Spoiler Alert

Not to ruin the ending, but I did return home OK and, over a month later the Le Mans showed up nearly in one piece. I was a little surprised when the delivery guy asked whether my bike had a front brake. “It did when I shipped it!” My reply not good enough to arrest her progress down the ramp from the van, I stood behind and eased her descent. For a moment, back in the garage, I thought that all was well, I squeezed the lever and felt some resistance, short lived, when I released it the whole lever fell off and dropped to the floor.

It looked like the cast aluminium bracket had sheared clean off below the lever. I squealed to the shippers, all to no avail as they denied any responsibility and directed me to the £250 excess on my shipping insurance, a figure that conveniently matched my estimate of repair costs. Oh well. Nobody died, or ran into the back of a yellow cab while desperately clutching a detached brake lever.

She started right up, the battery still connected and the tank half full of gas, I guess that the strict rules are not always enforced. Time to start planning her revival, a new brake master cylinder ordered and the front wheel off for inspection. I’d already been thinking about treating her to some wire wheels and had picked up a front Boranni rimmed wheel locally and had tooled up with a bead breaker to get the tyres off, a balancing jig to inspect them and an air compressor to blow them up again.

It turned out that my makeshift balancing was pretty good and that the real issue was the lack of roundness, something that will require attention from a shop with proper skills. Back to work with a vengeance I haven’t had too much time to arrange any of this or start the strip down to get to that pesky crank oil seal and parts that served me so well but may have paid the price for that service.

What now? I gave it some thought and concluded that solo journeys into the unknown on classic dinosaur motorcycles are right up my street and writing about the adventure and misadventure to share with you makes them less selfish. I’ve learnt that my creaky bones complain after hundreds of miles on ‘sport’ bikes and that I no longer have to be the fastest badass on the road.

To that end, the Le Mans now has a sister in the stable, a year younger she shares the same DNA but carries a little more weight around the flywheel. Built for comfort, the bike that any sane person would have taken touring for 50 days and 9000 miles. Meet my 1978 Moto Guzzi T3,

Now where’s that map of Ireland …