Day 6 The Mail Lady only knocks once

Once again slow out of the blocks this morning, Her Majesties Revenues and Customs sent me a menacing reminder that my VAT return was due and I panicked and tried to submit one a month early. They and I should really chill out.

A shadow of my former self

Linda was my Uber host on the way in, I’d like to give her a tip, courtesy of Jim Morrison, “keep your eyes on the road and your hands upon the wheeeeal”, it was my fault, I found a mobile phone on the rear seat as I got in and that was a big distraction.

I arrived at the diner too late to catch Joe but not to late to engage with Ben in conversation about the NRA, the Muslims and the threat that the Democrats present to the United States, I just had a coffee. Vernon arrived and we talked a lot about WW2 naval battles.

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Day 5 Shopping with Joe and Casey

Drama fans look away now, this was a quiet day.

A slow start at the new hotel, nestled between the freeway and the railroad tracks, which is cool because the infrequent trains do that lonesome wailing horn thing, music to my ears even as it echos off the Tuxedo warehouse next door. The pool is covered and looks like a buried trampoline, presumable because it gets a lot hotter than this and people appreciate a seasonal change even if only from English summer hot to scorching inferno.

My what long legs you have

I was a little tardy heading in to Joe’s because I needed to send a begging email to Roland at http://sparepartsco.us/# explaining my gearbox woes and requesting parts help. “What shall we do about the begging letters?” asked the lottery winner’s wife, “keep sending them” he replied.

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Day 4 Help me Joe Paparo

I awoke, not refreshed, for the reasons cited previously, and packed like I meant it, whatever happened I had to move on. Skipping a shower and shave through sleeploss I left my stuff in the room and headed down to Paparo Cycles for 8:15 because a picture on the internet had implied that he might open at 8, the door said 9 and it wasn’t wrong. Jo drove up from the diner next door and I liked him already, 66 years old and independent, the last of the few, and he liked my bike, accent and manners.

Hey Jo!

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Day 3 Hookers and blow…

…is how my friend Adam would describe the raucous party that went on until the early hours in the motel room a tissue thin wall from mine. Not to mention the in car, in car park, entertainment demonstration and screaming outdoor rows, there I did, sorry.

Yummy

Day 3 had started quietly enough with a Travelodge “Breakfast of Losers” and brightened up when housekeeping gave me a bottle of beer and some extra ‘coffee’ filter bags. I collected myself, wrote a post and secured Abe in an Uber to deliver myself to Annie Baileys, at Caleb’s suggestion. A large and largely civilised Irish bar and restaurant offering a “Full Irish Breakfast” which I took to include at least two pints of cool and delicious Guinness. It didn’t disappoint and the sunny courtyard bar allowed me the opportunity to digest.

Chad, the black sausage is blood, just so you know

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Day 2 Not so Good Saturday

I promised insight into Italian motorcycle mechanics, I didn’t pledge any drama.

30 odd years ago the gear shift return spring broke on the gearbox leaving the lever flopping about like the proverbial and a chunk of spring steel floating around the gearbox. It happened again today. This time instead of resting, quietly, away from the spinning gears the detached section engaged in noisy conversation with one or more of them.

I stopped on the outskirts of East Petersburg to assess the situation and was presented with the first consequence. To get the bike onto the center stand it needs to be rolled backwards about a foot, it declined. This is a problem because without the center stand I have to support the bike and luggage or lay it down. It appeared that the errant metal was wedged in such a way as to act like a ratchet pawl on one of the final drive gears, connected directly to the back wheel. I could roll forwards but not back.

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