Leaving Parker the next morning I head west. The bike absolutely kicks butt. Cutting those slots released triple the horsepower. Now we are Godzilla. The Yamaha makes so much power that the clutch slips at anything past 4500 rpm. But it still feels giddy, popping and strutting its way past Glamis in through the back door to San Diego. I arrive at my friend Lynn's auto shop, where we replace the clutch plates. The clutch still slips. "Did you try adjusting the pushrod?" Lynn asks. Two minutes later the clutch is perfect. Gas it in first and the front end comes off the ground. This is the widowmaker two-stroke I remember. I take a celebratory ride down to the Pacific Ocean. Like I said, coast-to-coast, Big Daddy."Without valves there is truth," becomes my midlife mission statement. Three days on the road and I smell of oil and gas. I've had the engine apart twice and my right pant leg is turning black from exhaust blowby. My hands have a permanent film of grease and my fingernails are jet-black. I know I should feel bad about the Yamaha's high environmental costs, but at a steady 60 mph I'm guessing it's doing less damage than a large, malfunctioning petrochemical plant ... on fire.