PLAN A
I used to try and fill my C10 oil filter prior to installation, but it was way too messy. Couldn't seem to get the filled oil filter, the oil filter flange and O-ring all situated and installed before the oil ran down my arm and into my armpit.
The second problem I encountered was that the leaking oil left the wrench extremely slippery and difficult to control. The smug satisfaction attained through quickly calculating the financial savings of how much longer this oil coating's corrosion protection would extend the life of the wrench was NOT enough to offset this inconvenience. So the method was abandoned.
All was not lost, since a well oiled armpit is not without unexepected benefit. Just ask the kids in my neighborhood to find out who won the armpit f@rt contest.
There we were, next to the bike temporarily abandoned above its dripping puddle of oil, gathered like a flock of wounded herons, each frantically flailing a single arm. The resulting cocaphany was a spectular auditory phenomenon, the artistic expression of which was fully unappreciated by the neighbors who almost immediately began to gather around this enthusiastic group of participants on my front lawn.
They gathered as one, as if summoned by some long dormant primordial call. Their furrowed brows and wagging fingers shamelessly exposed the inner conflict I knew in my heart of hearts that they were wrestling with. They were twisting in the wind of their mental dilemnas. On one hand they found themselves mysteriously drawn to the rare spectacle before them, accompanied by a powerful and almost irrestible urge to just let go and join in.
The utter disgust deeply embedded within their civilized phyches was the antithesis, sitting nervously in the red corner, ready to do battle with the contender. Alas, the latter prevailed and the event was brought to an unceremonious halt. Something was said about the corruption of the future generation and that they were our only hope and shouldn't be exposed to bad influences. I couldn't quite make it all out. I was to busy being hastily and unanimously proclaimed the winner by all the kids who were being dragged away from the yard by their parents. I attribute the award to the unique tones and impressive duration of my output. Besides, it was my lawn.
PLAN B
Necessity being the mother of invention, I came up with Plan B to turn the bike upside down, just like I did as a kid putting my bike on the tripod of butterly bars and banana seat to put the chain back on the sprockets after my latest failed Evel Kneivel jump attempt. This worked farily well until I realized my airbox and air filter were now also 'pre-filled' with oil, which thanks to gravity had found its way there through the breather tube. Nonetheless, I used this method for several oil changes.
I finally came to the realization that this plan should be scrapped. I found that a C10 is heavy and cumbersome to flip over. Apparantly there is a bit of an art to it which I had yet to perfect. The broken control levers and cracked plastic body parts costs were adding up fast.
I counted as a good thing my wise use of synthetic oils which had increased the time between oil changes unwittingly serving to minimize these otherwise unexpected routine maintence costs. Had I been using regular dino oil I may well have found myself in a position where I couldn't afford this hobby much longer. I did not attempt to delve into any consideration as to the differences in costs that may have been achieved through the use of different viscosities.
Come to think of it, different viscosities might also bring subtle nuances to the art of the armpit symphony. Additional research needs to be done here.
PLAN C
A new and superior plan surfaced. I decided to use an enema kit, fishing and probing its long tube into the oil fill hole, down through the crankcase and into the oil pan's filter area. Fill the bladder with oil and let it drain down into the crankcase and 'pre-fill' that oil filter. Simply pull the tube back out along the path it had snaked in on and celebrate a job well done.
How hard could this be? Isn't this exactly what these tools were designed and used for? I felt like a genius and couldn't wait for the next oil change to try it out.
The anticipated day finally arrived and the maiden attempt was going famously. No tipping, no broken pieces, no messy oil, no slippery wrench, no scolding neighbors. I had achieved it. Nirvana had been attained. All I now had left to accomplish in life was to find the fountain of youth.
My soaring feelings of accomplishment were abruptly dashed upon the rocks of despair when the tube refused to be removed, having hung up somewhere in the engine. This should not be. This COULD not be. My plan was flawless.
So I pulled and I tugged, but it would not budge.
I stomped, I cried, my eyes did smudge.
This episode seemed to attract the attention of the neighbors, several of whom I noticed standing at their front doors, peering out through screen doors with looks of concern or perhaps disgust - I really couldn't tell.
Not wishing to invoke yet another gathering of judgmental neighbors on my front lawn, I conjured my ninja powers and CIA training to immediately calm my emotions. Exercising great restraint, I resisted my first impulse to put the bike up on the lift in the garage, duct tape the hose to the ceiling joists, then lower the bike back down to yank that hose out of there for good.
Instead, I heeded the quiet reason softly pleading within the inner sanctum of my brain, presenting the case that I did NOT want to rip or tear the hose, leaving bits of rubber floating within the inner bowels of my engine earnestly seeking oil ports in which to lodge and clog.
PLAN C - MODIFIED
After much study, it seemed clear to me that the hose was fortuitously positioned up against the crank with further analysis revealing that the normal rotational direction of the crank should lift and propel the hose back out of the motor. I would simply have to tap on the starter button while I gently tugged on the other end of the hose. This should neatly push it back out, I reasoned.
My problem was all but solved. My self esteem was back, soaring to new heights, ready to snatch victory from the tenacious jaws of defeat.
Swaggering in new found confidence, I decided I should perform this crowning piece of engineering brilliance in the middle of the front yard for all to see. I envisioned myself, gloriously framed by margins of lush green lawn, awash in the warmth of a resounding and redemptive success. I had high hopes, no, a certainty that redemptive points would be scored with the neighbors, proving once and for all that I was not a complete moron on the brink of insanity.
Somehow in the pageantry of moving the bike to the front lawn, a crowd of neighbors was attracted, just as I had secretly hoped. They were soon to witness something that most could never see in a lifetime of lifetimes.
With theatrics and great fanfare I positioned myself on the the left side of the bike, standing there looking important and authoritative, like George Washington did while crossing the Potomac. Adding hand gestures like a magician's assistant for effect, I ensured the kill switch was on and very deliberately turned on the key.
The dash and running lights lit up to the hushed oooh's and aaahhh's from the gathered crowd. I had them in the palm of my hand.
The fateful moment was here. I could barely breath or see straight. I waited for a moment, partly to regain a sense of compusure and to still the trembling, and partly to bask in the full glow of the anticipation precluding the magnificent event about to occur.
I firmly grasped the end of the hose protruding from the oil filler hole with my right hand. Since it was a little slippery from errant oil, I looped it around my hand to ensure a positive grip. This was no time to leave anything to chance. With my left hand I reached across the tank and pressed the starter button while pulling gently on the hose. I figured it would look more complicated and cooler going cross handed that way. Just as planned, the crank began to rotate the hose out, my right hand rising up as I pulled it up and out. This was going even better than I had expected.
Apparently, while reaching across the machine to hit the starter button, I failed to notice amidst all the pomp and showmanship that my left sleeve cuff pulled the choke lever well past its normal start position. Something I had not planned on suddenly occured as the engine actually fired and began racing wildly.
With the engine roaring, the hose continued to come out, but at a much faster pace. Another flaw in my plan quickly manifested itself once the full length of hose had been almost completely extracted. The stuck end of the hose refused to become unwedged from its initial entanglement and was immediately and quickly retracted back into the engine much faster than it had emerged.
As the hose was being drawn back into the engine through the oil filler hole at an accellerated pace, it whipped wildly, slapping painfully across my face, then disappearing back into the engine, now wound snugly around the crank.
Another result of this unexpected development was that my looped and somewhat entrapped hand at the far end of the tubing, moved rapidly from high to low like a frantic John Travolta in a 'Stayin Alive' dance. Although I maintained athleticism and grace while executing this move, I'm certain it happened much to quickly for most to discern what I was actually accomplishing. This was proven after the fact due to a lack of any positive comment regarding its sheer beauty.
In spite of the rising painful red welt line across my face, the oil spatters all over my head and upper body, and the new found pain on my right hand, I had the presence of mind to turn off the key, just in time to hear one of the neighbors mutter "What has this idiot done now?".
Fortunately, the entire event happened so quickly that I was still in my patentable George Washington pose. I attribute this instinctual consistency to my fine breeding, public school training and overall statesmanship.
Utilizing these multiple ingrained tools of sophistication and poise, and while simultaneously ignoring sudden feelings of humiliation and multiple points of pain on my body, I purposefully turned slightly toward the doubting neighbor, maintaining 'the pose'.
Continuing in the vein of this striking demeanor, I freed my right hand from from its ensnarement within the raveled tube, raising it along with its freshly cut knuckles from its forced position against the engine, slowly waving it for emphasis while replying, "Why, I'm demonstrating a new manual pull start I've invented for the Kawasaki Concours".
