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#Post#: 2458--------------------------------------------------
Cows and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance
By: banquo Date: August 29, 2018, 3:58 pm
---------------------------------------------------------
Kneeling in the mud on the verge of the Monzievaird road,
carburettor dismantled chaotically on an oily rag reeking of
spilt petrol, I hear quite distinctly the gush of the fire hose
over my right shoulder, which is aching marginally less than my
knee, itself protesting painfully at the enforced roadside
activity. The gushing continues unabated, closely followed by
the sound of wet mud, no doubt being catapulted onto the site of
my potential explosion hazard by some unknown fire appliance.
It's not at all clear how the Fire Service has arrived so
silently into the adjacent field but as I swing stiffly around,
I find not a watch of cheery firefighters, but a herd of cattle,
chewing contentedly on the cud, as they defecate and urinate
with equal vigour, fluttering their eyelashes benignly as they
study the unfolding drama. I had not appreciated the almost
religious fervour in which these ruminants hold the art of
motorcycle maintenance, and try, surreptitiously, to hide my
best cowhide jacket under some hanging branches, lest a stampede
ensue.
One of them sighs breathlessly, �You're wasting your time old
man; don't you know that most carburation problems are
electrical?�.
Another quotes Robert M. Pirsig, licking her lips lasciviously,
�to avoid repair of a motorcycle because it is a system is to
attack effects rather than causes; and as long as the attack is
upon effects only, no change is possible.�
A nut rolls off the casing where it was so carefully placed, and
disappears into the mud, as I consider these philosophical
bovine ramblings, and the truth therein.
Clearly, I'm on a hiding to nothing, and attempting the repair
of precision components at the roadside is never a good choice,
but the Mighty Falcone never leaves me stranded, so I'm at
something of a loss.
The misfire had started on the return from Glamis, just two
weeks earlier, but I was relaxed about that, as it's happened
before, and has always been the result of corrosion in the float
bowl, caused, I believe, by water dropping out of solution with
ethanol. It was a mistake then, to ignore it while I disappeared
down to Cumbria, to arrive home the night before the S&T,
stripping the float bowl off on the following morning, and
finding precisely nothing. This should really have come as no
surprise, as previous issues have occurred exclusively after the
winter lay-up, and the Mighty Falcone has been very well used
this year, with little opportunity for corrosion to occur. The
engine would start quite happily, and run fine up to about 40 �
50 mph at which point it would miss every second beat or so,
requiring nursing home with a very light throttle. Having left
it to this late date to discover the non-resolution of the
problem, I have no option but to pack up and leave, so roll bags
are loaded with clothes, beer and camping gear, and we head West
into the setting sun, riding at an even more ponderous pace than
usual.
Unusually, I haven't forgotten anything this year. Remembering
the lack of Friday catering from last time, I stop at Tesco, and
collect not one but two lunch specials, for the princely sum of
�6, confident that I shall not go hungry again this year.
The site is bustling with activity as I unstrap the bags, and
pull the tent out onto blissfully dry grass.
https://farm2.staticflickr.com/1896/43435148605_d0978fbfbb_z.jpg
https://flic.kr/p/29bduqvMF
https://flic.kr/p/29bduqv
by bancquo
https://www.flickr.com/photos/17279292@N03/,
on Flickr
It has become a tradition to erect the canvas to an overture of
beer, but having just returned from a 60th birthday party, where
all I could find was cans of lager, a tin of Carlsberg is
pressed into service, rather than the usual product of Williams
Bros. Tent duly in place, a second tin is pulled from the roll
bag, on the principle that it's better to down the lot before it
becomes lukewarm. Puzzlingly, this can is light; very light, and
although there's no sign of a hole, I discover that the entire
contents have ejected themselves into the roll bag, were they
have been very effectively mopped up by my sleeping bag, which
now resembles a beer soaked dishcloth. This is not good news.
�Probably the best lager in the world�, they say, but they don't
mention it comes in tins made of rice paper. My options are
strictly limited, and going home for a dry bag isn't one of
them, so I drape it soggily over the adjacent boundary posts,
where is sags soggily in the breeze, and then falls onto the
grass, like a lime green slug. Refusing to let this minor
setback affect the evening's entertainment, I resume setting up
camp, decanting my meagre possessions into the tent, and noting
that all the clothing smells distinctly of cheap lager and damp.
Fortunately, there are other distractions, and I endure an ear
bashing from Hamish for yet another Panther-less rally, admire
Dennis's Model 18, Gordon's Venom, and the girder AJS that he
sold and then bought back again, as you do.
https://farm2.staticflickr.com/1853/44340399351_039cf6618c_z.jpg
https://flic.kr/p/2ayd8VZDennis
camp
https://flic.kr/p/2ayd8VZ
by bancquo
https://www.flickr.com/photos/17279292@N03/,
on Flickr
https://farm2.staticflickr.com/1859/43435146235_cc82c8bb03_b.jpg
https://flic.kr/p/29bdtHDGordon
AJS
https://flic.kr/p/29bdtHD
by bancquo
https://www.flickr.com/photos/17279292@N03/,
on Flickr
The field is full of gigantic Whitworth spanners, as essential
maintenance is carried out before tomorrow's run. I meet a mad
Welshman, busily fettling an ancient AJS S2 V-Twin of 996cc,
which has been hastily rebuilt after seizing the rings into the
pistons due to lack of oil on the National the previous weekend,
but has somehow been pressed back into service using rings from
an MGB-GT V8 filed down to fit the smaller bore. There's even
time to take a few evening shots as the sun descends behind the
hills, and the bar opens for business, as I attempt to dismiss
the prospect of the soggy night ahead by the judicious
application of more alcohol, in good company.
https://farm2.staticflickr.com/1892/42532783100_a4455ee855_b.jpg
https://flic.kr/p/27NtCAyenfield
repair
https://flic.kr/p/27NtCAy
by bancquo
https://www.flickr.com/photos/17279292@N03/,
on Flickr
As night falls, and the dew descends, I recover the slug from
the fence, observing no discernible improvement in its dampness
quotient, and neck another couple of Stellas in the bar, to
prepare for the night ahead. Hamish and Margaret provide a
warming cup of tea and a blanket, suggesting this may isolate me
from the beer bedding, but it's very clear that trying to insert
self and blanket inside the wetness of the mummy bag isn't going
to work, so I take the alternative route of sliding in fully
clothed, on the assumption that I'll be asleep before the beer
finds its way through the layers, and indeed this system works
quite effectively, although with little benefit to bodily
hygiene. As Saturday dawns, and I wriggle from my damp cocoon, I
am reminded of that smell when you used to pass pubs on a
Saturday afternoon, where the whole street stinks of stale beer;
there are worse smells I suppose, and I spend the rest of the
day exuding a nostalgic odour of ancient pubs, minus the
Woodbines. I try the dew-covered bike, which starts quite
happily, and thuds its contented heartbeat as it quivers
expectantly on the side-stand, and take a helmet-less trundle
over to the starting point, where I'm allocated No. 7, for an
early start, which later proves to be fortuitous.
https://farm2.staticflickr.com/1887/44292111912_9aabe9970a_b.jpg
https://flic.kr/p/2atWDKWstart
https://flic.kr/p/2atWDKW
by bancquo
https://www.flickr.com/photos/17279292@N03/,
on Flickr
I'm joined by an architect friend from Comrie, accompanied by
his neighbour, who's originally from Cheshire, and used to race
a 350 Manx Norton and act as the acrobatic passenger in Trials
sidecars back in the sixties. The entry level is still sound,
with over 80 applications, and there's a steady throng of day
visitors, who have missed out on the camaraderie and the joys of
wet camping, by their staunch refusal to embrace the joys of a
life under canvas. Having already breakfasted on the remains of
my Tesco lunch deal, I miss out on the bacon rolls sizzling on
the griddle and stick my numbers, sprig of heather and route map
onto the bike.
The variety of entrants is, as usual, vast, with everything from
Sunbeams from the twenties, to Archie's 1980 Honda, and a bit of
everything in between. Favourites for me, featuring the sublime
to the ridiculous, are Bill Dunlop's parallel port Trophy (the
only expensive bike he's ever bought and not regretted he says)
to the rusting hulk (or genuine patina) of a Welsh OK Supreme,
purchased by the owner's grandfather, and stashed in a shed for
28 years, before being donated to the speechless grandson.
https://farm2.staticflickr.com/1883/44292109772_4073ee5b38_z.jpg
https://flic.kr/p/2atWD83OK
Boy
https://flic.kr/p/2atWD83
by bancquo
https://www.flickr.com/photos/17279292@N03/,
on Flickr
https://farm2.staticflickr.com/1860/30473801478_b9034fb93f_z.jpg
https://flic.kr/p/NqScujBill
trophy
https://flic.kr/p/NqScuj
by bancquo
https://www.flickr.com/photos/17279292@N03/,
on Flickr
https://farm2.staticflickr.com/1858/43624257894_b3ff604764_z.jpg
https://flic.kr/p/29sVJ2uOK
Supreme
https://flic.kr/p/29sVJ2u
by bancquo
https://www.flickr.com/photos/17279292@N03/,
on Flickr
The forecast dry day has not materialised, and a fine drizzle
descends from a brisk westerly wind, although the worst of it
seems to pass us by, and it's dry by the time my slot arrives at
10:06, and the flag descends. Immediately, it's clear that all
is not well, and yesterday's mid-range misfire has descended to
low RPM too, so we splutter and backfire our way out of the
camp, and clatter over the cattle grid, praying that the engine
won't die and result in the public humiliation of failure before
we even leave the start.
https://farm2.staticflickr.com/1896/44292110072_fd4845db9e_z.jpg
https://flic.kr/p/2atWDddmichelle2
https://flic.kr/p/2atWDdd
by bancquo
https://www.flickr.com/photos/17279292@N03/,
on Flickr
The bike judders as it fires every 4th revolution or so, and it
seems it's only the massive flywheel energy that prevents us
from stalling altogether. The route takes us out the South
Crieff road, with the engine becoming ever more reluctant, and
it's clear we're never going to get round in this state. I spot
the turn for Monzievaird, and bank into the gravel strewn path,
before parking up at a muddy field entrance, where the engine
dies, and won't restart. Stopping on the route is a
non-preferred option, not out of embarrassment per se, but to
avoid others being distracted from their own plans in trying to
offer assistance.
This is a first since 2002, when the machine was first
purchased. It always starts, and a failure to do so indicates
something is very wrong. I remove the plug, which is badly
sooted, and replace with a spare, but it still won't start. The
spark is there, but doesn't look great, so I open up the points
gap, and scrape the contact faces as best I can, before
resetting. This involves removing the auto advance/retard
mechanism, and it's this nut which drops into the mud as the
story commences. An hour or so passes, as I resolutely fail to
find anything obviously wrong. The mid-range misfire had
suggested some issue with carburation, but the Dellorto is a
simple affair, and if it will run at tickover and at full
throttle, there's nothing much to stop it working well enough in
the mid range. The cattle munch contentedly as they study this
unfolding drama, tittering to themselves at the incompetence of
this dishevelled and hairy apparition, as they burp methane in
their personal contribution to global warming. It's clear they
know exactly what the problem is, but they know it's important
that the hairy human finds it for himself. Even the handlebar
clock has stopped working. The hands are going round, but are
several hours slow, as I check my watch and consider my options.
Recovery is one, but that would take bike and I back to Perth,
and leave tent and soggy bag in Cultybraggan. That would be bad
enough, but even worse is the prospect of missing both lunch and
the evening buffet and bar. My watch suggests that I've been
there for over an hour, and I can hear the last of the entrants
chugging by the road end, until all is silent. There's no way of
checking the coil or condenser, but the contacts to both are
sound. The HT lead is removed and inspected, and appears fine,
so I give the spare plug a dry and final wire brushing, and and
button it all back together. The cows snigger, and I'm forced to
give them a good talking to, until they look a bit shame faced,
as well they might. I kick it over, and it starts, settling into
an uneven and lumpy tickover. I set the idle to a fast tickover,
generating a huge backfire, which sends the cattle stampeding
across the field, with their tails between their legs,
demonstrating that there's at least some justice in the world.
Helmet and gloves are jumbled on carelessly, lest the motor give
up the unequal struggle, and finally we slew our way out of the
muddy hole, and onto the huge potholes and gravel of the wrong
road. This is no error, but a decision. Knowing that I'm 90
minutes behind schedule, and guessing that the correct route
would have taken a couple of hours, I decide to take a more
direct route, and focus on the vision of steaming steak pie,
rather than religiously following the prescribed directions. I
know that lunch is in Killin, and that the shortest route will
be simply to take the road west via Lochearnhead, but this seems
too monstrous a cop-out to endure, and so I choose the
compromise of a short cut to the Glen Turret distillery, where
the route meanders through the Sma' Glen, and over Glen Quaich
to Kenmore. Twice as far as the direct route, but far more
entertaining, as long as we don't grind to a halt in the middle
of nowhere. A D�ja Vu moment occurs, as I overtake Jimmy Steel
with his nodding pigeon Sunbeam 3 �, repeating the same event in
the same place as a couple of years back, and I misfire my way
past another couple of bikes and an outfit, before making the
turn at Amulree.
Continued below
#Post#: 2459--------------------------------------------------
Cows and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance (2)
By: banquo Date: August 29, 2018, 3:59 pm
---------------------------------------------------------
The bike is running better now that it's warmed up, and although
the mid range misfire is as bad as before, at least it seems
happier at lower engine speeds. We get stuck behind an old
outfit, taking up most of the road width, and having no
confidence in the motor's ability to make a swift pass on one of
the passing places, stay there for a couple of miles, until a
long, downhill straight has the rider beckoning us past, as we
swing past the farm and over the old stone bridge to the
infamous incline to the moor above. A number of casualties are
resting at the side of the road, including the patinated OK,
which is no longer OK, having ignited the corks of its clutch,
and we're soon stuck behind another outfit, which smokes its way
competently around the double hairpin.
https://farm2.staticflickr.com/1891/29412780057_c09b92d209_b.jpg
https://flic.kr/p/LP7bMxJake
Hairpin rotate
https://flic.kr/p/LP7bMx
by bancquo
https://www.flickr.com/photos/17279292@N03/,
on Flickr
Fortunately, our engine continues to chug around the same bends,
and there's no substitute for low gearing when negotiating this
route. The outfit rider frantically waves us past, oblivious to
the symphony of bangs and splutters from the protesting engine,
but we do manage to struggle past on an uphill section, and find
a clear road to the summit, and then the steep descent into
Kenmore. The brakes, which were rebuilt just a few weeks back,
have chosen this time to bed-in nicely, increasing the front
lever travel to the throttle grip, so the low gearing is once
again employed to retard the heavy machine, and avert a
catastrophic one time only top speed into the loch below.
The exhaust bellows embarrassingly as we thread our way between
the timbered shortbread tin of Kenmore, and although we're
supposed to turn right, and thread our way over the hills via
Glen Lyon, I decide that the direct route to Killin is the more
sensible option, and nurse the reluctant Moto-Guzzi along the
loch-side, where the sun breaks through to alleviate the
mechanical gloom, and summer has returned by the time we swing
into the carefully coned off car park, where Peter is
frantically attempting to arrange the incomers, without blocking
the four-wheeled stragglers who have not vacated the allocated
bike park.
https://farm2.staticflickr.com/1863/44292108792_49e487bed4.jpg
https://flic.kr/p/2atWCQ9Trophy
Killin
https://flic.kr/p/2atWCQ9
by bancquo
https://www.flickr.com/photos/17279292@N03/,
on Flickr
https://farm2.staticflickr.com/1851/43435148795_08a412708b_b.jpg
https://flic.kr/p/29bdutMkillin
https://flic.kr/p/29bdutM
by bancquo
https://www.flickr.com/photos/17279292@N03/,
on Flickr
My foreshortened route seems to have worked out well enough, and
although there are more than six machines ahead of me, lunch is
only just starting, so I refresh myself with a frankly
disappointing pint of the only real ale on tap, that seems to
have been lying in the pipes all night. Outside, the bikes
arrive in fits and starts, and concern is raised about the lack
of space, so we're obliged to move the bikes to the front for a
quick getaway, and to make more space. A Velocette owner with a
distinct Yorkshire accent doesn't trust the Guzzi's side-stand,
and moves his machine to avoid a potential domino effect, as I
break out the tools and once more change the sooty plug. The
neat toolkit has become a shambles, having been unceremoniously
dumped into the panniers back at the cows, lest the engine
choose to die on me while packing them properly, and there's a
cacophony of jingling bells as the contents spill over the
gravel. I have cause to be thankful for my Yorkshire companion,
who later in the day presents me with the plug key that had been
left behind after the stop. Thank you that man!
https://farm2.staticflickr.com/1886/43632598214_768ff812dd_b.jpg
https://flic.kr/p/29tEtj7plug
key
https://flic.kr/p/29tEtj7
by bancquo
https://www.flickr.com/photos/17279292@N03/,
on Flickr
A tiny Ducati, piloted by a friendly and diminutive Irishman
ploughs through the gravel, and slithers to a halt in front of a
conveniently placed cycle rack, which, disappointingly, is not
quite wide enough to accept the front tyre. The centre stand
wobbles precariously on the gravel and there's no side stand, so
we bodily lift the amazingly light machine sideways, and prop it
against the wall of the hotel, where it gazes bemusedly at the
rapidly growing throng.
https://farm2.staticflickr.com/1881/43435146775_70dc4130b4_b.jpg
https://flic.kr/p/29bdtSXducTI
56
https://flic.kr/p/29bdtSX
by bancquo
https://www.flickr.com/photos/17279292@N03/,
on Flickr
The immaculate little C15 has sprung a major oil leak, soaking
the rider's left boot (�It's a BSA,� I say, and immediately
regret the unkind attempt at humour) and a beautiful yellow
Trials Cub, which is just being run-in following restoration,
creates a splash of colour.
https://farm2.staticflickr.com/1866/42532781870_8014e9287c_z.jpg
https://flic.kr/p/27NtCemoily
C15
https://flic.kr/p/27NtCem
by bancquo
https://www.flickr.com/photos/17279292@N03/,
on Flickr
https://farm2.staticflickr.com/1852/30473801348_fdfa62fd23_z.jpg
https://flic.kr/p/NqScs5cubby
https://flic.kr/p/NqScs5
by bancquo
https://www.flickr.com/photos/17279292@N03/,
on Flickr
Like most of these events, being a participant means you never
get to see everything. At the start, you're busy getting ready,
and en route, you only see the ones you pass, so the lunchtime
stop is an opportunity to see at least some of the machinery you
missed, including those non-entrants who are just along for the
spectating.
Feeling a steak pie that has my name on it, I throw everything
(except the plug key) back in the panniers and head back in. By
some miraculous but flawed system, the hotel staff are supposed
to know what you ordered from your lunch voucher, but the system
breaks down once you have handed over your paper and sat down
(especially as some move tables to be with their mates, or in
the case of my Yorkshire saviour, to avoid a shoogly table) and
soon nearly everyone is having the excellent steak pie, while
some poor man next to me is prodding away disappointedly at some
scampi, although he's sure he ordered the pie, as he stares
enviously at mine (which was excellent by the way).
Lunch over, it's time to plan the route home, which appears
deceptively simple, apart from an unidentifiable right turn
within the village. Surely that must be the right turn over the
bridge at Falls of Dochart, but it's not, and we find an
unexpected turn off the main street onto a road that I never
knew existed. Actually, to call it a road may be something of an
exaggeration. In some places it's more like a quarry, and in
others, more like a field (and a Geordie friend insists he saw
someone out with a Flymo cutting the grass), but it wanders ever
westwards, much further than I thought possible, before finally
crossing the river a mile or so upstream, with only a short rise
to the bustling A85. The ride back is straightforward enough,
apart from the climb up Glen Ogle, which sees our forward
velocity dropping to a near crawl, as dropping a gear would
simply take us into the worst of the misfiring territory, but we
soon catch up with some even slower tourists, who lead us gently
back to camp, as they gawp at the scenery.
https://farm2.staticflickr.com/1853/44292110342_c63e3ab7dc_b.jpg
https://flic.kr/p/2atWDhSliam1
https://flic.kr/p/2atWDhS
by bancquo
https://www.flickr.com/photos/17279292@N03/,
on Flickr
Having been unable to leave the green slug outside to dry, due
to this morning's drizzle, it finally gets pegged out in the
relative warmth in quite a stiff breeze, while the tent interior
smells like a rugby player's jockstrap, the air thick and
cloying. I manage to get the leathers off and change into jeans
and tee that are dryish, and smell only faintly of yesterday's
Carlsberg, get the tools out once more, and waste some more time
going over ground that's already been trampled into submission
by my previous futile efforts.
This time, the carburettor comes right off, following the time
consuming process of removing the ham can air filter body.
Dismantling on grass is never wise, and I create small piles of
parts on bags and oily rags, hoping and praying that nothing
gets lost. I've started laying a polythene sheet under the bike
at home, to increase the chance of capturing those parts that
spring out, or fall, often ending up in places that seem quite
impossible, but of course don't have that essential tool with
me.
Inevitably, there's nothing to see. Float bowl, jets, needle
valve and inlet filter are all clean; the slide and needle seem
fine, and although the brass piston for the enrichener seems a
bit sticky, if it were staying open, the tickover would be worst
affected, and it isn't. When all's said and done, I know fine
well it's ignition, but like those days when you get stuck n a
traffic jam, and take a twenty mile detour that takes longer
than waiting in the queue, it always feels better to do
something, than do nothing. And I can dismantle neither a coil
not a capacitor, so the carburettor is the only solace
available.
There isn't time to put it back together, so it's time for
another tin, and off to dinner, another quite excellent buffet
washed down with more Stella. I sneak off again before it gets
dark, collect my almost dry sleeping bag, and put most of the
carburettor back together, but discretion gets the better of me
as night falls, and the final assembly will have to wait until
morning. A few more beers, and I'm inexplicably sleepy and take
an uncharacteristic early night in the beer flavoured tent.
Sleep comes easily, and I'm horrified to discover it's 8:00 when
I finally wake up.
Although I think the chances of making the Sunday Social run are
slim, I at least want to try, and head onto the blissfully dry
grass to complete the assembly, checking the points and plug
once more. At one point, there's a tinkling noise, and something
bounces off the frame and flies into the grass. I think it's a
washer from the points, but sifting the stems through my fingers
and even trawling with a magnet doesn't bring the mystery object
into view. Fitting the carburettor back onto the manifold, I
discover that the nut from the clamp has gone, and must have
been hanging on the last thread. I steal an M6 from the air-box
mounts, and it goes back together with that.
A sympathetic Gordon arrives with an aluminium plate of bacon
and eggs and a mug of tea, the last of his weekend supplies,
which enable me to attack the rebuild with renewed vigour. I
decide there's no point in sticking the air-box back on, tape
the breather out of the way, and attempt a start. It's not good;
the engine fires, but any attempt to open the throttle causes it
to die, or misfire badly. Departure time approaching rapidly, I
decide to call it a day, and try and nurse it home, where I can
at least lose my parts in the relative comfort of my own garage.
I spend some quality time looking at the bikes, and am impressed
with the Rudge Ulster, whose patient owner explains the bronze
radial head, the dual cable braking with spring-loaded anti-lock
on the back, and the hand-operated centre-stand.
https://farm2.staticflickr.com/1871/42532780690_6afcb59310_z.jpg
https://flic.kr/p/27NtBT1Ulster
32
https://flic.kr/p/27NtBT1
by bancquo
https://www.flickr.com/photos/17279292@N03/,
on Flickr
Hamish's Panther outfit also gets plenty of attention, with a
well wrapped up Margaret on board, with its stripped down
sidecar and 'well patinated' finish all round. It was playing up
on the Saturday, but recovered once a fly was removed from the
carburettor...
https://farm2.staticflickr.com/1878/43435170715_bff4fbddb9_b.jpg
https://flic.kr/p/29bdAZHhamish
mags
https://flic.kr/p/29bdAZH
by bancquo
https://www.flickr.com/photos/17279292@N03/,
on Flickr
The others ride off into the sunshine, as the tent is
dismantled, and everything except the leaky beer tins is
returned to the slightly damp bags, gear is donned, and of
course the bike won't start. Several sweaty minutes later, the
gear all comes off again, and a very wet plug is removed and
replaced with a dry but sooty one, which gets a quick wire
brushing before insertion. Now it does start, but it's misfiring
badly. I increase the throttle, and screw the stop in to hold it
there while I put everything back on, and then it dies again....
The wee OK rattles its way back into camp, a brave attempt to
repair the clutch with 'corks' cut from a Cornflakes packet
having failed to stand the course, but 10/10 for effort and for
initiative in making the best use of available materials.
Finally, after a third attempt, I manage to get the bike moving,
deciding to avoid the main road, and take the low road to
Crieff, and from there back to Perth. However, I'm not far out
of the camp before a loud rattle reminds me that I forgot to
tighten the rear tank mount where the air-box steady came off,
so a quick change of plan, and we slip into my friend's driveway
for emergency repairs and a much needed mug of tea, joined by
the neighbour, who clutches some excellent photos of his early
exploits with the trials outfits and road racing, including one
which he thinks is of our very own Beveridge Park, sometime in
the mid-sixties.
Fortunately, the bike starts after this welcome refreshment,
although it's running just as badly as before. I take the main
road after all (indecisiveness being a fatal personality flaw)
and let rip some massive backfires as we leave the village, but
once again, things improve as the engine warms up, and we take a
leisurely ride back, following one of those miniature car-based
campers, which we're too slow to overtake.
Of course, I'm completely certain by now that there's nothing
whatsoever wrong with the carburettor, and get straight onto
eBay once the bike is stashed away in the garage, to order a new
copper HT lead, end terminations, plug cap and a new Lucas coil,
and of course the coil arrives a few days later, is connected up
with the old points, capacitor and HT lead, and the bike starts
and runs just fine.
As a salutary lesson on the futility of dismantling carburettors
in an attempt to repair an ignition problem, this has been a
fairly perfect example, but I console myself with the fact that
we got there, did a somewhat foreshortened run, and got home,
all under our own steam, and didn't let the minor inconveniences
of soggy bags and recalcitrant engine spoil the weekend one bit.
Good company and copious quantities of beer see to that, and I
can't wait to see what perils and derring-do await me on next
year's event.
At some point, and it should be sooner rather than later, I must
make a point of riding back to that field gate and apologise
profusely to those curious cows; after all, they were right all
along, and we should give them due credit for that.
#Post#: 2461--------------------------------------------------
Re: Cows and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance
By: Dave Date: August 30, 2018, 8:22 am
---------------------------------------------------------
Great story Jake, if you are a member of the Guzzi Owners Club
you should submit the story for publication I Gambalunga.
#Post#: 2462--------------------------------------------------
Re: Cows and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance
By: banquo Date: August 31, 2018, 1:51 pm
---------------------------------------------------------
Thanks Dave; I've sent it for our own club's newsletter, and the
VMCC; I suppose Gambalunga could be added, although they may be
getting fed up with my articles by now... ;D
#Post#: 2467--------------------------------------------------
Re: Cows and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance
By: JamesNFalconaut Date: September 5, 2018, 12:05 am
---------------------------------------------------------
That's a yarn and a half Banquo. A fine write-up, and I enjoyed
looking up "shoogly".
Good pics of your falc on the wing - you can't see she's running
rough.
#Post#: 2468--------------------------------------------------
Re: Cows and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance
By: banquo Date: September 5, 2018, 8:56 am
---------------------------------------------------------
Thus proving that the camera does lie!
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