Unfortunately, the card an out before I was all the way down, but hey. The fun part is there.
Tuesday 12 November 2013
Grossglockner: the movie
Unfortunately, the card an out before I was all the way down, but hey. The fun part is there.
Friday 8 November 2013
The Trouble with Bike Photo-shoots
Some time ago, when I went to my mechanic's, I was starting up the very steep stairs to the office/ till, when I overheard one of my favourite biker comments.
There was a guy waiting there for his bike to be ready, flicking through bike mags to pass the time. I don't know if he heard my boots on the stairs, but he certainly couldn't have seen me when he said he hated bike ads because the scantily clad model was always blocking his view of the bike.
On that note, please see Ducati's latest photoshoot.
Thursday 12 September 2013
Street Theatre
When I'd recovered somewhat from the immediate exhaustion, I got organised to clean the bike. It looked like rain later, so I figured I'd get her clean and shiny and then go park her under cover before the clouds broke.
Where I live, she's parked on the quiet, suburban street. Right next to a house have some renovations to its facade. So me, in jeans and a jersey, cleaning a motorbike, nonetheless afforded the building crew with hours of harmless entertainment.
I don't think they realised I could pretty much hear every word.
They couldn't decide if it was my bike. Then they thought it must be, because I was lavishing so much attention on the details. So clearly it couldn't be a real Harley. What? Oh, because I couldn't be more than 21. (Pauses to preen slightly and bite back a laugh). In the UK, that's too young to ride something as powerful as a Harley, even just the baby 883.
One of them wandered over to check out the tank, and yes, mate. That really is a genuine Harley Davidson marque. And yes, she's mine. And no, I'm not 21 anymore. But I didn't say a word, and neither did he. There was some more discussion after that, and some grumbling as earlier bets were lost.
I finished my polishing and swapped the bucket for my lid. I think my riding off to go and park her safely was the highlight of their lunch-break. After all, I do live on a very quiet suburban street.
Where I live, she's parked on the quiet, suburban street. Right next to a house have some renovations to its facade. So me, in jeans and a jersey, cleaning a motorbike, nonetheless afforded the building crew with hours of harmless entertainment.
I don't think they realised I could pretty much hear every word.
They couldn't decide if it was my bike. Then they thought it must be, because I was lavishing so much attention on the details. So clearly it couldn't be a real Harley. What? Oh, because I couldn't be more than 21. (Pauses to preen slightly and bite back a laugh). In the UK, that's too young to ride something as powerful as a Harley, even just the baby 883.
One of them wandered over to check out the tank, and yes, mate. That really is a genuine Harley Davidson marque. And yes, she's mine. And no, I'm not 21 anymore. But I didn't say a word, and neither did he. There was some more discussion after that, and some grumbling as earlier bets were lost.
I finished my polishing and swapped the bucket for my lid. I think my riding off to go and park her safely was the highlight of their lunch-break. After all, I do live on a very quiet suburban street.
Miles to go before I sleep
So the train was delayed. Calais terminal is not the most interesting place to hang out, particularly when you're running low on Euro-cash.
I did get told off by a Triumph enthusiast for wearing a Triumph rain-suit on a Harley. What can I say? It fits and it works. At least, it works when I do the velcro correctly.
And on the train, when we finally got there, we met a BMW-riding photographer and his Ultra Glide (HD) riding friend, also on their way back from Faaker See. And very impressed at two women riding the distances we tend to. Although I really don't know why. With the right seat and the right bars, and the right amount of power in the engine, it's really not that hard. Insert key, take bike off stand, start up, put in gear, open throttle and hey presto!
But they wished us a safe ride home, and we all debarked together and headed for the M20. The trouble with returning to the UK is that I always need about 10 miles to remember it's miles. And to drive on the left. And to stop converting all distances from km to m in my head.
I had plenty of time, though. The M25 had developed roadworks in my absence, and I had to come off a junction later than I wanted to, and head north on the M23 - which I hate. Almost as much as I loathe the M25 itself.
Sigh.
But I got home in one pice, despite the cold, the wet and the general exhaustion; got unloaded, got the house unlocked and collapsed in a heap.
I did get told off by a Triumph enthusiast for wearing a Triumph rain-suit on a Harley. What can I say? It fits and it works. At least, it works when I do the velcro correctly.
And on the train, when we finally got there, we met a BMW-riding photographer and his Ultra Glide (HD) riding friend, also on their way back from Faaker See. And very impressed at two women riding the distances we tend to. Although I really don't know why. With the right seat and the right bars, and the right amount of power in the engine, it's really not that hard. Insert key, take bike off stand, start up, put in gear, open throttle and hey presto!
But they wished us a safe ride home, and we all debarked together and headed for the M20. The trouble with returning to the UK is that I always need about 10 miles to remember it's miles. And to drive on the left. And to stop converting all distances from km to m in my head.
I had plenty of time, though. The M25 had developed roadworks in my absence, and I had to come off a junction later than I wanted to, and head north on the M23 - which I hate. Almost as much as I loathe the M25 itself.
Sigh.
But I got home in one pice, despite the cold, the wet and the general exhaustion; got unloaded, got the house unlocked and collapsed in a heap.
I'm sorry, I haven't a clue.
My mother told me, after yet another random stranger requested directions from me, that I should wear a little Information Officer badge.
I would prefer not to be asked. And when I'm a tourist, I don't expect to be. Particularly when I'm looking fairly lost myself. And I don't know what it is: maybe the hi-vis, maybe the helmet endgendering expectations of knowledgeable courier, but even is Brugge, in my rain-suit, looking for signs of the rest of the party, tourists ask me for directions.
I ask you, does this look like the outfit of a tourist information board?
I would prefer not to be asked. And when I'm a tourist, I don't expect to be. Particularly when I'm looking fairly lost myself. And I don't know what it is: maybe the hi-vis, maybe the helmet endgendering expectations of knowledgeable courier, but even is Brugge, in my rain-suit, looking for signs of the rest of the party, tourists ask me for directions.
I ask you, does this look like the outfit of a tourist information board?
The Rain in Spain
We agreed to have our final lunch in Brugge, which is a convenient and popular stop between Europe and the Eurotunnel. It's probably popular because it has the most chilled out parking rules for bikes I've ever met.
Well, that and the beer. It wasn't a warm day, so I was determined by the time we arrived that I wanted frites. Nice, hot, carb-loaded frites. And a coffee. And possibly a waffle, if fresh and hot.
We were meeting Steve there, after we'd got split up on the way due to his bike having a mechanical issue, which had developed after he dropped it on the Grossglockner pass.
He'd been parking it up on deceptively dodgy camber, and it just toppled, right into Lynn's bike, which I caught, while she helped Steve up with his. I was still on mine, and hadn't even put my stand on yet. I wasn't in neutral, and almost lurched down the mountain-side in my haste to get parked and catch the bike next to me.
Brugge produced very nice hot frites, and then forgot to charge us for them. I do like Brugge. But the clouds decided they were fascinated by this strange biker bunch and rolled in for a closer look.
Then the rain started. And didn't let up until we'd got to Calais.
The rain in Spain may fall mainly on the plain, but the rain in Flanders falls on any bike it can find. It never fails, either.
Well, that and the beer. It wasn't a warm day, so I was determined by the time we arrived that I wanted frites. Nice, hot, carb-loaded frites. And a coffee. And possibly a waffle, if fresh and hot.
We were meeting Steve there, after we'd got split up on the way due to his bike having a mechanical issue, which had developed after he dropped it on the Grossglockner pass.
He'd been parking it up on deceptively dodgy camber, and it just toppled, right into Lynn's bike, which I caught, while she helped Steve up with his. I was still on mine, and hadn't even put my stand on yet. I wasn't in neutral, and almost lurched down the mountain-side in my haste to get parked and catch the bike next to me.
Brugge produced very nice hot frites, and then forgot to charge us for them. I do like Brugge. But the clouds decided they were fascinated by this strange biker bunch and rolled in for a closer look.
Then the rain started. And didn't let up until we'd got to Calais.
The rain in Spain may fall mainly on the plain, but the rain in Flanders falls on any bike it can find. It never fails, either.
Autobahn moments
There is, these days, a speed limit on most German Autobahns. It's 130kph, like most of Europe. It's also seldom enforced, which is great for those of us in a hurry. We hit something between 85-90mph (135-145kph) for large chunks of the way home. When not held up by roadworks and traffic marmalades. Speed is good fun, and you don't really notice how fast you're going until you look at the speedo, and realise you need to slow down before you cross into a country that does believe in speed cameras. I have these autobahn moments everywhere. It's only in Germany that I can be nonchalant about getting away with them.
We got to Luxembourg, filled up and wondered why we couldn't fill up there more than once, as petrol is significantly cheaper in Luxembourg than in its neighbours. Oh well. Can't have everything.
But I noticed, along with the pretty price, I had an oil leak. This time, it was coming from the oil tank. Which made it pretty harmless if I could keep it off my belt and tires, and also entirely my fault.
Being hyper-aware of my new parts and their appetites, as well as slightly paranoid about oil levels anyway, I had topped up my oil before leaving Villach. Just topped it up a bit much...
and the faster you go, the hotter things get and the more oil you need, and also the more the oil expands.
Still, no harm done, unless you count the waste of oil and the blister on my finger where I burnt it on the engine wiping up the overspill.
We got to Luxembourg, filled up and wondered why we couldn't fill up there more than once, as petrol is significantly cheaper in Luxembourg than in its neighbours. Oh well. Can't have everything.
But I noticed, along with the pretty price, I had an oil leak. This time, it was coming from the oil tank. Which made it pretty harmless if I could keep it off my belt and tires, and also entirely my fault.
Being hyper-aware of my new parts and their appetites, as well as slightly paranoid about oil levels anyway, I had topped up my oil before leaving Villach. Just topped it up a bit much...
and the faster you go, the hotter things get and the more oil you need, and also the more the oil expands.
Still, no harm done, unless you count the waste of oil and the blister on my finger where I burnt it on the engine wiping up the overspill.
Luxembourg!... Or not.
We were aiming for the Ibis off the motorway in Luxembourg City. We managed, thanks to diversions and delays, to get to Wilgartswiesen before it was too dark and too late, and we too hungry and tired, to carry on.
Wilgartswiesen is a little town about 60 miles from Luxembourg. We were close, but no cigar. And ignorant of how close we were. It looked absolutely dead. There were a few signs for Gasthaus, but they looked very closed. Um.
Frank spotted another Gasthaus sign, with an arrow pointing up the hill. Lynn and I looked at each other, with vivid memories of a 500m hike up a very steep hill to investigate an unavailable hotel on the way down to Faaker See. We got back on the bikes this time, and rode up.
Just as well, it was quite a long way up the hill, but it was open. It was half-empty. It was also a spa, and a very nice hotel with lovely food and fluffy dressing gowns laid on (and everything). I wish I'd been staying longer, and I may have to go back. Especially as they actually had something on their restaurant menu I could eat!
(Seriously, Germanic countries are not a good place to say "Ich bin vegetarier, und ich kann kein milchprodukte haben." They tend to look at you suspiciously and edge away).
Wilgartswiesen is a little town about 60 miles from Luxembourg. We were close, but no cigar. And ignorant of how close we were. It looked absolutely dead. There were a few signs for Gasthaus, but they looked very closed. Um.
Frank spotted another Gasthaus sign, with an arrow pointing up the hill. Lynn and I looked at each other, with vivid memories of a 500m hike up a very steep hill to investigate an unavailable hotel on the way down to Faaker See. We got back on the bikes this time, and rode up.
Just as well, it was quite a long way up the hill, but it was open. It was half-empty. It was also a spa, and a very nice hotel with lovely food and fluffy dressing gowns laid on (and everything). I wish I'd been staying longer, and I may have to go back. Especially as they actually had something on their restaurant menu I could eat!
(Seriously, Germanic countries are not a good place to say "Ich bin vegetarier, und ich kann kein milchprodukte haben." They tend to look at you suspiciously and edge away).
Traffic jams and ear worms
When we left Villach on Sunday morning, we were ignorant of the chaos that awaited us on the roads. We knew there'd be traffic, and a load of bikes, because the rally was ending and that meant about 100,000 people going home.
The police had switched over from checking bikes to checking cars - apparently there is a certain amount of crime attached to Faaker See. About 15 bikes were stolen this year, and about 10 were recovered from one Dutch national when the cops checked his truck. No wonder they like you to carry your papers.
Anyway, everything was all right through Austria. It was busy and there were queues, but you could filter. The Austrians have a delightful practice of forming and emergency lane space between the queues of cars, up which bikes can stroll at leisure. Provided, of course, no actual emergency vehicle comes along.
Then we hit Germany. And halted.
The German schools were going back this week, apparently, so it wasn't just the rally-goers but what seemed like the entire German population heading home. At one petrol stop, we waited half an hour for access to a pump.
On top of which, the Germans, like the British, consider summer to be the best time for roadworks and diversions.
Years ago, on the M4 near Reading, I got stuck in a similar cone-defined marmalade, and passed the time by rewriting a far too cheerful tune, which ran on an increasingly sarcastic loop (which the Germans call an "ear-worm") through my head as I inched my way across Bavaria:
"Deck the roads with lots of back ups/ tralalalala, lala, lala
Tis the season to have roadworks/ tralalalala, lala, lala
Tempers fray, road-rage apparent/ tralala, lalala, la, la, la
Everyone is getting nowhere/ tralalalala, lala, lala"
The police had switched over from checking bikes to checking cars - apparently there is a certain amount of crime attached to Faaker See. About 15 bikes were stolen this year, and about 10 were recovered from one Dutch national when the cops checked his truck. No wonder they like you to carry your papers.
Anyway, everything was all right through Austria. It was busy and there were queues, but you could filter. The Austrians have a delightful practice of forming and emergency lane space between the queues of cars, up which bikes can stroll at leisure. Provided, of course, no actual emergency vehicle comes along.
Then we hit Germany. And halted.
The German schools were going back this week, apparently, so it wasn't just the rally-goers but what seemed like the entire German population heading home. At one petrol stop, we waited half an hour for access to a pump.
On top of which, the Germans, like the British, consider summer to be the best time for roadworks and diversions.
Years ago, on the M4 near Reading, I got stuck in a similar cone-defined marmalade, and passed the time by rewriting a far too cheerful tune, which ran on an increasingly sarcastic loop (which the Germans call an "ear-worm") through my head as I inched my way across Bavaria:
"Deck the roads with lots of back ups/ tralalalala, lala, lala
Tis the season to have roadworks/ tralalalala, lala, lala
Tempers fray, road-rage apparent/ tralala, lalala, la, la, la
Everyone is getting nowhere/ tralalalala, lala, lala"
Saturday 7 September 2013
Top Twister Tips
1- don't pave twisties with smooth brick in pretty patterns
2- don't take the inside line when you can't see around the bend
3- don't get so distracted by the scenery you forget to turn
4- don't overtake someone in the middle of a hairpin bend
5- don't sneeze halfway round a hairpin bend (trust me on this one)
2- don't take the inside line when you can't see around the bend
3- don't get so distracted by the scenery you forget to turn
4- don't overtake someone in the middle of a hairpin bend
5- don't sneeze halfway round a hairpin bend (trust me on this one)
Crossing Boundaries
We went on a tri-national run the other day. Over the Wurzenpass into Slovenia and then across to Italy, through Travisio and Cave du Pledil before going back into Slovenia and around the Triglav national park. We had lunch on the second border crossing, at a surprising little gem of a place, where our waitress turned out to be transplanted Dutch. So, to recap, 4 bikers from London comprising Canadian, Irish and 2 South Africans, on the Italian/Slovenian border, served by a Dutch lady. You just have to love the EU sometimes.
Later, we had coffee at a tiny place in Log Pod Mangartom, where the owner put us all to shame by blithely explaining her country's recent history in excellent English. Apparently, Slovenia speaks 5 languages, including German, Italian, Russian and English. They find it politic to be nice to their richer neighbours, and they are extremely cheerful about it, which is nice to meet as a tourist.
I recommend the Triglav area of Slovenia. It's beautiful and has skiing in winter. And the roads aren't nearly as bad as they say. Other Austrian side if the Wurzenpass was worse, although I have my own issues with the Slovenian habit of using smooth brick as a good surface for hairpins on strange camber. I nearly lost the bike on the first one when my back wheel tried to skid, which put me off the other 17. But I got to the bottom of the mountain in the end, intact.
Later, we had coffee at a tiny place in Log Pod Mangartom, where the owner put us all to shame by blithely explaining her country's recent history in excellent English. Apparently, Slovenia speaks 5 languages, including German, Italian, Russian and English. They find it politic to be nice to their richer neighbours, and they are extremely cheerful about it, which is nice to meet as a tourist.
I recommend the Triglav area of Slovenia. It's beautiful and has skiing in winter. And the roads aren't nearly as bad as they say. Other Austrian side if the Wurzenpass was worse, although I have my own issues with the Slovenian habit of using smooth brick as a good surface for hairpins on strange camber. I nearly lost the bike on the first one when my back wheel tried to skid, which put me off the other 17. But I got to the bottom of the mountain in the end, intact.
Winter Damage
Okay, so I'm in the southern Alps. And there are ski resorts everywhere around here, but please could someone clarify: are the roads so bad because it's not worth fixing the winter damage, or is there just too much damage and too little summer, or does the Austrian government believe in leaving the damage in order to slow people down?
Alarm Clocks
There is a biker saying that the best alarm clock is sunlight on chrome. For me, one of the best things about rallies is the chance to do day rides in places I'd never normally get to see. A run around Ossiacher See, or into Slovenia and Italy, or up the Villacher Alpenstrasse - no baggage, no deadlines, just riding.
And as most rally-goers stay at site listening to the bands till late, the early morning roads tend to be nice and quiet and cool. And I can chill out and practise my twisties without the pressure of a load of bikes behind me. Riding is a lot like fighting that way: it works a damn sight better if you're relaxed.
And as most rally-goers stay at site listening to the bands till late, the early morning roads tend to be nice and quiet and cool. And I can chill out and practise my twisties without the pressure of a load of bikes behind me. Riding is a lot like fighting that way: it works a damn sight better if you're relaxed.
Friday 6 September 2013
Thursday 5 September 2013
Ich bin verloren...
There are roughly 70 000 bikes at Faaker See, and about 100 000 visitors. It's easy to get happily lost in all the confusion and crowds.
Faak am See is one of a few villages ringing a peaceful blue lake amid the Villacher Alps. It's beautiful and serene and the locals say it never rains, just snows in winter. But one week in September, you can lie on the green grass by the lake and look up at the clear blue sky above the mountains, and all you hear is constant low-rolling thunder.
The road around the lake us turned into a festival-only one-way system for the duration, and there is a steady stream of bikes parading around, generally looking for parking.
Faak am See is one of a few villages ringing a peaceful blue lake amid the Villacher Alps. It's beautiful and serene and the locals say it never rains, just snows in winter. But one week in September, you can lie on the green grass by the lake and look up at the clear blue sky above the mountains, and all you hear is constant low-rolling thunder.
The road around the lake us turned into a festival-only one-way system for the duration, and there is a steady stream of bikes parading around, generally looking for parking.
Wednesday 4 September 2013
Grossglocknerhochalpenstrasse
Yes, the name is a mouthful. Try the actual road sometime, and then talk to me about twisters.
The Grossglockner High Alpine Road was recently advertised as one of the best biking roads in Europe. The head of HOG UK told Lynn we had to ride it. So we planned the route around it.
The Grossglockner High Alpine Road was recently advertised as one of the best biking roads in Europe. The head of HOG UK told Lynn we had to ride it. So we planned the route around it.
Day 4: Lynn led, partly because I was seriously out of patience after the disaster of day 3. (Day 3: long, itsy baby slow roads and ultimately freezing and exhausted and desperate enough to take the first available hotel, regardless of cost or amenities. In the end it wasn't too bad, but still).
We hit the pass fairly early, and I went at the back. I hate having bikes behind me down hairpin bends, because they make me nervous. Nervous and tense are Bad Things on twisties.
But the pass is worth the €23 it costs to ride - it's incredible. It's beautiful and exhilarating and the biking equivalent of Thorpe park. I did manage to video it on my go-pro, but posting that will have to wait until I'm somewhere I can make the camera talk to the blog.
From there, the roof of Austria, it was all downhill to Villach.
Konditor & Bake
It's funny how cultural values show up in architecture. In France and Italy and Spain, you can see the cultural importance of food in the sheer number of farms you pass. In Germany and Austria, you can see the importance of bread in the presence of a backerei or bakhaus in every tiny village. Usually, its a backerei anbd konditorei, which explains rather a lot about the konditor & cook chain in London.
It's quite a comment on national priorities, as are the seriously free range cows all over the place, whose only real restrictions seem to be cliffs rather than fences.
In Slovenia, every petrol station seems to be linked to a casino. In Austria, I only came across one (so far), which was linked to a to a nightclub in the middle of nowhere and had the strangest subterranean decor I've ever seen in a loo.
And I've seen more rococo and baroque architecture than I expected. Especially as the buildings labelled as such weren't quite my mental image of said stylistic schools.
It's quite a comment on national priorities, as are the seriously free range cows all over the place, whose only real restrictions seem to be cliffs rather than fences.
In Slovenia, every petrol station seems to be linked to a casino. In Austria, I only came across one (so far), which was linked to a to a nightclub in the middle of nowhere and had the strangest subterranean decor I've ever seen in a loo.
And I've seen more rococo and baroque architecture than I expected. Especially as the buildings labelled as such weren't quite my mental image of said stylistic schools.
Tuesday 3 September 2013
Burning Rubber
So the oil level was fine when I checked in the morning. Then Lynn moved my bike out of a tight corner and said, 'how are your tires?' Honestly? I wouldn't know, I hadn't checked in a while. Usually, they come back from the shop all perfect. But now she mentioned it, the front one did look a little flat. And potholes had been more vicious than usual. So I made increasingly audible 'need air!' noises as we rode through every tiny road between Trier and Adler (I think) next to the Schwarzwald. This was not the route Lynn planned but there's no arguing with some satnavs.
We found a lovely gasthaus, which was biker friendly - always a massive plus. And they even had something on the dinner menu for me! I continued to make Air/tire noises through dinner, and got the concession of 'first petrol station we see tomorrow'.
We found a lovely gasthaus, which was biker friendly - always a massive plus. And they even had something on the dinner menu for me! I continued to make Air/tire noises through dinner, and got the concession of 'first petrol station we see tomorrow'.
Can you get to Konz from here?
Headed off bright and early, even reaching the Eurotunnel in time for a coffee before boarding. How civilised.
Thing is, my bike has a lot parts still bedding in, so she's drinking more oil than usual. I also have none on me (see previous post re leak. That scoffed the lot). So the plan was to pick some up in Konz/Trier, where they have a lovely dealership. Harleys are fussy about their diets, as I discovered last year in a panic in France when my oil light went nuts.
We raced through France on the only free motorway the place has, then into Belgium, and briefly slicing a corner off Luxembourg before making it into Deutschland. We got to Trier around 3:30, and the dealer closes at 4 on Saturday. But the only bridge in Konz that crosses to said dealership was closed. Roadworks. What the flipping heck?
We carried on to a hotel with my blood pressure slowly rising and my fellow biker telling me you use more oil at high speed (no kidding) and how is the dealer closed so early on Saturday - as if I know.
I had a glass of very nice wine and tried to forget my oil situation over dinner. Which was surprisingly good for an out of the way rural gasthaus on a B-road.
Thing is, my bike has a lot parts still bedding in, so she's drinking more oil than usual. I also have none on me (see previous post re leak. That scoffed the lot). So the plan was to pick some up in Konz/Trier, where they have a lovely dealership. Harleys are fussy about their diets, as I discovered last year in a panic in France when my oil light went nuts.
We raced through France on the only free motorway the place has, then into Belgium, and briefly slicing a corner off Luxembourg before making it into Deutschland. We got to Trier around 3:30, and the dealer closes at 4 on Saturday. But the only bridge in Konz that crosses to said dealership was closed. Roadworks. What the flipping heck?
We carried on to a hotel with my blood pressure slowly rising and my fellow biker telling me you use more oil at high speed (no kidding) and how is the dealer closed so early on Saturday - as if I know.
I had a glass of very nice wine and tried to forget my oil situation over dinner. Which was surprisingly good for an out of the way rural gasthaus on a B-road.
Crying on the hard shoulder
I got my bike back! This is huge news.
I took it to the office and left it there for a week while I went on a shoot. So Saturday I try to start it and it won't. The plan had been to take it home, once the rain finally ceased, and leave very early on Sunday to go to Somerset. Best laid plans and all.
Frantically calling Lynn to help, I realised I had no current breakdown cover. This is not a good plan.
I went home and hurriedly got online to join up. I went with RAC, because both the AA and HogAssist have left me high and arid in the past.
Sunday I get up at stupid, and go to the office to pick up the bike, fingers and toes tightly crossed. She starts! Oh. No, wait. She doesn't. She coughs and splutters and dies. I call the RAC. 90 minutes, they tell me.
I warn the security guard and go for coffee. At least I should be firing on all cylinders before the orange charger turns up, as the bike sure isn't.
60 mins later, help arrives and charges my battery. Then cleans out my carburretor when the petrol overflows. Then takes my baby to pieces to discover the negative terminal is melted. No wonder it's shorting out.
3 hours later, I'm on route. So much for an early start.
Monday dawns and the bike - she will not start. I sigh, and call the RAC. 75 minutes they tell me. I get a cup of tea. 45 mins later, the knight in orange shows and cable ties my loose battery terminal in place, and tells me I have a massive oil leak. I gulp, thank him, and head back to my mechanic's.
He calls next morning: yes, I need a new battery. And oops. Terribly sorry but he nicked the gasket, hence the oil leak. When did I need her back by, again?
Sigh.
I took it to the office and left it there for a week while I went on a shoot. So Saturday I try to start it and it won't. The plan had been to take it home, once the rain finally ceased, and leave very early on Sunday to go to Somerset. Best laid plans and all.
Frantically calling Lynn to help, I realised I had no current breakdown cover. This is not a good plan.
I went home and hurriedly got online to join up. I went with RAC, because both the AA and HogAssist have left me high and arid in the past.
Sunday I get up at stupid, and go to the office to pick up the bike, fingers and toes tightly crossed. She starts! Oh. No, wait. She doesn't. She coughs and splutters and dies. I call the RAC. 90 minutes, they tell me.
I warn the security guard and go for coffee. At least I should be firing on all cylinders before the orange charger turns up, as the bike sure isn't.
60 mins later, help arrives and charges my battery. Then cleans out my carburretor when the petrol overflows. Then takes my baby to pieces to discover the negative terminal is melted. No wonder it's shorting out.
3 hours later, I'm on route. So much for an early start.
Monday dawns and the bike - she will not start. I sigh, and call the RAC. 75 minutes they tell me. I get a cup of tea. 45 mins later, the knight in orange shows and cable ties my loose battery terminal in place, and tells me I have a massive oil leak. I gulp, thank him, and head back to my mechanic's.
He calls next morning: yes, I need a new battery. And oops. Terribly sorry but he nicked the gasket, hence the oil leak. When did I need her back by, again?
Sigh.
Friday 12 July 2013
Lithium
It’s summer. Finally.
This is frustrating because my bike is in pieces on a mechanic’s bench and I’m going quietly nuts without it.
Perhaps it's appropriate that a Harley is essentially heavy metal, given a bike's effect on a rider's life.
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| the problem |
The saga began when the quiet rattle in the engine that old bikers told me was nothing (because they’re deafened by prolonged exposure to wind noise) turned out to be Something. A faulty bearing, in fact. Which doesn’t sound too serious to a non-initiate, but if it’s the bearing at the bottom of the crankshaft, then when it breaks up, the resulting shrapnel rockets around cutting up the crankshaft, the gasket, the pistons....
In other words, my baby needs a new engine.
That is: I need to sweet-talk the bank into lending me the wherewithal to pay for it.
And it’s summer and sunny and perfect for riding, for the exhilaration of the wind noise in my ears and purring of an engine eating up the miles. If only...
 |
| the weather |
So I vacillate between a summer high (especially whenever my mechanic calls with good news about parts and progress) and deep depression (when I remember I can’t ride and whenever my mechanic calls me with not-so-good news about parts and progress). And in this seemingly bipolar state - I really need my lithium back!
Which the mechanic and I are working on... Sigh.
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| very large sigh |
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