This series of notes is served as an accompaniment to the story of The Black Bullet, which is a 350cc, single cylinder, rigid frame motorcycle built in 1953 by Royal Enfield of Redditch, West Midlands, UK. The bike was loaned out to me after more than a decade in storage by my generous brother-in-law, Ian. It continued to gather dust in my shed, out of gratitude, for a further two years until Old George, the painter, came round one day to do our kitchen and caught sight of it as he was putting his paints away.
Subsequent chiding and ritual humiliation from the old boys in the village began to loosen my mind, which I’d made up in ignorance, deciding without really knowing that the thing would need a lot of work to get it going. It would be unpleasant work, I reasoned, involving oil and dirt and swearing. In the event, most of it turned out to be paperwork - less oil and dirt than anticipated but still plenty of room for swearing.
Not turning my hand to much effective mechanic-ing didn't stop me from proselytizing on the values of self-reliance and the virtues of user serviceable technologies, as I took The Black Bullet to someone else to be re-commissioned. I then planned a trip to Iceland which I was dissuaded from attending by The Biking Viking. In lieu of his advice and some foolish dabbling on the markets I eventually found myself on a budget ferry to France.
A good thing too, as even on this curtailed adventure I proved incapable of relaxing on a machine I didn’t really understand, which was virtually untried and not made of common (at least not in France) parts. I consoled myself with the knowledge that I was at least experienced at blowing up in France but this seemed only useful in generating an epidemic of confidence sapping recollections, as I encountered various niggles on the way.
If nothing else, this tour demonstrated that my life is mired in contradictions. Like many before me my immediate response to this revelation was to get drunk and late that night, as I mused aloud on this generally unhelpful state of affairs, one of the Village People said, "Hey, iss not nesssssarily a problem, it might juss be a phenomenominen." However you choose to put it, the only bastion we have against foolishness is to better ourselves, you can’t dig, drink or smoke your way out, this much seems sure.
What we need is reliable information, the chance to amass some decent experience, to sharpen our judgement, a bit of gentle encouragement and perhaps a few timely lifestyle changes. We need to feel enfranchised and engaged, otherwise what’s left? Cultural participation as rampant, mindless consumerism? Whoa, there we go again. A bit of a single malt flashback...
Part Two of The Black Bullet continues the account of my attempts to overcome my own ignorance, this time primarily from a technical point of view. I am not a mechanic - like many people I live in an almost perpetual state of fear and suspicion when it comes to the operation and effects of technology - but this is sort of the point. Emancipation requires effort and this is my own, personal solution, which I am pleased and strangely relieved to be able to share.
Having said that, a leopard doesn't fully fill its spots (they tend to be lighter in the middle, like dappled shade) and I remain an essentially lazy person. All the more reason to ensure that No Journey is Wasted.
