Dyno Tuning with RPM Performance

Buddy Moore - Dyno Guru

by Bill Dragoo

Everybody I hang out with loves horsepower. Motorheads love it so much that motorcycle manufacturers have been known to stretch the truth sometimes, just to make us feel better. Factory performance numbers are like a placebo, a sugar pill to boost our egos. The truth is sometimes hard to come by.

So, what do we do about it? Well, you could do what I did and give Buddy Moore a call at RPM Performance Cycles -(405)761-2217. Buddy plays his dyno like Charlie Daniels plays the fiddle, only the music to your ears is what you see on the screen. I watched him shake out my built 2006 KLX 250 S. Buddy’s fingers fly over the console of his dyno like June rainfall in a Costa Rican rain forest, touching just the right switch or key to pull up data, or chart each run. When he shuts it off, he has already assimilated what he saw just seconds before and he quickly converts that information to tuning instructions. Follow them and the sugar pill melts into performance that’s real!

We made a half dozen passes as we worked to sort out the little dual sport and, boy, was it worth the investment! The KLX started life at 17 horsepower. After some engine work and with Buddy’s guidance, it now puts out 28.3 horses measured accurately where it counts. At the rear wheel! And the best part is, it ain’t braggin’ if it’s true.

So in my book, having all that power is great. Having Buddy fine-tune the engine for all it’s worth and then seeing it on the printed page is priceless!

There's a Bear in the Air!

and a swarm of 'Smokeys' on our tail.
by Bill Dragoo

Or so I thought when I saw the black and white Hughes 500D police helicopter buzzing overhead like an angry yellow-jacket. The four of us sit on our dual-sport motorcycles like ducks on a pond. My first impulse is to take flight. Old tapes, I’m sure, from when I was a teenager. Even back then, I did little that was truly illegal, but I’d been trained by my peers that cops were the enemy.

If we try to escape now, I know it will only serve to fulfill my prophecy from a ride we did back in November of ‘06. I am referring, of course, to the day our leader rode his DRZ 400 past the Bricktown IHOP on the back wheel, in full view of one of OKC’s finest.

We were lucky not to get stopped for that. When I saw the police cruiser then, I predicted that we’d be doing time in the clink before sunset. I was half kidding, of course. Little did I know how close my prediction really was.

That had been my second trip through the alleys and backstreets of Oklahoma City, exploring tent cities, old train yards, rutted construction sites and railroad sidings and admiring the urban art of graffiti. Today’s ride is my third. It appears that our antics, mild as they have been, have caught up with us.

It seems our previously heralded, and now I can honestly say, “notorious” ride leader, James Pratt, has slipped beyond his marginal boundaries and gotten us all into a bit of a pickle. The irony here is that one of our group, John Yarborough, is one of the most safety-conscious and law-abiding motorcyclists I have ever met.

I have heard that on the trail, John is a force to reckon with. He’s an old cross country hound; a guy who can really rattle the boulders, racing through the woods on his Yamaha WR 400 or a borrowed KTM 640, like the one he straddled today as he waited for his assigned officer to check his license and insurance verification.

But when his tires touch pavement, he instantly turns into an Eagle Scout. I have to admire John for his wish to stay legal. His job as a professional driver keeps him honest and he takes the charge seriously.

Yet, here we are, sitting in the parking lot of Byron’s Liquor Store, with a helicopter spiraling over our heads. Our imminent arrest is only seconds away, no doubt. Someone suggests that this might be as good a time as any for us to go our separate ways. Whitey is already late getting home and I want to beat the onset of the evening’s cooler temperatures if I can, so nobody wastes any time getting rolling. James lives closer than the rest of us, so we say a quick “I’m outta here!” and split.

I ride about two blocks east before a black and white OKC police cruiser makes a u-turn and jumps in behind me. I’m not surprised when his lights come on, so I pull over to the center island and climb off the saddle to face the music.
Now, the funny thing here is that we really haven’t done anything wrong. We just FEEL guilty, because we’re riding dual sport motorcycles in places where people don’t expect to see motorcycles being ridden.

Officer Gilmore, as he will forever be respectfully known, looks surprised when I remove my full-face helmet. I’m sure he expected to see someone nearer his own age, perhaps a few years younger. I’m probably twice that.

I am expecting the usual, “license and registration, please,” but don’t get it. Clearly, he is not sure if I am the “guilty” party. I stifle a grin as he looks up at the helicopter and speaks into his microphone.

“Is this one of them?” He asks the big eye in the sky.
They must have answered in the affirmative, because he starts asking about my friends.

I’d be a lousy spy, because I tell him everything I know in about 15 seconds. Then I suggest that we move out of the intersection since traffic is starting to back up. He concurs and we shoot the gap through a line of cars, into a nearby filling station where, as luck would have it, three Highway Patrol Cruisers are parked. We all wave at one another, our situation obviously under control, and the OHP guys leave the scene.

Now honestly, I still feel guilty as hell, but for nothing. If I had been a criminal, well, I’m just glad I’m not. These men are good at what they do for a living.
The questions continue, along with his communication with fellow police officers. I gather from their dialogue that we’ve all been rounded up. Boy, that didn’t take long.
We were lucky that we weren’t breaking the law beyond a u-turn here and there as James tried to keep us from heading the wrong way on a one-way street.

We are released on our own repugnance, I suppose, because none of us has to so much as post bail.

Whitey makes it home sufficiently late to explain the whole thing to his wife.

John smiles nervously when I suggested that we should do this again some time.

James. There was a message from James on my cell phone, kindly offering to come and post bail for anyone who hadn’t gotten as lucky as he did when he got stopped by a good cop. Good Ol’ James. He even got a picture of the cop that got him.

I should interject here that Officer Gilmore, as well as the others, are good examples of why we’re lucky to be living in the heart of the Heartland. Not only was he respectful, as were his fellow officers reported to have been, but he took an honest interest in our sport. At my suggestion, he pulled up the “Ride Oklahoma” website and smiled at the story titles and pictures from our previous rides (“Alley Cat” and “Jailhouse Rock”).

The officer who stopped James even suggested that we contact the OKC PD before starting one of our “Urban Assaults” and give them a heads-up.

What a concept; to cooperate with local law enforcement to the mutual benefit of motorcycling and the community. I like the way that resonates.

Jailhouse Rock

By Bill Dragoo

They’re going to put me in jail. I know it’ll happen before this day is over.

I am one of six guys, mostly normal by Monday-through Friday standards, but as our oddly dressed half-dozen clumps out into the IHOP parking lot in Bricktown, it appears I’ve joined a band of Mid-Life Mavericks. My suspicions…and fears . . . are confirmed as our fearless (that is no exaggeration) leader, James, rides away toward the sunrise on the back wheel of his slightly faded yellow DRZ 400.

The shiny black and white OKC-PD cruiser quarters our vector, southbound. I wonder if he’s watching.

This would be funny if it weren’t so serious. I haven’t had a ticket in over 30 years. That is, if you don’t count the seat-belt ticket I couldn’t talk my way out of a few months ago. Yet, here we are, half a dozen guys on Dual Sport motorcycles, heading out for what is becoming a tradition among the “Ride Oklahoma” bunch, under the tutelage of our leader who, I might suggest, would be a valuable resource to the NBA. With balls like that, who could lose?

All but James seem to be suitably disturbed by our close encounter with the law. I feel confident that I speak for the majority when I say that I was relieved when we reappeared in the light of day and there were no flashing lights or bull horns. Maybe I’m just too conservative, but this feels a lot like stealing watermelons or window-peeping to me. We duck into alleys, shucking and jiving on a convoluted route, ending up a scant three blocks away from where we’d started maybe 15 minutes ago. We’d never make it as bank robbers…or window peepers for that matter. Even though we weren’t really breaking the law, much, it sure felt like it. I guess that’s part of the fun.

We stop in a historic warehouse district with old brick buildings, broken, wire-reinforced glass windows and a loading dock. James points to the loading dock, the obvious question rolling as naturally from his lips as a dad asking if we all want ice-cream. Only his question is, “Who wants to jump that?” Nobody bites. Well, one does. I bust off my little KLX and say to myself, “What the heck. I mean, it’s just a loading dock. I’ve jumped much trickier stuff than that. Why, I used to be a well known motocross racer, dabbled in a little trials, burned up many a mile on all kinds of motorcycles, right? This will only take a second.” As I dump the clutch and head for the ramp, the t-shirt slogan hits me like a buzzard smacking an airplane. “The older I get, the better I…WAS!”

It’s been years since I left the earth on anything that didn’t have wings. My timing was a little off and I had been tuning some on the KLX. It had a bit more spunk than the day before. Well, excuses are like belly buttons. We all have them. The bike launched like a bee-stung colt and reared straight up. I managed to keep it off the tag bracket, and barely kept from belt-sanding my port-side to bone on the bricks. I only lost a little green plastic from the left hand guard and most of my pride. It could have been a lot worse.

My buddies are really very gracious. They act like nothing (almost) happened, at least to my face.

We motor on through the darker places middle OKC has to offer, taking in the sights. Crossing an old carpet scrap the size of my living room, staked down and furnished with bent lawn chairs, I realize that I am actually riding through someone’s home. I’ve always wanted to do that through the hall at my old junior high. This abandoned homeless pad doesn’t provide quite the rush I had in mind, but it’ll have to do.

We cross a benign looking but slippery, yellow-painted walkway over the railroad tracks and ride a snappy slalom course through massive concrete pillars decorated with graffiti. The highway is our roof, suspended far above our heads, seemingly a world away. We’re trapped. A cul-de-sac! We are forced for the nth time to backtrack. I’m impressed with the bike handling skills demonstrated by Phil, Whitey, Gary and Brian as they maneuver their inseam-plus high, KTM’s, F 650 Beemer and KLR 650 back across the Teflon coated ramp.

Moments later, I find myself trying to duck under James’ wheel as he spirals up the ramp to a parking garage. Phil, Whitey, Gary and Brian all follow suit. Briefly, we congregate on the upper level, but some inner sense moves our leader to head back down. We all resist the urge to wave at the well dressed gentleman with a badge speaking into a walkie-talkie and visibly counting motorcycles. I wonder if he’s friends with the guy in the cruiser over by the IHOP. We leave him to his report and ride briskly westward…more or less.

Losing Gary and his KLR to a flat tire, we manage one more stop, the BMW dealership. While most of our band is drooling over exquisite, long-distance touring iron, James and I scramble down to the creek to check out the tunnel and moss covered sluice running under I-40. About the time we decide it’s do-able, James exclaims that we’ll need trials bikes to exit. Although the entrance is passable with a deft hand and reasonable balance, getting out of here will involve a tough scramble over giant limestone rip-rap. We’ll save that challenge for another day.
Too soon, our gutter frolic is over. We’ve all made commitments for the rest of our weekend and the two hour allotment we’ve set aside to play with the boys has expired.

We’re lucky. We managed to remain un-incarcerated, at least this time, but there’s always next week.

Alley Cat

By Bill Dragoo

My heart quickened to match the tempo set by our ride leader. Gravel sprayed like buckshot from the 460 series Dunlop 606 mounted to the rear of his DRZ 400 as he accelerated out of the alley and onto the narrow strip of broken asphalt. I aimed for the blast, sensing that he had chosen the best line to merge us safely into the moderate traffic. A quick check of the mirror confirmed that my petite little wife was still hanging on, despite the spirited pace of our backstreet, urban assault. She flashed me her gorgeous smile and gave me a thumbs-up, as she urged her blue and white Yamaha XT 225 across sidewalks, through parking lots, past gated barriers and between pylons. Susan loves this crazy kind of riding as much as I do.

The night before, we were enjoying a hot, pink filet and an exquisite bottle of Coppola Merlot with our friends, James and Kay Pratt, and we were all itching for a ride. Someone suggested we scratch that itch by meeting at a venue halfway between our hometowns of Norman and Edmond, Oklahoma. BYOBike!
Now, it was a blustery, fall, Sunday afternoon in Downtown OKC and James was still smarting after an errant get-off from his F-650 Beemer. He was nursing a fractured wrist, so a hard-core off-road ride was out, but a rapid blast through the backstreets of our state’s capital might just do the trick. Little did we know what a runaway roller coaster we were about to climb aboard! Hurt, he may be, but that didn’t slow him down a bit. James is to Dual Sport riding, what Jimi Hendrix was to rock and roll. Hang on, Buddy, ‘cause we’re going for a ride!


After an impromptu riders meeting at the Sonic walk-in on Reno, James and Kay disappeared between two old warehouses and began connecting rough terrain with back alleys until I started feeling like Winnie the Pooh in the 100-acre wood. Kay handled her TTR 250 like a stern mom handles an unruly teenage daughter, blond pony tail swishing with an attitude on every shuck and jive. Standing on tip-toes at stops, she would make a quick check for traffic, and then weave her way into line. Dirt, gravel or sand, it didn’t matter. She was no stranger to this game and it showed in the way she moved on that bike.


We slipped through fences and barricades like ghosts. Our rapid tour took us past shanty-towns, where Hispanic men sat cross-legged in the dirt, working on old cars, and children played in rusty pickup beds. We spied a ragged tent city tucked back in the woods, tattered laundry strung between trees to dry. It was doubtful many city dwellers knew this place existed. It occurred to me as we passed that these were the homes of the homeless.
James obviously knew his way around these parts, but how could he remember so many escape routes from these endless, dead-end streets? We were alley cats, scampering too fast to be cornered, but missing nothing worth seeing. We crossed an abandoned airfield at Downtown Airpark, popped over the street and worked our way down to the banks of the Oklahoma River, better known to us old-timers as the North Canadian. There, we blended in with dirt bikes and four wheelers for a mile or so before crossing on a partially submerged sand bar, exiting the river by riding up the bank on the other side.
A brief rest stop found us in a cluttered railroad yard, next to a long abandoned turnstile. I indicated that my stomach was complaining that my throat had been cut, a motion seconded by Kay, who shared my wish to find a hamburger before our personal fuel tanks hit critical, no mas! We were ushered out of the yard by a wanna-be comedian who thought it would be funny to sound the horn on an idling, diesel locomotive when we passed by.


Like any good ride-leader, James accommodated us by making a beeline through every hollow, wrecked building site and “under-construction” street, to Coach’s Restaurant in the heart of Bricktown. We refreshed ourselves by gulping down copious quantities of agua and iced tea and inhaled our burgers and onion rings like refugees from a Weight Watchers reunion.
Finally, stuffed with good food and our itch for riding satiated, we said our goodbyes. As the last light of the weekend faded into a cloudy sunset, we rode our separate ways, promising to meet again soon for another heart pounding, Dual Sport Adventure.

All My Rowdy Friends have Settled Down!

The older I get, the truer that statement becomes. At a young-at-heart 51, it’s getting harder to find spunk among my peers. That is, it was until I got lucky and discovered “Ride Oklahoma.”

My wife and best ever friend, Susan, tells me that my search for compadres is a lot like a Dual Sport ride. “When you start out, you never really know where you’ll end up.” Notwithstanding you techno-geeks with the GPS, of course. Luckily, there are a few fellow crazies out there who are still willing to embrace adversity a long way from home.

As we move on into the fall and winter seasons, a time when I’ve historically shelved my bike and any ideas of riding it, I find myself looking forward to getting on the trail again. If my memory serves me at all, there are several benefits to getting out during months beginning with letters like N, D, J, F and M. Not the least of those benefits is a glaring lack of heat! Also, there’s no poison ivy. I can see my fellow wintertime wanderers through the woods, where dense vegetation would only serve to help with the occasional game of hide-and-go-home-alone during greener months. My gas doesn’t get stale, and those deep engine mods I’ve been itching to do over the winter take a back seat to a DP ride down south at Big Bend or maybe Hill Country.

I confess that I’ve spent the last few years (read that as almost 30 of them), raising my boys and being responsible. Now, I’m finding out that I’m not alone. There is actually a movement of sorts going on here. I am discovering that there are guys and . . . “Did you see that?” . . . gals too! who are getting out on some of these better than ever Dual Sport and very off-road-worthy bikes, to ride when and where they can.

It’s a happy day for me and I’d bet that I’m not alone when I say that I feel lucky to have found a forum, right here in Oklahoma, for mingling with kindred spirits.
Here’s to reading, riding and a twist of the wrist!