Homer the Brave
Homer the Brave
UP FRONT
David Edwards
MEET A HERO OF MINE, HOMER KNAPP. Ace fabricator. The man HRC turned to when its early Honda Superbikes needed help. Stalwart on the Southern California classic-bike scene. Ariel Square Four guru. Roadside mechanic without peer. All-around nice guy.
He's also got a bit of Woody Allen's Zelig in him. Dig through our files of the 1966 Hopetown Grand Prix, the first in ternational motocross held in the U.S., in which one Torsten Hailman showed us Yanks what MX was all about-and there's a B&W of Homer on his `28 JD Harley Two Cam, of all things, mixing it up in, the Open Amateur class. Today, he -still owns the bike.
When my own 1953 Square .~\ Four (an eBay purchase, it's a sickness...) arrived at the magazine last year, I immediately called Homer. The bike was missing its seat rear fender and half the exhaust system, N but was undeniably cool. A bob-job with a chromed front end, mid-rise handlebar, liberally dnlled cylinder finfling and the whole head turned around 180 degrees (possi ble with the symmet nc layout) so that the remaining exhaust headers shot straight back into a cocktail shaker muffler
"Homer, I need you to lay hands on this thing and see what's wrong. The wiring's a rat's nest, it leaks oil like it has stock in Quaker State and it hasn't been started in probably 20 years. Lord only knows why it was parked."
"Sure, bring it up, let's have a look," he says and gives direc tions to his North Hollywood shop. Actually, the inspection would take place in the alleyway beside Homer's shop, as every~ available cubic inch of space inside is taken up with bikes. Besides Ariels, the \ man is a complete nutter for Lilacs and Marushos, the oddball Japanese-made op posed-Twins from the ear ly Sixties.
As soon as he eyeballs 4 my acquisition, Homer gets out his tape measure. Something's not quite right. Turns out this bobjob is really bobbed. The frame's been short ened by about 2 inches, the handi work of some un known Canadian customizer.
Inspection com plete, Homer dives wrists-deep into the electrics, sorts things out, hooks up my new battery and veri fies there's spark. Nextand this is the good partwe pour some gas into the fuel tank, only to be greeted by a
highly flammable deluge as the decrepit cork in the old Ewarts petcock has long since become useless. Isn't cork for wine bottles? Not in Olde England, apparently, where it was perfectly acceptable in fuel taps, too.
This is the point where I usually curse my British ancestry and wonder why I don't take up a sensible hobby not in volving gassy, oily things that (some times) make noise.
Not Knapp. Homer quickly and calmly disconnects the battery and lays the bike on its right footpeg to get the gas away from the porous petcock. After removing the Ewarts (isn't that from Harry Potter?) he goes into his shop and reemerges with an old tin containing
lengths of cork dowel honed to varying diameters. A suitable size is found and coated with Permatex Hylomar gasket dressing. Presto, in less than five min utes we have a functioning fuel tap. Me, I'd still be cursing.
Drama over, Homer goes back to the business of trying to get the old Ariel started. He truly is disappointed when it doesn't light on the first kick. A few more prods and he clearly is not happy. The man expects combustion. He re-inspects his impromptu wiring job, makes an adjustment, stabs the lever an other couple of times and the long-dormant Square Four bursts to life, sounding odd but healthy through its incomplete exhaust. As there's no place to sit, we jack the rear end off the ground and verify that the clutch and gearbox work.
What next? Find a sprung saddle and fit the left-side pipes, of course. But first, Homer-being Homer-wants to be a lit tle more sure about engine condition. When I get a free weekend (hah!) I'll re move the top end so we can see what things are like in the crankcase. When it comes to 54-year-old, multi-cylinder, twin-crank Britbikes, it's always better to be safe than sorry.
