Years ago, the former head of Harley-Davidson racing, Dick O’Brien, described to me what happens when a Harley engine “wet-sumps.” If for any reason oil at the bottom of the crankcase is not picked up rapidly enough by the scavenge pump, it can be swept around by the whirling crank into the narrow gap between the inside of the close-fitting crankcase and the outside diameter of the crank. The oil does not, as some describe, stick to the crank, but is batted back and forth between it and the case. This very rapid shearing of the oil consumes a lot of power—O’B said he could see it when a bike would wet-sump on the Daytona banking.

This is a very old problem, dating back to the early days of total-loss oiling. If the alert rider of 1914 looked behind and saw no visible smoke, he took that as an indication of too little oil in the engine. A few strokes of the hand pump fixed that. Sluggish performance signaled too much oil—time to ease up.

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Photo by Jeff Allen

Kevin Cameron is a friend and colleague, so this rant will begin with a total agreement: Honda’s air-cooled Singles are the best class of motorcycle in history.

This is firsthand fact. My shed houses a 1975 XR75, a 1989 XR250 and a 1999 XR100, owned for 15, 22 and 10 years, respectively, and I’ve never had to lay a wrench on any of them, not once. Like a Chevy V-Eight, the only reason an air-cooled Honda Single stops is because it’s out of gas.

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For World War I or II warbird enthusiasts, the annual release of Philip Makanna’s “GHOSTS” large-format calendars is itself a red-letter day because his stunning air-to-air photography is breathtaking in its art.

This year, Phil will receive the International Society for Aviation Photography Lifetime Achievement Award, and his 2011 “Ghosts of the Great War” has won the International Calendar Competition’s “Calendar of the Year” and “Best of Show” awards.

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How do Roman gladiators show their bravery these days? They fend off assaults from chaotic traffic on their ever-faithful Vespas! I experienced this craziness first-hand while taking part in Vespa’s 65th anniversary party, held earlier this month in Rome. The event culminated in a parade of more than 5000 PX 125/150s from all over Europe.

During “Vespa Days,” I circulated Rome solely on Vespas, from the highly refined and solidly performing 300 GTS to the nostalgic PX 150. The latter is an incredible leftover from the 1980s that brought back memories of a hilarious story told to me by the late Gordon Jennings. The article was published in Car & Driver and illustrated with a cartoon. The artist drew the little Vespa as a monster, its kickstarter morphing into the long neck of a snapper turtle ready to sink its teeth into Jennings’ right calf.

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Imagine a little piece titled “Affording Your New Four-Stroke Motocross Bike.” It would cover such topics as being born a Saudi prince or maybe a yachtsman, techniques for quickly acquiring large amounts of other people’s money, such as fraud, bank robbery, etc., and non-violent financing techniques of the kind used for years by Team Obsolete’s Robert Iannucci, who has said he never spent a dime of his own money on racing.

 It would also include a cheerful explanation of how we got into this mess: “Back in the beginning, the idea of four-stroke MX machines sounded hot to everyone, because at that time, our ideas about four-stroke MXers had been conditioned by Honda’s many super-durable XLs—the bikes we bought for our kids and kept up at the lake, which now, 25 years later, are still starting and running like trains every summer without so much as an oil change.

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Dr. Shreve Archer lapping Laguna Seca on his Honda VF1000R.

You never know how church can surprise you. Our church, for example, has a tradition of arranging small dinner groups for parishioners to meet informally and socialize. Usually, these are called “foyer groups,” and in them, we get to meet, chat and eat. When I’m involved, inevitably the talk rolls around to motorcycling, which isn’t usually all that popular with my tablemates. But last weekend, I was very surprised when the young man seated next to me—I’ll call him Martin—told me that, though he doesn’t ride himself, nor does his wife, he chooses his doctors based on whether or not they ride motorcycles.

Insert raised-eyebrow expression here.

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