Downtime

Into every life a little rain must fall. In mine the slow drizzle rarely abates, every silver lining is tarnished by its precipitating host. This is my cross to bear and I’ll not bore you further with this crass burden.

For the T3 the weather changed sometime around March 2020 on my way to work. The clutch suddenly and unexpectedly gained a shed load of free play in the cable. I adjusted it out and limped into and back from the office but all was definitely not well.

I raised her up on the alter and began a slow autopsy interrupted by the distractions of other projects and the viral disruption.

Faithful followers may recall that to get to the gearbox on a Tonti framed Guzzi the frame has to be lifted off the engine. Working on my own I managed this by strapping the bike to the roof and dropping the lift. So pleased was I by this success that I left it like this for a couple of months.

This is what I eventually discovered, one of the clutch plates had abandoned the concept of being riveted and had adopted a more free association approach to power transmission.

I was concerned about European supply chain issues following the massive foot shooting madness and was keen to test out the available options so splashed the cash on a Ram single plate clutch and lightened flywheel from Germany.

Did I fit it in short order and return to automotive bliss? No. I did what any reasonable human trying to keep there shit together in the face of a quantum shift in reality, I bought more stuff and distracted myself.

Well Red

The best laid plans of mice and men have taken a hit all around the world and mine too, to an insignificant ‘first world problem’ degree. A jolly adventure to Ireland this spring was never going to happen once the loo rolls and disinfectant started flying off the shelves. Work too has made a land grab for my life and greedily consumed most of my waking hours since my return from the states well over a year ago.

It’s not all bad, temptation lent on the doorbell and a friend of a friend hooked me up with the seller of a 1998 Guzzi Daytona RS with 9 thousand kilometres on the clock and a seriously inappropriate exhaust system. She was pretty and mean and meant something to me, I’d sold a similar bike, the 1100 Sport, back when I was married and the prospect of righting that appealed.

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Buy buy baby

Tractors for sale or rent

Sight unseen, I bid the asking price on a popular online auction site and Richard was happy to take my money. He was busy directing a play somewhere up in West Yorkshire and seemed to be a reliable chap. I sent him the money and we arranged for A2B (a bike delivery firm with a good reputation) to bring her down south the following week.

My mate Steve has a T3 that he bought in that other lifetime when we were young, around the same time that I adopted the Le Mans. Back then I mocked his sensible choice of solid reliability over racing pretensions, the world has turned and now I envy the robustness, comfort and the glorious Boranni rimmed wire wheels. His now lies fallow in a garage somewhere near Birmingham but with a little luck and some penetrating oil she’ll be back on the road again.

My new baby arrived as promised along with some useful spare parts generously provide by Richard. I swapped out the rack that was fitted for an original grab rail then stripped and rebuilt the cute, square slide, 30mm Del Orto carburettors, fabricating some gaskets from a bit of card, too impatient to await the official/expensive ones that I’d ordered. She runs well, no knocks, no smoke, no haemorrhage of black blood and starts “on the button” as advertised. The electrics have been recently rewired and the replacement switchgear is ugly as sin but offers the promise of hydrophobic bliss.

Nothing is perfect, of course, the brakes have an issue, the tacho is sticky, the linkages have more play in them than Pinter, the seat is too firm and, like the bars, is a little too high for my liking. All small change for a bike that’s done nearly 50 thousand miles in her 42 years. One other issue is that the fuel lines, from either side of the tank, are not linked so she runs out of fuel in an interesting way after sitting on the laid back side stand (that she’s borrowed from her American cousin, the California), interesting enough to cause me to turn back on my first attempt to take her in to work.

Back to work you curs!

She made it in the next day, once I’d overcome the shame of confusing a lack of gas with a major issue, and so begins her service and our story.

Spoiler Alert

Breadcrumbs picked up by Google

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.

A lever should be here

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Day 50 Farewell

Farewells, to my mind, are best kept short. Things not said are better left that way and the leap from present to gone should be a clean one unsullied by promises to keep in touch. I won’t drag out this final day of our adventure either. We left Rusty and Adam and Roebling and the chipmunks with thanks for the respite and hopes for a smooth journey. The wheel bounced and the bars shook, but less than before, or perhaps my perception was coloured by my efforts. The road was not long. I longed for another universe where we could ride on down to Lancaster and Philly to see Joe and Roland perhaps even returning to see Peter in Brooklyn to show off her resilience. Not our universe today but Lady Luck had one more trick up her sleeve.

Friends on the road

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Day 49 Bear with me

The ‘Minisink Valley tri-state region’ is affluent and attractive, far enough from the metropolis to make a daily commute onerous but close enough for a weekend retreat. The house in the woods is peaceful and relaxing and the company good. I dallied another day.

Ball, feet, dog

Time to address the oil leaks. The rear crankshaft seal is inaccessible without stripping everything and once more removing the gearbox, I elect to let it lie and settle for making a better job of the ‘nappy’ attached below the drain vent with duct tape. Not an elegant solution but sufficient for the miles that remain. The other escape route is addressable, I have a replacement gasket for the rocker box and a idea for improvement.

Adam has kindly dug out some fine abrasive emery paper and having meticulously cleaned away the remnants of the leaking gasket I set about improving the fit. In engineering straight lines and flat surfaces are the foundations of fit, an easy datum requiring no complex definition. Placing the emery paper on the flattest available surface, in this case a garage window pane, and gently rubbing the ‘flat’ face of the cover against it abrades away any high areas and matches it to the, theoretically flat face on the top of the cylinder head. That’s the theory, in addition the sequence of tightening the retaining bolts is intended to pull the cover into contact evenly.

Distant indistinct bear

In the afternoon we headed out for some light shopping, at one mall I glanced up to the hills to see an old black bear out for a stroll. Once again apologies for the portrait video, phones should taser you for this crime.

Our next stop was to pick up a cleaned buck’s skull, a trophy even longer lasting than the larder full of venison treats that we’d been enjoying. The taxidermist’s shop stuffed with evidence to the one sided conflict with wildlife that doesn’t bear arms.

Stuffed

A growler of beer was on the shopping list and we diligently sampled as many craft ales as prudent to ensure the correct selection, a pleasurable chore in enjoyable environs. We repaired to the woods to find wild turkeys blocking this hunter’s drive, so soon after the turkey season has ended, almost as if they knew.

Rusty, Adam’s partner, returned from the city and we enjoyed the stillness of the woods and the exquisite flavours of Adam’s cooking before retiring replete at a nearly respectable hour.

Day 48 Out of the woods

Can you see what it is yet?

No riding today. A gentle start in a gentle place this is a rest day with a little light fettling thrown in. The first surprise was a fawn all alone in the woods not 20 yards from the house so well camouflaged that Adam had to point it out to me.

There it is.

Concerned in my ‘city mouse’ way that this poor Bambi had been orphaned by an automotive encounter for its mother it was a relief to find, later on, that it had gone. I’m told that the mothers will leave them somewhere safe while they go off to feed.

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Day 47 Tipping point

Taughannock Falls

Breakfast at the Rodeway Inn was not complimentary but they did proffer a voucher for $3 to be used in the affiliated “Leasure’s Restaurant”. In America, I have been told, it’s customary to ‘tip the room’, a practice encouraged to supplement the income of housekeeping staff. $5 a night was my information, along with ‘a buck a beer’ and 20% on restaurant cheques. A practice that I have followed diligently but approximately usually depending on the small bills remaining in my clip following the relentless conversion of twenties to ones. On this occasion I was caught short and left only two bucks and the unused voucher, I suspect that they, and you, now think me mean.

I feel bad about this now

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Day 46 Falling down

Cold blows the wind off Lake Eire, Gary from Pittsburg, an elderly fellow guest at the motel told me that it was much warmer inland. He liked people watching, a beneficial quality in later years when participation declines, and was here for 3 weeks, he came back often. I packed and debated my route, my dilemmas interrupted by a message from Adam, a good friend from NYC, saying that he’d be at his place in PA in this week. A place not far from the line of least distance and least mechanical peril between my location and the packing crate that awaits.

Actuarial calculations on mechanical mortality aside, the map kept calling me to Niagara Falls and despite Gary’s advice I headed up the lake road to that tourist Mecca.

Over the edge

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Day 45 Shore thing

Early rising clouds

Evan’s Lake looked a lot better in the morning, the clouds cleared while I composed and transposed. Alone in the motel coffee was an issue, eventually I made if for myself in the machine by the reception hatch and squelched across the lawn to a bench by the lake. A couple out fishing my only company, I pondered the road, the increasing chance of breakdown and considered staying put, the coffee was good.

Risen

Obligate ram ventilators, the majority of sharks, must keep moving or drown.

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