Day 27 Not all bad

An unexpected visitor, a young lady, came to my door asking whether she could come in for a while, I declined. Perhaps spooking my karma because, when the rain looked like clearing for long enough to get to Concord, the bike wouldn’t start. Rat-a-tat-a-rat-a, here we go again. I went through the plans and got to ‘D’ quickly, panting up and down the motel car park in a T-shirt with all the luggage stripped off the bike. Eventually she fired up, with a push from some of the staff, and I set the idle insanely high to keep her running.

Tom and Patti has come through for me and I’d ordered a shed full of parts to be delivered to them Thursday morning. The GPS said back roads twisting up into the clouds with banked turns like the carousel at the Nürburgring, brought about presumably by the side of the road slipping towards the core. A cyclist waved frantically to warn me of a fallen tree across half of the road hidden around a corner, thanks for that.

We hit San Jose and traffic lights, I slipped the gears into neutral and let out the clutch, oops, not neutral, she lurched and stalled and then rat-a-tat-a-rat-a. I waddled to the curb in front of a massive truck and left into a car park. Andy was there, friendly and keen to help he pushed while I tried to bump her in the wrong gear. Disparaged I dismissed him and parked to ponder, was the battery duff, had the regulator rectifier given up (no charge warning light so possibly not) was the starter motor fried?

I was at a loss and the stress of it all was getting to me. Andy returned from his shopping and, when it became available (max stay 15 mins) pulled his van into the space next to the dead bike and produced jump leads. She didn’t like it, and then she did! My new best friend blipped the throttle and told me about the bikes he’d had and how he’d been to London and England. I switched off the ‘avoid motorways’ option, that wasn’t working for us in the state that she was in, sticking throttle, insane tick over, dubious restart capability, we needed to make continuous tracks for the 40 odd miles to Cedar Creek. I thought we had enough gas in the tank to do it.

I was right, like a broken watch twice a day and the grimmest Motel 6 was a welcome home, at least until the morning comes. With the battery on charge I called Steve Allen at Bevel Heaven to see what my options were for picking up some cables. Despite intending to leave early he said “come on over” so I slung the battery back in, noticing as I did that the positive terminal seemed to be suffering the same malaise that had stymied me earlier on the other one. Perhaps that was it!

A gentleman, Ducati guys often are, a breed apart, their choice of bike perhaps the tell. Ducatis are sportier thoroughbreds than the cheaper and more agricultural Moto Guzzis but they share the timeless elegance of purposeful design. I was embarrassed by my 27 days on the road stink, grubby and grimy, and my road numbed intellect. If he noticed Steve didn’t let it show and had cables ready for me amongst the immaculate examples of Bolognina’s craft.

One thing led to another and I ended up buying lots of parts including two new replacement carburettors after Steve confirmed that he’d never seen so much play in throttle slides (a consequence of not having air filters). We talked about the classic motorcycle scene, a moving goal as time moves the posts, and my dinosaur era feelings. His clientele, presumably well heeled and sophisticated, were dying off and he now found himself buying bikes from their estates heirs who neither valued nor cared for them. We parted and I returned to the motel, running into reserve and filling up with gas on the way, she was starting again so maybe, just maybe, that problem was fixed.

I washed what I could and pondered the realities for the previous occupants of my ‘disabled smoking room’ putting my own small challenges into perspective. It was nice to sit down in the shower, something to look forward to perhaps. The rain abated enough for me to head out to the nearest bar, Retro Junky, appropriate, that was hosting a perhaps more inappropriate burlesque night.

I met Josh, a masseuse with a Ducati (gentleman) who was interested in my journey and offered to meet up for a ride if I’m around on Saturday, and Richard, a golf pro with a small Korean Mother and machine gun mouth who told me about the Bay Area and his plans to see England.