I did think to hell with it and took Jane out for lunch one day when the baby was in nursery. She laughed and said it was ‘cool’, so I guess the Black Bullet is at least winning her over. Even though the sidestand/footpeg bracket fell off in comedy fashion when we got to the pub.
I’ve begun to tackle the rough running issue; a bit of research on the net, a buzz to get her warm and a few experimental carb adjustments, but nothing concrete has come out of it. Well almost nothing. The major symptom is a lack of power with the choke fully off. I have to ride with a bit of choke to keep the engine running smoothly, even when she’s warm. It sounds like the mixture is too lean but the mixture screw doesn’t seem to have much effect.
I go over to see Pete, the retired materials scientist, to see if he has any ideas, and a single Whitworth nut to mount the bit that fell off in the pub car park. He’s busy knocking a copper pipe into a towel rail but the interruption is not unwelcome (see photo). Pete never throws anything away and his workshop is an Alladin’s Cave of engineering bric-a-brac, something a relatively young man like me (late forties) can only aspire to.
The nut is the easy part and I’m just broaching the subject of the carburettor when Pete’s wife Izzy sticks her head in and rightfully commands his full attention. These guys make us younger types look old. They travel, throw parties, take in lodgers and right now they’ve got a wolf chained to their lawn, a big harmless one, as they’re dog-sitting for a neighbour.
I love Izzy but she’s come along just as Pete looked like he was going to say something carb crucial. I haven’t seen her for a while, though, and as they’re busy we shoot the bull for a few minutes before I make a move.
There’s no one around at home so I bolt the footrest on and make another inconclusive run on a different fuel setting. On the way back I see another older guy, Richard, pulling out of a small lane. Richard runs an open wheel hill climber with his mate, Fascist Pete (who only looks like a fascist). I’m sure Richard will know what’s best so I pull him over.
“I’ve changed the carb and it won’t run without the choke,” I yell over our combined engine noise (mainly mine).
“Carb needs adjustment” he yells back, nodding and smiling a big gap toothed smile.
“Which way do you turn the screw?” I ask, pointing at it.
“Well...” and just at this point Boyd drives up in his Amazon, and we’re blocking his way.
“You coming to play cricket?” yells Boyd.
Richard is running late before cricket so despite the bonhomie, I get no further information.
This is unbelievably frustrating for someone so apparently blessed with friendly local mechanical knowhow. Why won’t these old codgers just answer the bloody question?
Of course, I realise I’m being unfair and that my priorities are skewed. I'm just going to have to get on and figure it out for myself.
