Yurko's Dyna Land Speed Racer

ike Yurko a pipefitter, steamfitter and licensed motorcycle mechanic has been m in the custom motorcycle mix for over thirty years with his shop

Yurco Custom Choppers hailing out of Oshawa, Ontario. He’s built custom bikes to show at some of the biggest bike shows around, so when he decided he wanted a change of pace, he set his sights on the salt of Bonneville.

Mike attended Bonneville in 2013 as a spectator. Not to stand idle while he was there he studied what was involved to make a record attempt. Going from the show circuit to the salt was something that better not be taken lightly. With as much time as Mike had in the fabrication game, there was no question he would assemble a killer ride for the long flats of salt. Instead of being judged on the quality of your build a simple time slip would be all the rewards for this effort.

He reminded me that he wasn’t out of the show bike scene and he has nothing against them. He just needed a change for a minute or two. After years of spending hours detailing a bike to pass the judges scrutiny, it’s refreshing to have your sole focus be on lowering the numbers on the bottom of your time slip and the ability to do it safely.

Mike decided that his project would be based on the tried and true FXR style frame by Rolling

Thunder. To keep things simple Mike sprung the front end with a set of 2006 Dyna 49mm conventional forks.

The rolling stock consists of a set of Dyna wheels, 19-inch up front and 17-inch in the rear both shod with Metzler rubber. Again, in an effort to keep things simple a single rear H-D rear rotor and caliper provide the stopping power.

The motor, well, that’s where things get exciting. S&S stepped up with a 120-inch twin cam designed by Justin Bramnstead and mated to a Baker 5 speed transmission. The motor includes a full array of gofast goodies including; CP forged aluminum pistons, S&S B3 heads, a set of S&S 640 cams. A massive 70mm Throttle Hog throttle body supplies the go, and its all fired off by a Daytona Twin Tech ignition. The spent gasses exit through a

one-off header built in-house by Yurko Custom Choppers.

An AIM primary assembly connects the power to a bulletproof Baker five-speed transmission. The shifting and braking are accomplished by an owner-fabbed pair of rear sets. A set of Yurko Custom Chopper clip-ons set low to reduce drag and are equipped with hand controls by Pingle and no instrumentation to obstruct the view or deter your focus.

Running a stock FXR oil tank, Mike made the gas tank, as well as the front and rear fenders and the seat. The sheet metal was then sprayed with olive green powder coat by Flash Fire Coatings that include graphics of his sponsors Spectro Lubricants and World-Wide Bearings.

In 2014 Mike made his first passes on the new build running the MP/G 2000 class and reached a conservative average 150mph for his efforts. It was hardly what the bike was capable of, but for a first run, the focus must be on having the bike perform properly before you can push its performance envelope.

Over the next couple of years, the bike was tuned and ran a 179.9 mph in the AP/F 2000 class in 2016. Switching classes, he ran a 178.4 in 2018 in the AP/G 2000 class.

Owner: Mike Yurko City/State: Oshawa, Ontario Builder: Yurko Custom Choppers Year: 2015 Model: FXR Harley Value: Lots! Time: 8 Months

ENGINE Year: 2015 Model: S&S Twin Cam Builder: Yurko Custom Choppers Ignition: Twin Tech Displacement: 120cc Pistons: CP Pistons Heads: S&S B3 Carb: 70mm Throttle Hog Cam: S&S 640 Air Cleaner: S&S High Flow Exhaust: Yurko Custom Choppers Primary: AIM

TRANSMISSION Year: 2015 Make: Baker 5 Speed Shifting: Yes

FRAME Year: 2015 Model: Rolling Thunder FXR Rake: 30 Degrees Stretch: Stock

Forks Builder: 2006 Dyna Type: 49mm Conventional Triple Trees: 2006 Dyna Extension: Stock

WHEELS Front Wheel: Dyna Size: 19 inch Tire: Metzler Front Brake: None Rear Wheel: Size: 17 Inch Tire: Metzler Rear Brake: Yes

PAINT Painter: Flash Fire Coatings Color: Olive Green Type: Powder Coat Graphics: Spectro Lubricants Chroming: Negative

ACCESSORIES Bars: YCC Clip Ons Risers: None Hand Controls: Pingle Foot Controls: YCC Gas Tank(s): YCC Oil Tank: Stock Front fender: YCC Rear Fender: YCC Seat: YCC Headlight: None Tail light: None Speedo: None

Mike now holds ten records in the Loring Time Association in Maine and an additional four records in the East Coast Time Association located in Ohio.

The bike is still up and running, and Mike always has plans to go a little faster. Mike would like to give special thanks to his sponsors; Spectro Lubricants and WorldWide Bearings. He would also like to thank S&S Cycle for all their help through the years. “GTP”

seny had problems with his job in New York City and, as an added insult, he’d come to hate that place. There was too much suffering, least that’s the story he told. Besides, his

Sportster, the first motorcycle Seny’d owned, saw almost no action in that seething mass of concrete. In an act of desperation, he made a decision.

This was not as easy, as anyone who’s done so knows. Seny then sold or gave away every possession that would not fit aboard the bike. For those things that were too sentimental to ever let go, he journeyed into the forest for a ritualistic burning of all that connected him to the past.

A new rider, Seny then grabbed his savings…and left the city behind.

At high speed, these travels brought him to the doorstep of friends in other states. But it had been the tales of one old drifter’s writings that had inspired Seny in the first place. The internet said this rider would soon be at the Sturgis Motorcycle Rally. Seny intended to find him.

So, the new arrival had come to stay with us. Falling easily into the camp chairs to swill coffee and engage in the morning bullshit session, Seny quickly became one of the guys. An accomplished yoga instructor, he set out a mat to practice every morning. I found this interesting, but then, unconventional characters do keep the world interesting.

At rally’s end, riders filtered out until only Seny, and I remained. Camp was quiet now. After learning that both our journeys would continue west, I suggested we could ride together for a while. To my astonishment, Seny replied, “That’s why I came in the first place.”

I warned him that, for most young guys in a hurry to see the big world, my lazy meanderings were insufferably slow. But the country had already passed beneath my wheels countless times, and I now refused to return to the days of hauling ass everywhere. Seny assured me that a slower pace would be fine.

Fall’s approaching chill already tainted the air as we left the Black Hills. I decided on a direct ride across the barren Wyoming plains to then set evening’s camp in Buffalo at the base of the mountains before climbing into the altitude amid tomorrow’s warmer sunshine.

Afternoon waned toward evening as Buffalo arrived. Dropping Seny at a gas station, I set out in search of adequate land upon whic to make camp. As can be common while in route, the three spots I located, although doable, were not too inviting. Back at the station, I learned that, as so many do, Seny’d been on his phone to locate free camping on BLM land some 14 miles higher into the mountains. Ignoring this, I suggested coffee at McDonalds. The sky was overcast and threatening rain. A kind of insecure desperation often sets in as the sun wanes low and one knows not where he will sleep. This discomfort plagued Seny now. To compound matters, the rain began. Again, he reminded me of the free land, and again I ignored him. Over the coming month that we spent together, this was the last time he ever mentioned such a thing. Looking through the window, it appeared this

storm would be an all-nighter. That settled it. We’d take my least likely spot.

The gate had apparently not been closed in years, and there were no KEEP OUT signs to be seen. As the dirt drive led in, a sort of pole-barn, walled on three sides yet open at its front, came into view. This place was obviously used only for the occasional storage of old equipment and other unused items. I’d hoped not to stay here, but the need of refuge from stormy weather sometimes forces the use of unorthodox camps.

Once set-up on the dirt floor under the eve—me to erect a tent, while Seny laid out that bevy-sack/bodybag he loves so much—I threw a large tarp over the ground and we sat in camp chairs to smoke cigars (compliments of my young friend) and watch the rain fall. The storm lasted most of the night, but our camp felt none of it. It was, in fact, a wonderful evening.

Morning brought a long session of bullshit over coffee mugs. I’d noted that Seny’s Sportster ran horribly, and said as much. His first bike had always been like that, and he just figured it was normal. It wasn’t.

The sky was clear today. Eventually, we packed up, and the journey resumed. The air was brisk as the road passed through a wide canyon beside a flowing river while climbing ever higher into the mountains. As the air grew thin, the pines became accordingly shorter, and we took a break at a turnout. Seny had not seen such a place before, and he frolicked like a little kid on Christmas morning. Unfortunately, for me, this road had simply become everyday life long ago. But those early years of experiencing the big world’s newness were so often exciting, and reliving them brought me great pleasure.

In time, the town of Thermopolis came to pass. This area of Wyoming tower at room-center. I’d not seen such a spectacle before.

Back in the parking lot, the oil spot beneath my bike had grown larger. But as afternoon again waned toward evening, there was little time to contemplate such things. The Plains are the Plains, wide open with nothing to slow the wind and storms that often blow in, then out, at a moment’s notice. For this reason, rather than place a tent in the open, I seek walled refuge whenever possible out here. Behind both motorcycles, a smaller building stood open at its front as though it was a garage which, judging from the office equipment inside, it wasn’t. We debated whether to set camp inside that makeshift garage, or keep moving; there was yet another choice. Some years ago I’d broken down in the tiny town of Crowheart. T h e townspeople had sent me to sleep in the church, which was left open with blankets set atop a pew for just this purpose. Seny’s telephone map, with its sketchy middle-ofnowhere reception, said Crowheart lay just 30 short miles ahead. Our debate became whether to simply make camp here, or continue to the church with its adjacent little town and store that would offer morning coffee. The church won.

As I followed Seny’s Sportster along the seemingly deserted stretch of two-lane blacktop the endless prairie was falling into darkness. Thirty miles passed. Both bikes were now low on gas as I wondered if that stupid cell phone map had lied. A cold and gasless night spent along this roadside was an uncomfortable thought. Eventually, to my relief, the little church came into view.

It was full dark as both bikes parked beside the porch handrail. Although clear above, a colorful electrical storm could be seen dancing in the distance. The church door was open.

sits on an ancient hotbed of molten lava which in turn creates many anomalies and hot springs. We pulled into Thermopolis Hot Springs State Park in hopes of witnessing the strange sights there. The place did not disappoint. While talking with a couple of locals, we learned there were free hot spring pools located in a nearby building to which they pointed. Free hot water after chilly mountain ride? We were in. The springs offered two concrete pools almost too hot, and we soaked for a long time.

Once we returned to the bikes, I noted an oil spot beneath my Electra Glide. Judging from the leak’s location, it was either primary or

transmission fluid. But trany oil has a pungent smell, and since this did not, I figured it was probably primary, which is not that important.

With the mountains behind us, the lonely prairie opened up. When an hour had passed, I called a break in front of a long abandoned building. It was set back into hidden privacy well off the road. It had once been a very large school, or possibly college, with one huge structure and a few smaller buildings peppering the property. But that was long ago, and now only vestiges remained. Intrigued, we set out on a mission of exploration.

Beyond the cafeteria, kitchen, classrooms, teacher’s lounge, etc. there Twas a huge gymnasium that was astonishing. There, amid pews and basketball hoops, the wooden floor had somehow thrust itself upward to create a strangely macabre

Wood finished paneling, pews and pulpit, good carpet, stained glass, and an electric organ brought a certain comfort and beauty to this little room, while insulated walls held heat in as well. Delighted, Seny moved his bedding inside.

Chairs were then set up on the porch so cigars might again be enjoyed as we sat below a star-laden sky to watch the distant lightning show. Later, Seny filled out a stack of postcards as I relaxed in bed with a book.

Morning activity came slowly, but eventually, as Seny does daily, we both took to the aisle for yoga practice; Seny in loose clothing, and me in thermal underwear. Glad the flock didn’t unexpectedly show up for that.

Clear sunshine had begun to warm the day as we took a picnic table outside Crowheart’s little store/gas station to drink coffee and absorb the heat. Noticing the leak again, I checked primary fluid. Surprisingly, it was full. Looking into the transmission next, I was astonished to find no oil on the dipstick. Removing the 50-weight motor oil from my saddlebag (all I had), I began filling the trany and was astonished to find it half empty. It would seem synthetic trany oil does not give off the same pungent smell as the dinosaur stuff. This leak, spewing only while in motion, was draining my transmission quickly. I warned Seny again about his Sportster that died regularly and ran like crap. He seemed mystified. Both bikes had issues.

Underway again, the Grand Tetons eventually came to view, and I grabbed a large turnout at which to stand among the throngs of tourists and grant Seny a first-time view of this spectacle. Again, he was enthralled, which brought me more delight than the sights, which I’d seen many times.

By late afternoon, the small city of Idaho Falls lay just ahead. Preferring to enter new towns by morning rather than evening, we took an isolated camp beside a river. By morning, I checked oil. Down again. Rather than continue to fill my trany twice daily, I wondered if there’d be a way to fix both motorcycles in Idaho Falls. But what exactly does a drifter do when his steed offers semi-serious problems in unknown territory? Guess we’ll find out next month.

ack in 2013, Rick Barholz of Missoula Montana was lucky enough to take a 1941 Indian 741 (owned by a friend of his) b down to the Bonneville Salt Flats. From then on Rick knew what he wanted to do and a year later he was again at the Salt Flats, this time piloting his own Indian 741.

If you think that someone must have thrown a bunch of money at him that made things easy and suddenly he found himself riding his Indian across the salt, you would be sadly mistaken. Rick’s a normal Joe like the rest of us, so when he set out to build this bike he had to gather each piece and purchase it at a price that wouldn’t add up to a mint in vintage parts. He started with an empty set of engine and tranny cases and an idea for the overall design. He knew he wasn’t going to go the rich man’s route where he would be period correct; Rick just wanted to go fast. The work would be based around the motor and trans he needed to assemble.

Starting with the motor Rick scored a set of original flywheels and rods adding a set of Carillo forged pistons in the stock cylinders. He capped it off with a set of extensively modified flatheads. The bigger valves are actuated by a set of Rob Nichols LSR cams described as just humongous. A simple Mikuni VM carb was incorporated as a good carb for a base set up, and the whole mess is fired by a Morris Magneto. The motor was modified and assembled by Pete Blouin/