The Game of the Name
The game of the name
EDITORIAL
I CALL 'EM 'FELICULIDS,'" SAID THE all-knowing, all-seeing Ron Lawson.
“Fa lick ya whats?" I asked.
“Feliculids,” he replied coolly.
“Uh, how do you spell that?” I inquired, trying not to seem too terribly confused.
“I don’t do spellings,” he said. “I just do names.”
“Fair enough. But where did you read that they're called, uh . . . flick yer lids?” I asked.
“Nowhere,” he answered.
“Well, did someone tell you that they’re called, you know, whatever it was you said?”
“Nope.”
Getting more desperate by the moment, I asked, “So, how do you know that’s what they’re called?”
“Because that’s what I call ’em.” “Oh.”
I had already played too large a role in this inane vignette, so I shut up. After all, world peace or a cure for AIDS wasn’t at stake; we were just standing in the Cycle World garage, trying to determine the correct name for those little plastic push-in plugs that a lot of motorcycles have stuffed into the heads of certain Allen bolts, usually the ones found up around the instrument area. Some of these plugs—okay, “feliculids”—are chrome-plated, others are black or gray, but they all have two things in common; 1 ) They are purely a styling exercise, an attempt to make the head of an Allen bolt look like something else; and 2) no one knows what they're called.
The exception is Ron Lawson, who has a fail-safe way of solving such problems: When he encounters something that has no known or readily apparent name, he simply invents one that—to him, at least— sounds right. “The minute I saw those little plugs, I knew they should be called ‘feliculids,’ ” Lawson later confided. “That’s what they look like to me—feliculids.” Gives you an idea of what goes on inside his head. Kinda scary, huh?
Truth is, though, there are lots of individual parts on motorcycles that have no logical name, that you have to describe by telling what they do or where they’re located rather than what they are.
For example, what is the name of
the long (and often very large) piece of plastic bodywork on some sportbikes that sits just below the sides of the seat, one on each side—you know, the one that runs between the taillight and either the pop-off sidecover or the gas tank? (See, it took more than six lines here just to describe it.) Its official nomenclature is probably something like “rear panel” or “seat surround,” but no one would ever call it by either of those names.
What about those little vertical projections on the inside edge of some footrests that keep you from accidentally poking the heels of your boots into the rear wheel or onto a hot exhaust pipe? Wouldn't it be nice if you could describe them in one or two words instead of three dozen? Same goes for the little plastic doodad on some dirt bikes that plugs into the end of the gas-cap vent hose and clips onto the handlebar crossbar. I've bought scores of them to put on practically every off-road bike I’ve ridden over the past 10 or 12 years, but I still have to ask for them at the parts counter using the above longwinded description.
Full-dress touring bikes are loaded with nameless items of this sort. Do you know what the little plexiglass additions on each side of a latemodel 1200 Gold Wing's windshield are called? Or the little spring-loaded whatchit on the antenna that you lift up to let the antenna fold down? And whaddya call that little rubber flap on all Honda kickstands that's supposed to make the stand retract if you try riding away with it extended? Yep, beats me, too.
I know, of course, that all of the world’s problems would not go away if we had short, easily recognizable names for these widgets. We’d still have to deal with the horrors of war, famine and TV evangelists. But somebody has to worry about these trivial matters; and, since no one else seems to have volunteered, I’ve appointed myself to the job.
The problem, though, is that this whole name business has a flip-side: Worrying about things that don’t have simple, straightforward labels also leads one to fret over components that do have wonderfully brief and descriptive names but that don’t do what those names imply. “Rearview mirror” is one that leaps immediatelv to mind, on sportbikes, at least. It would be fine with me if they were called something more accurately descriptive, like “armpit monitors” or “shoulder checkers,” but rear-view? C’mon, get serious.
Another item that, on most motorcycles, warrants new nomenclature is “toolkit.” The name strongly suggests that the “kit” involves “tools” whose intended use is for some manner of repairs or maintenance; but I’ve never been able to figure out what kind of mechanical work you can perform with rubber open-end wrenches and screwdrivers sized for 4-year-old hands. If any of you know, please let me in on the secret.
Certain other motorcycle terminology is merely ambiguous rather than wrong. “Fuel gauge,” for instance, does not necessarily claim that said instrument tells how much fuel is in the tank; it implies only that the device usually can detect an undetermined quantity of the stuff sloshing around in there somewhere. Similarly, “horn” doesn’t mean that the feeble noise the thing makes is audible in normal traffic; the name implies only that pushing a button results in a horn-like sound.
My biggest dilemma, though, is whether or not to let Ron Lawson know about any of these misnomers. If I do, he’s liable to rename them—in which case, no one will have the slightest idea what they are. Come to think of it, though, if that were to happen, things wouldn’t be much different than they are now.
Paul Dean
