The Black Bullet has disappeared under a pile of rags and boxes, hiding out in latent shame of a Statutory Off Road Notice. But it’s Pint Club night tonight and I’m going to try and nail a date with Old Pete for the use of his workshop and the benefit of his experience.
I’ve read Hitchcocks’ technical note on decoking and I’m feeling a bit shameful myself after I gasconaded at the outset of all this, boasting that I would travel on and in the bike to learn more about the past. “Pfff, whatevs...” Jane would likely say but I’m committed now and even though the procedure fills two A4 sides with technical description - all thriller, no filler - I/we are going to attempt the procedure.
One of the things that worries me is what Pirsig would call mechanics’ feel, or lack of it. How many of us have set off with a spring in the step, spanners jingling, workshop manual under the arm, only to trudge back after an hour or two moaning to an unsympathetic partner? “It says undo the bolts and take the bit off, well I’ve done that and the bloody thing is stuck fast. How am I supposed to fix it if the manual doesn’t tell you anything useful? Stupid book.”
It’s a chicken and egg situation, however, and I tell myself you’ll never gain an iota of mechanics’ feel unless you have a go. One thing about trying, which tends to be glossed over, is how frustrating, humiliating and painful it can be and I have to remind myself why this is important at all. Why not just pay the man who enjoys this sort of thing, and is qualified, to do a proper job of it? Why not indeed? It’s tempting but there was a reason why I wanted to get cold, dirty and annoyed...now, what was it again?
