Rooth: Something Old, Something New
The clutch felt soggy all the way and there wasn’t any play. I could feel the motor revving, surging as it slipped free. Bloody hell, twice in one week. I cursed and slipped her up into second with the sort of softness saved for lovemaking rather than being left rooted on the side of the road.
Third went home, but the engine revved like a two-speed Hydramatic Holden until I backed off. It was going to be a hell of a slow trip home but I knew, from very recent experience, that she’d probably make it. As long as I didn’t work her too hard, as long as the clutch stayed cool enough to bite we might get home. Maybe.
The Beep-Beeps seemed to note the big machine’s distress. Like a flock of seagulls circling a dying crab, the turds crowded in close, pulling their ridiculous zip-zap antics right across the old girl’s bows. I hate little cars, I hate little car drivers. I hate the way they jostle for position in that mindless queue that stops at the lights anyway. These people are the losers of the mechanical age, so incompetent in this age of brilliant machines that they’re reduced to operating little tin cans with tiny wheels.
Usually a blast of throttle is all it takes to scuttle the BeepÂ-Beeps and get through to every motorcyclist’s rightful place in this world of cretinised transport – the head of the queue. But not today. Today, just like on Monday, I was forced by a broken bike to flap around with the turkeys. I could have wept with shame but the sheer danger of travelling in the middle of a flock of idiots meant every nerve was strained alert.
Twice in one week. Last month the front brake started leaking and we spent the best part of a week gliding to a halt rather than stopping. The month before that the inner primary oil seal decided to let go. Oil sprayed all over the back wheel. I found that out when she slipped sideways across a slow corner.
Reality has to be faced. My Harleys, both of them, are now 19 years old. I bought the second ’84 from my brother Nick hoping that two bikes would make it easier to keep one on the road. But the rebuild on number one has taken four years already because breakdowns on number two mean I’m always swapping parts. Thank heavens for the Tenere and the old BMW. Rarely maintained, but they always go when I have to!
Sitting in the middle of the traffic instead of up front. I’m sick of it. The past few years I’ve spent more time fixing my bikes than riding them, well almost. Yes, I could have bought a new Harley but the thought of having a rubber-band special with an electric start, of finally giving up the chain and kicker that anchor me to ‘real Harley’ status; no, that’s too much like defeat. Not yet, I’m not old enough for that.
But I’m a father these days. That puts life on a different plane and gives personal safety a boost that the recklessness of youth never imagined. Brake failures, power failures, oil slicks – these are all things that lessen the odds. Old bikes, ridden daily and quickly, are more dangerous than new ones. Especially in peak-hour traffic when you’re surrounded by a horde of hapless little horrid people who are all in a hurry. I start thinking new bike.
Perhaps I should sell off one of the Harleys? With a bit of pocket money on top I could afford one of those superb new Triumphs. Or I could sell both. With 20 years of parts and the Tenere on top there’d be enough money for a new Harley, my third new one in 25 years and possibly the last. So who cares if it’s got a belt, that means it’ll be easier to clean! And so what if it hasn’t got points and you push a button to start it, the way my knee’s been on cold mornings that could be a blessing. It’s all about riding anyway, not fixing.
I gave old number two a couple of extra revs up our street, just to hear that clutch slip in the knowledge it didn’t matter now. Then I noticed the bins were out. With all the senses hard at it on the trip home I’d forgotten it was Friday. Pool night, you beauty!
There were a couple of other things I’d forgotten too. Nicko had the Boomer and I’d left the Tenere at Bruce’s place after that night on the rum. The only way to get to back into town was to fix that slipping clutch!
The collection of old clutch plates, hubs, bearings and shells was in a dusty box under the bench. Fifteen minutes later I had the primary off and clutch apart. I plucked out two burnt plates and repacked it with a couple from the box that still had some life. Of the six fibre plates in that pack, there were two genuine ones, two Barnetts and a couple of plates that were so dirty I couldn’t tell what brand they might have been.
The primary whizzed back on before I’d thought about it. One thing about working on the same bike for two decades is you’ve got the right tools and plenty of experience with them. Knowing the seal was still dicky I only put a cupful of oil in to lubricate the chain and bearing. Any more and it’d leak over the tyre again.
There’s a real pleasure in fixing a machine that’s hard to explain, especially when there’s time to wash up before dinner. Two hours later I was roaring through the traffic, rightfully fronting the queue at the lights and leaving the pathetic little tin car crowd behind.
My love had returned, the world was as it should be. The intimacy for my old machine earned over so many years had won yet again. There’s no room for a new bike when the old one is so satisfying to own!
Anyway, I lost all my pocket money playing pool for shouts.
By John Rooth. Two Wheels, December 2003
