connecting rod bearings, which glide between the inner surface of each connecting rod and the outer surface of the crankshaft as it spins, had finally lost its protective coating of oil, and began to spin and melt and disintegrate. The scoring can be clearly seen.

This was the source of all those metal flakes in the lower portions of the engine–the con-rod bearings shredding themselves into oblivion. I pried off the remains of the damaged bearings and took a closer look.

The truth was in there, and it was ugly.

So here before us was the verdict: in addition to the scored piston and cylinder, the doomed V-Strom engine died from a textbook case of spun con-rod bearings. It was a sad death, and a preventable one, but it was a fascinating learning process to deconstruct and diagnose the cause of the engine’s demise.

Remember, oil is the lifeblood of your bike’s engine!

Ok. We’re not exactly breaking out the barbecue here on the North Coast of California.
Because it’s February. On the North Coast.
But it is warm, with temperatures flirting near the upper 60s. So warm that I fired up the bike this weekend and made a savage run to the beach, heating up the tires and getting a few grins while avoiding Sunday drivers and the fine gentlemen parked behind billboards.

Overall, it was a hell of a good day! My helmet is off to Punxatawney Phil. It was positively springlike.
Other riders took advantage, as well.
In my blast to Pt. Reyes Station via Highway 1, I saw sport bikes, dual sports and choppers, all basking in their own moto moments. I met a guy on a ’38 BMW R-61 who rode to Marin County from San Francisco wearing what looked like a trench coat.
He seemed surprised when I asked if he rode “that” over the Golden Gate Bridge.
“Of course I did,” he said, pointing out that the bike survived World War II and was rescued from a Polish barn. “Why wouldn’t I?”
He rolled away in a whir of sewing machine noise.
I took it as my cue and got my modern-day bike up to warp speed, flying north up the asphalt ribbon that envelopes Tomales Bay.
I scraped a foot peg or two, paused for pics and headed back to may own barn.
I stopped short of reconnecting the trickle charger. I have a feeling I won’t be needing it.

–BV

I’ve always found it odd that motorcycle shops are closed on Sundays. It’s got to be one of the busiest riding and tinkering days of the week.

Yet almost universally, shops draw the curtains and don’t open them until Tuesday morning.

I can understand closing Monday, but Sunday? It seems crazy, especially in these economic times.

“It’s just always been ride or race on Sunday and recover Monday,” said Brian Pecore, owner of The Motorcycle Shop, an independent service and accessories store in Santa Rosa.

True, Sunday is traditionally racing day, but how many shops actually race? And if they do, wouldn’t it make sense to keep the till going and the money flowing in?

It ain’t exactly cheap to go racing.

Desperate for answers and certain I was probably missing some key point, I turned to several other shop owners who informed me that, no, I really wasn’t missing any key point.

Aside from the fact that Saturday is an all-hands-on-deck work day and rest is needed, there’s no explaining the Sunday holiday.

However, you can bet the reluctance to do business is welcome by at least one mega-retailer. Cycle Gear is open seven days a week. The Benicia-based chain with outlets in 26 states opened its 98th store in November.

The 38-year-old company claims on its website that it is the nation’s largest and fastest growing retailer of motorcycle apparel and accessories.

You gotta wonder how much they’re raking in on Sunday.

“Cycle Gear always has, and always will put people first,” CEO Dave Bertram said.

I’ve always associated Mexico with motorcycles. I don’t know why exactly. Maybe it’s because of the handful of times I’ve ridden dirt bikes in Baja. Or maybe it’s because it’s warm there and I’m a fair-weather rider. Or maybe it’s just because both words start with the letter m.

I had bikes on my mind when planning a family vacation to the Cancun area in December. I figured I’d rent a dual-sport or even a Harley at one of those over-priced tourist joints. While my wife and daughter lay on the beach at a sunny resort, I’d be off riding in a foreign land, looking for adventure and inexpensive tequila.
I figured wrong.
You see, the part of Mexico bordering the Caribbean Sea is great for relaxing, exploring ruins and watersports. But it’s not the best place to ride, in part because it is so flat. Roads go east and west, north and south, with few curves or hills in between. Endless jungle is all you see. Can you say boring?
Also, like Baja, the roads themselves aren’t all that good. Many are cobbled with, well, cobblestones. And Mexicans seem to have an obsession with speed bumps, which they call “topes.” They appear to crop up on any straight long enough to shift into second gear. I know of at least one economy sized rental car in serious need of an alignment!
I was cured of any Wild Hog aspirations after a quick trip to town in said rental car. Traffic was more dicey than a Los Angeles freeway at rush hour. Overladen trucks and dilapidated taxis careened by. Uniformed men carrying submachine guns glared from checkpoints.
Amid the chaos only locals were brave enough to ride motorcycles. They must be really good, I thought. They buzzed around me with great daring, seemingly risking life and limb to get from A to B.
I soon realized they were riding not because it was fun but because it’s a cheap form of transportation.
Maybe that’s the best that can be said of motorcycles anywhere.
Or not.
Nevertheless, I gave up my dream to ride the Mayan Riviera and focused instead on the mango daiquiries.