Ireland Day 0 – Margate

Deliciously irrational as a first leg of a journey to Ireland, I decided that my first destination should be Margate. The Bank Holiday Monday is a traditional ‘run’ from the Ace Cafe to the seaside town that they forgot to bomb (Ed: It’s actually quite charming).

The idea was to load up the bike ready for the journey, get to Margate and make a call on whether to stop over then continue on down the south coast, stop over and return to London or just return to London. Not yet sure of the bike or my readiness for a bigger trip I elected to return.

The bike appeared to be running well, my navigation less so. My Beeline device (shameless plug) has a compass mode where the handlebar display just shows the direction and distance to the destination leaving the decisions to the rider. I like this level of autonomy because it leaves room for error and discovery. I discovered that I’m not good at reading road signs. I also discovered that the toolbox, cunningly located by me inside the pannier rack, was within range of the swinging rear drive. They met and disagreed, PVC yielded to cast aluminium and transitioned from utility to useless but remained loosely attached.

The next day (0.1) I removed the box and checked the bike over. The spark plugs were very sooty, sweeping indication that she was running rich. I’d noticed that the carburettors would spill fuel if I left her overnight with the taps open so I pulled them and replaced the floats and associated valves with more modern ones (Viton rubber tipped for ethanol sensitivity). For good measure I lowered the needles that meter the midrange mixture and screwed the idle screws in a little, rich is better than lean but you can be too rich.

Despite my friend Bill’s advice (if it is running leave it along) I checked the tappets and found them worn flat by the 50,000 miles and poor oil she’d endured in the past. 0.22 mm inlet and exhaust at Top Dead Centre (TDC – when the piston has risen as far as it can) is the spec but the uneven wear makes accuracy tricky, I did my best. Aforementioned oil was precariously scarce, black and tired but free from any metal, I drained and replaced.

The final dry run revelation was that tightening a tank bag down had brought the petrol tank into contact with my newly fitted choke remote. Thankfully the conflict had not escalated to the point of penetration and I refined the fit with the aid of a bench grinder and more spatial awareness than previously employed. Now at last I was ready, well nearly. I’d picked up a Rimowa top box for my camping gear, rarely are they available so broken catches and a single worn out key didn’t put me off. I jury rigged the catch with a clip from a picture frame and ordered replacements from Germany. The first delivery contained, randomly, only two spark plugs. ParcelFarce had the package with replacements sitting in the North London depot their online portal frustrating informed me. I waited.