The Black Bullet is in the hands of a local mechanic, Roy, at his backwoods motor shop across from the Williams F1 HQ. If this were a city it would be a ‘backstreet’ garage, but Roy’s shop is genuinely set back in the woods, near a canal and a rail bridge - an old transport hub, gone to sleep.
Although stamping kits are available on eBay, a botched job is unlikely to impress the DVLA and after all the hoops I’ve jumped to satisfy them, I want the new frame number to be crisp and certain. If anyone’s likely to go ‘thwack’, followed by "doh!" it’s me, so I’ve handed the responsibility to a man who’s done it before (or who at least has the official capacity to f@#k it up).
I maintain that the overstamp of one digit of the old frame number – the existence of which I’ve never denied, or tried to conceal – is just as likely to have been a result of such a cock up. A distracted worker reaching for a three and picking up a seven, or an odd match of engine and frame made good on the production line (if there was such a thing)? But that was over fifty years ago and everything’s so damn serious and controlled now. We do it to ourselves, it seems, we just can't help it.
The REOC dating officer has replied, quite quickly this time. The tone of his letters is increasingly taciturn but not without reason, I feel, and he’s not getting paid to be polite. “I cannot state it more clearly,” he says, “the number on the frame and that on the engine are six months apart, according to factory records.” So, once Roy has done his work and produced a receipt for it, I’ll take my growing bundle of papers down to Humourless at the Local DVLA office, hopefully for the last time.
Everything is coming to the boil. The guitar supposedly arrives tomorrow, which is a big deal for me, it's like a religious icon on tour. The Ryder Cup begins, I should get the bike back and there's cider-making this weekend, the first real autumn festival as far as I'm concerned. It’s all going on, full throttle.
Thursday, 30 September 2010
Saturday, 25 September 2010
The Black Bullet 2.11 - Miles Covered 56.3
The inspection report from the DVLA has arrived, but no word yet from the Enfield Dating Officer. More delay and frustration accompanied by a distinct change in mood and the weather. The central heating comes on now in the evenings and I haven’t been up the track on the Black Bullet for a few days.
A cumbersome 17 digit VIN has been issued in place of the six digit original, which is to be stamped on the chassis and on a plate which must be fixed to the same. Once this has been completed and the dating officer has obliged with the required statement about the frame, a registration number will be within my icy grasp.
Unsurprisingly my enthusiasm has waned a little. It all looks so simple, why make it so complicated? Man gets old bike, fixes old bike, has old bike tested for roadworthiness then surely man gasses up and rides out, no? No. Old bike might wake up one night possessed by the ghost of Christine and break out of the shed to wreak havoc abroad. Oh no, who can save us? Why DVLA Man, I guess. Presumably by focussing his VIN ray, calibrated with the required unique vehicle identification number, the rampage of the Black Bullet (and Christine) may be thwarted.
I suppose it’s for my own benefit if the cycle gets nicked, but it’s hard to see it. Number stamping kits are available on eBay for under twenty quid - it just seems like a load of overzealous bureaucratic hassle to me.
In the meantime my attention has wandered to other things. I found the guitar I’ve been looking for (another thing strictly controlled by serial number). It’s bought and paid for and should arrive sometime next week, if I haven’t been had by an evil eBayer. I hardly sleep for the anticipation of it, thinking; ‘shit, I finally bought a Gibson Les Paul. Wow!’ It’s probably the longest unrequited material desire of my life. When I get it, I’ll stand it up against the bike, get Jane and Poz in there, our home behind, and take a picture of all the things I ever wanted, together in one place.
This momentous event coincides with that archived demo from the 80s being re-mastered by the bass player, who I haven’t seen practically since we made it. I played a black Saxon Les Paul copy back then, it was a terrible plank. Maybe that’s why I played so hamfisted. I have been instructed to search out any old pictures/artwork to add to the record and this afternoon I dug around in some old boxes, which is always fun, and found a few creased photographs. We were beautiful, dude. Scruffy, stoned, hungry and cold, but cool like rock and roll.
Photo: Ade, Me, Jim & Aidan (click on the photo to get the music)
A cumbersome 17 digit VIN has been issued in place of the six digit original, which is to be stamped on the chassis and on a plate which must be fixed to the same. Once this has been completed and the dating officer has obliged with the required statement about the frame, a registration number will be within my icy grasp.
Unsurprisingly my enthusiasm has waned a little. It all looks so simple, why make it so complicated? Man gets old bike, fixes old bike, has old bike tested for roadworthiness then surely man gasses up and rides out, no? No. Old bike might wake up one night possessed by the ghost of Christine and break out of the shed to wreak havoc abroad. Oh no, who can save us? Why DVLA Man, I guess. Presumably by focussing his VIN ray, calibrated with the required unique vehicle identification number, the rampage of the Black Bullet (and Christine) may be thwarted.
I suppose it’s for my own benefit if the cycle gets nicked, but it’s hard to see it. Number stamping kits are available on eBay for under twenty quid - it just seems like a load of overzealous bureaucratic hassle to me.
In the meantime my attention has wandered to other things. I found the guitar I’ve been looking for (another thing strictly controlled by serial number). It’s bought and paid for and should arrive sometime next week, if I haven’t been had by an evil eBayer. I hardly sleep for the anticipation of it, thinking; ‘shit, I finally bought a Gibson Les Paul. Wow!’ It’s probably the longest unrequited material desire of my life. When I get it, I’ll stand it up against the bike, get Jane and Poz in there, our home behind, and take a picture of all the things I ever wanted, together in one place.
This momentous event coincides with that archived demo from the 80s being re-mastered by the bass player, who I haven’t seen practically since we made it. I played a black Saxon Les Paul copy back then, it was a terrible plank. Maybe that’s why I played so hamfisted. I have been instructed to search out any old pictures/artwork to add to the record and this afternoon I dug around in some old boxes, which is always fun, and found a few creased photographs. We were beautiful, dude. Scruffy, stoned, hungry and cold, but cool like rock and roll.
Photo: Ade, Me, Jim & Aidan (click on the photo to get the music)
Friday, 17 September 2010
The Black Bullet 2.10 – 56.3 Miles Covered
History is bound to be a bit of a recurring theme with all this vintage bike business and it’s nothing less than auspicious that a ghost ship from the past rolled in yesterday and took harbour. I got a text from an old friend, Jim, who I met 30 years ago when we both aspired to a life in music. ‘Check out the discography on Bristol Archive Records,’ was all it said. It was late but curiosity would not let me sleep and I flicked the PC on.
Our band released a demo of moody noises in the early ‘80s which was picked up by a music journalist and touted as the music of the moment. These songs are now available to buy via iTunes, as part of a wider compilation of post-punk Bristolia - with a suitable disclaimer to deflect future royalty claims. To be honest, it won’t sell but I bought my own demo, just for the hell of it.
Sitting in the partial darkness of a house all tucked up in bed, with my headphones on, hearing the thump and chime of cheap instruments mixed in with gallons of tape hiss made the hair stand up on the back of my neck. It wasn’t many years after that that Jim and I rocked up in Japan, bought a load more gear, and re-invented the band. After that we tried London on for a few years before growing out of it.
The thing is, I came to live in Oxfordshire after London, I still have my guitar and am even thinking about getting another one – the one I always dreamed of owning but never had the money. This continuity brings the garbled mess spilling out of the headphones via the internet right back into the present, a dream manifest as real.
There's a photo of a band called The Pop Group on the site which really sums up my memory of the time. Scruffy boys in charity shop coats, arms crossed and shoulders hunched. It looks really cold in the picture, taken in a church, and I remember the boys in the band telling stories of melting the ice in the toilet pan with the first piss of the day, in the squat where we practiced.
I used to think of these as my lost years. We clung on to our dreams in penury, pumping 50p pieces into the meter for electricty but this and the scene were soon gone. The old squats became bright expensive houses once again, Punk got left behind as a new era of greed and profligacy gained momentum. It was a moment in time, but it was where adulthood began for us and it remains part of what we are.
I talked a bit about ‘feeling the journey’ and this is exactly what I mean, artifacts connecting people with the past, bringing on fleeting waves of shadowy sensation. When you get a bit old, the edge gets dulled and this eerie poking of a slumbering memory is worth it, for the buzz. I feel good today, more whole in a way for the reaffirmation that we were there, we had a laugh and we left our mark, however slight, along with all the other moody youths in a cold and rainy (mainly) post punk Bristol.
So I’m really looking forward to my first proper ride up the A417 and beyond, for the sensations this may bring. I took the bike to be inspected by the DVLA, which was a bit of an anti climax. The inspector kept referring to the decision that ‘they’ might make on receipt of his report. I thought he was ‘they’, my mistake.
The chassis number is still tripping things up। I have to get another letter from the dude at the REOC, stating that the frame is ‘of the period’. Then they’ll give me a modern VIN (Vehicle Identification Number) which has to be fixed/stamped to the frame. After that I can apply for an age related plate. The Black Bullet, according to them, is a Reconstructed Classic, which is ridiculous in my view, but then what do I know?
Our band released a demo of moody noises in the early ‘80s which was picked up by a music journalist and touted as the music of the moment. These songs are now available to buy via iTunes, as part of a wider compilation of post-punk Bristolia - with a suitable disclaimer to deflect future royalty claims. To be honest, it won’t sell but I bought my own demo, just for the hell of it.
Sitting in the partial darkness of a house all tucked up in bed, with my headphones on, hearing the thump and chime of cheap instruments mixed in with gallons of tape hiss made the hair stand up on the back of my neck. It wasn’t many years after that that Jim and I rocked up in Japan, bought a load more gear, and re-invented the band. After that we tried London on for a few years before growing out of it.
The thing is, I came to live in Oxfordshire after London, I still have my guitar and am even thinking about getting another one – the one I always dreamed of owning but never had the money. This continuity brings the garbled mess spilling out of the headphones via the internet right back into the present, a dream manifest as real.
There's a photo of a band called The Pop Group on the site which really sums up my memory of the time. Scruffy boys in charity shop coats, arms crossed and shoulders hunched. It looks really cold in the picture, taken in a church, and I remember the boys in the band telling stories of melting the ice in the toilet pan with the first piss of the day, in the squat where we practiced.
I used to think of these as my lost years. We clung on to our dreams in penury, pumping 50p pieces into the meter for electricty but this and the scene were soon gone. The old squats became bright expensive houses once again, Punk got left behind as a new era of greed and profligacy gained momentum. It was a moment in time, but it was where adulthood began for us and it remains part of what we are.
I talked a bit about ‘feeling the journey’ and this is exactly what I mean, artifacts connecting people with the past, bringing on fleeting waves of shadowy sensation. When you get a bit old, the edge gets dulled and this eerie poking of a slumbering memory is worth it, for the buzz. I feel good today, more whole in a way for the reaffirmation that we were there, we had a laugh and we left our mark, however slight, along with all the other moody youths in a cold and rainy (mainly) post punk Bristol.
So I’m really looking forward to my first proper ride up the A417 and beyond, for the sensations this may bring. I took the bike to be inspected by the DVLA, which was a bit of an anti climax. The inspector kept referring to the decision that ‘they’ might make on receipt of his report. I thought he was ‘they’, my mistake.
The chassis number is still tripping things up। I have to get another letter from the dude at the REOC, stating that the frame is ‘of the period’. Then they’ll give me a modern VIN (Vehicle Identification Number) which has to be fixed/stamped to the frame. After that I can apply for an age related plate. The Black Bullet, according to them, is a Reconstructed Classic, which is ridiculous in my view, but then what do I know?
Saturday, 11 September 2010
The Black Bullet 2.9 – 54.4 Miles Covered
It’s the weekend before the big day. I don’t know how many years, exactly, the Black Bullet has been in storage but on Tuesday she rises out of the World of Shed and rejoins the everyday world of roads and transport. Old Bob laughs at me waxing lyrical about the bike. To him it’s just a mode of transport, but he’s got a twinkle in his eye when he tells bike tales.
“My brother-in-law rode a Bullet, everyday to work,” says Bob. “He ‘ad a turnin’ circle in front of 'is house an’ e used to pull in, turn fer the mornin’ and drop it on the bank for the night. The kick had broken off so e’d bump it down the lane next day to get goin’ again. Never 'ad it serviced, as long as I know, but it never let ‘im down.”
I have to check the plug before I do a long ride, as I haven’t really revisited the mixture issue since I resolved my carburettor problems. It can run rich or lean round the village but on a long journey it could cause serious problems. Too lean and it will overheat, possibly damaging the engine, too rich and it will run thirsty until the spark plug soots up and it goes all lumpy again.
I guess I’ll be pretty jumpy when I set off for Redditch, listening for mechanical gremlins with Jane’s reaction to the plan burning in my ears. “You’ll never make it,” she said chirpily, when I announced the intent. “Well, I...better I don’t make it before the weather turns,” I blustered impotently.
The route avoiding the M40 is about 75 miles, one way. If I can still feel my extremities after 75 miles I’ll go for a photo opportunity in Enfield Road, a roadside cuppa and head back. If I get in a fix, which I can’t fix, the Black Bullet and I will doubtless return on a bike transporter, courtesy of the insurers. I can’t believe they included for Europe-wide repatriation in the policy, could it be that they know something my girlfriend doesn’t? Perhaps they think no self respecting vintage biker rides out without knowledgeable mates and a tool roll?
This is a solo exploit for me. I know it sounds pompous but I want to ‘feel’ the journey and get close to how it used to be. Not for me the ‘Long Way Round’, or ‘Down’, or whatever it was. There’ll be no media team, support vehicles or mechanic in my wake. I was even considering leaving the mobile behind. It sounds a bit pathetic, doesn’t it, ‘even considering leaving the mobile’? but that’s how serious it is these days.
Some people confess to feeling naked without their phone and it's easy to deride them - cornered, just where the mobile companies want them - but it doesn't do to be too critical. On balance I'm still taking mine for the breakdown services, should I need them. It's one of the tools in my roll.
And why is it important to 'feel the journey'? Well, as I ride over the Cotswolds I imagine I'll be thinking of Bob's brother-in-law on is way to work, or perhaps a wartime pilot on the way to his station at Brize Norton. In a roundabout way, I’m hoping for some insight, perhaps a better understanding of what it is to be a Brit in the noughties might eventually be delivered through the medium of this old bike.
My Dutch side has always been a bit perplexed by the emotional Brits and my dad made no friends in old age putting the place down. He didn't mean people ill, he just had a rough ride in old age and it came out wrong. He used to drive my mum mad but as they are now both gone, bless them, and I also live with an English woman, I want to move on and embrace the culture that brought me up. It’s about time.
“My brother-in-law rode a Bullet, everyday to work,” says Bob. “He ‘ad a turnin’ circle in front of 'is house an’ e used to pull in, turn fer the mornin’ and drop it on the bank for the night. The kick had broken off so e’d bump it down the lane next day to get goin’ again. Never 'ad it serviced, as long as I know, but it never let ‘im down.”
I have to check the plug before I do a long ride, as I haven’t really revisited the mixture issue since I resolved my carburettor problems. It can run rich or lean round the village but on a long journey it could cause serious problems. Too lean and it will overheat, possibly damaging the engine, too rich and it will run thirsty until the spark plug soots up and it goes all lumpy again.
I guess I’ll be pretty jumpy when I set off for Redditch, listening for mechanical gremlins with Jane’s reaction to the plan burning in my ears. “You’ll never make it,” she said chirpily, when I announced the intent. “Well, I...better I don’t make it before the weather turns,” I blustered impotently.
The route avoiding the M40 is about 75 miles, one way. If I can still feel my extremities after 75 miles I’ll go for a photo opportunity in Enfield Road, a roadside cuppa and head back. If I get in a fix, which I can’t fix, the Black Bullet and I will doubtless return on a bike transporter, courtesy of the insurers. I can’t believe they included for Europe-wide repatriation in the policy, could it be that they know something my girlfriend doesn’t? Perhaps they think no self respecting vintage biker rides out without knowledgeable mates and a tool roll?
This is a solo exploit for me. I know it sounds pompous but I want to ‘feel’ the journey and get close to how it used to be. Not for me the ‘Long Way Round’, or ‘Down’, or whatever it was. There’ll be no media team, support vehicles or mechanic in my wake. I was even considering leaving the mobile behind. It sounds a bit pathetic, doesn’t it, ‘even considering leaving the mobile’? but that’s how serious it is these days.
Some people confess to feeling naked without their phone and it's easy to deride them - cornered, just where the mobile companies want them - but it doesn't do to be too critical. On balance I'm still taking mine for the breakdown services, should I need them. It's one of the tools in my roll.
And why is it important to 'feel the journey'? Well, as I ride over the Cotswolds I imagine I'll be thinking of Bob's brother-in-law on is way to work, or perhaps a wartime pilot on the way to his station at Brize Norton. In a roundabout way, I’m hoping for some insight, perhaps a better understanding of what it is to be a Brit in the noughties might eventually be delivered through the medium of this old bike.
My Dutch side has always been a bit perplexed by the emotional Brits and my dad made no friends in old age putting the place down. He didn't mean people ill, he just had a rough ride in old age and it came out wrong. He used to drive my mum mad but as they are now both gone, bless them, and I also live with an English woman, I want to move on and embrace the culture that brought me up. It’s about time.
Sunday, 5 September 2010
The Black Bullet 2.8 – 50.4 Miles Covered
As you get older, you become more wary of sounding like your parents, particularly if you hear yourself saying the things you hated them saying to you. But there’s no escaping the mould you broke out of, so you might as well get used to it. That’s not to say you can’t learn from their mistakes, though.
My dad was an accountant, he worked with his books and never really did much of what I suppose you would call manual work. These days, this can be a disadvantage when you need to get things done. If you earn enough money, you can get someone to do manual tasks for you but you’re always reliant on their availability and integrity, and you can be left in doubt over what’s been done and if it was priced fairly. I think my dad was done loads of times, but he was too much of a gentleman to take anyone to task.
Like many people, this drives me nuts. I don’t want to do everything myself, far from it, but I don’t like to be fooled and want to know enough to make a realistic appraisal of any situation requiring my decisive action and my hard-earned cash. The oldest game in the world is not prostitution, but ripping other people off. Profiteering, taking advantage, exploiting a gap in the knowledge of the target.
I’m the annoying fly buzzing round the head of any tradesman called to my house, asking why, what and how? I can’t stand flash car dealerships, for example, where you only ever get to speak to salesmen. Mechanics won’t necessarily oblige with the detail I require but I avoid dealerships and use back street garages, where you can meet the mechanic who worked on your vehicle. It’s important to get more than lip service for your money and to support people who see that too.
The economy is driven by the roundabout of services rendered, as sure as eggs is eggs. Like my dad doing the accounts for, say, a plumber who fixes his leaky tap. As I've said, I don't want to do everything myself, I just want to make sure that I’m not paying over the odds for whatever it is I am purchasing, or need doing. Cash is too hard to come by and way too easily spent. It's good to cross something off your list with that 'good job, right price' feeling.
This attitude does suck up time, though, and it can be a little irritating having to check all the angles all the time but better this than the flat, depressing feeling that comes with knowing you’ve been done. So I spend a lot of time grading wants and needs. In fact, the process of researching a product or service often makes you realise it’s not as important or necessary as you thought. Again, it’s best to realise this before you commit to it, so even if you come back to where you started, it’s not time wasted.
After all this, it’s taken me about a week to buy riding gloves. As usual, I have a list of requirements and what I want from my gloves is;
· Warmth without loss of touch;
· Touch without too much vibration;
· Water repellent without being sweaty, and;
· Protection/resistance to abrasion.
I have some gauntlets from my despatch riding days but it's like wearing footballs on your hands and there are too many levers to tweak on the Black Bullet. They’ll do for the depths of winter, if necessary.
I checked the online inventories of motorcycle clothing, thought I'd cracked it when I found a protective workwear catalogue in the office, spent a little time looking at gear for hunters and even bouncers, and ended up in an unexpected but related area of activity.
Proprietary bike gloves for my uses are either too racy, bulky or expensive. The variety of workmens gloves kept my nose in the PPE catalogue at work all morning – think about it, gloves for working outside with vibration producing tools, a good match for my requirements. But carriage on these items was prohibitive, unless bulk ordered. I found some cool fleece lined, deerskin wranglers gloves from the States – $30 alone to post – and some mean short wristed bouncers mits, a bit too mean and short for me.
The best fit, in the end, were some winter cyclists gloves with gel inserts in the palms. They’ve got dumb ‘Team Gel’ tabs on them but they tick all the boxes and they were £22, free p&p. Hope I got it right, after all that. I’ll find out on my proposed trip to Redditch in a few weeks time.
My dad was an accountant, he worked with his books and never really did much of what I suppose you would call manual work. These days, this can be a disadvantage when you need to get things done. If you earn enough money, you can get someone to do manual tasks for you but you’re always reliant on their availability and integrity, and you can be left in doubt over what’s been done and if it was priced fairly. I think my dad was done loads of times, but he was too much of a gentleman to take anyone to task.
Like many people, this drives me nuts. I don’t want to do everything myself, far from it, but I don’t like to be fooled and want to know enough to make a realistic appraisal of any situation requiring my decisive action and my hard-earned cash. The oldest game in the world is not prostitution, but ripping other people off. Profiteering, taking advantage, exploiting a gap in the knowledge of the target.
I’m the annoying fly buzzing round the head of any tradesman called to my house, asking why, what and how? I can’t stand flash car dealerships, for example, where you only ever get to speak to salesmen. Mechanics won’t necessarily oblige with the detail I require but I avoid dealerships and use back street garages, where you can meet the mechanic who worked on your vehicle. It’s important to get more than lip service for your money and to support people who see that too.
The economy is driven by the roundabout of services rendered, as sure as eggs is eggs. Like my dad doing the accounts for, say, a plumber who fixes his leaky tap. As I've said, I don't want to do everything myself, I just want to make sure that I’m not paying over the odds for whatever it is I am purchasing, or need doing. Cash is too hard to come by and way too easily spent. It's good to cross something off your list with that 'good job, right price' feeling.
This attitude does suck up time, though, and it can be a little irritating having to check all the angles all the time but better this than the flat, depressing feeling that comes with knowing you’ve been done. So I spend a lot of time grading wants and needs. In fact, the process of researching a product or service often makes you realise it’s not as important or necessary as you thought. Again, it’s best to realise this before you commit to it, so even if you come back to where you started, it’s not time wasted.
After all this, it’s taken me about a week to buy riding gloves. As usual, I have a list of requirements and what I want from my gloves is;
· Warmth without loss of touch;
· Touch without too much vibration;
· Water repellent without being sweaty, and;
· Protection/resistance to abrasion.
I have some gauntlets from my despatch riding days but it's like wearing footballs on your hands and there are too many levers to tweak on the Black Bullet. They’ll do for the depths of winter, if necessary.
I checked the online inventories of motorcycle clothing, thought I'd cracked it when I found a protective workwear catalogue in the office, spent a little time looking at gear for hunters and even bouncers, and ended up in an unexpected but related area of activity.
Proprietary bike gloves for my uses are either too racy, bulky or expensive. The variety of workmens gloves kept my nose in the PPE catalogue at work all morning – think about it, gloves for working outside with vibration producing tools, a good match for my requirements. But carriage on these items was prohibitive, unless bulk ordered. I found some cool fleece lined, deerskin wranglers gloves from the States – $30 alone to post – and some mean short wristed bouncers mits, a bit too mean and short for me.
The best fit, in the end, were some winter cyclists gloves with gel inserts in the palms. They’ve got dumb ‘Team Gel’ tabs on them but they tick all the boxes and they were £22, free p&p. Hope I got it right, after all that. I’ll find out on my proposed trip to Redditch in a few weeks time.
Thursday, 2 September 2010
The Black Bullet 2.7 – Miles Covered 44.8
The DVLA inspection date is set for Tuesday week. I dropped in at the local office yesterday to arrange it, having recieved the outstanding insurance certificate (see 2.5).
The counter ticket machine is on the blink but there's a severe woman handing out handwritten ones. I'm actually on my way to a job in East London, so I ask politely about the wait. She underestimates by half and I stand patiently in a pool of sunshine just outside the door.
Unsurprisingly, the humourless girl behind the counter doesn't know what the letter from the dating officer means.
"Did my colleague say this was acceptable?" Clearly my previous visit has been recorded.
"No, she said the bike would need an inspection, in Theale, but I didn't have an insurance certificate..."
"I don't understand. Normally we just see a dating letter, not a refusal to issue one. I'll have to ask."
"What's the problem?" The ticket woman has sidled up behind me. It turns out she is a senior manager. I'm glad I was polite to her.
"The gentleman has a letter refusing to date the vehicle."
I sense the girl is overly fixated on the refusal aspect of this damn letter.
"There appears to be some confusion regarding the frame number. I say 'appears to be' because no one knows for sure if there has been a factory-based error, or a subsequent change..."
"It says," she persists, tapping the page and reading aloud, "'I have had to refuse a dating certificate on two grounds' and 'I cannot issue a dating certificate due to overstamping of the frame number...'"
I turn to the manager, "It also says, 'the bike is a 1953 Bullet and is correct in every detail'. The bike is all original, it just might not be one bike..."
The manager nodds imperceptably at the frank admission, straightens up and looks more severe than ever - no Poz to mollify her more extreme considerations this time; "Book it in at Theale, and we'll see what they have to say," she says, and walks off.
I'm not sure what nearly happened there but I'm glad I was on hand to deflect it, if that's what the nod was about. A phyrric victory, perhaps, but there's always the chance that the inspector might be sympathetic and we can move swiftly on from this bureaucratic bend in the road.
I must organise transport and prepare for the inspection. And, as at school, take the given chance to pump the lecturer for clues on the upcoming test.
"Is the inspection primarily a roadworthiness thing?" My voice is unexpectedly conniving, as I shuffle papers into my splitting 'Bike Docs' envelope.
"No, it's to identify the vehicle. That'll be fifty-five Pounds."
"Oh yes. So, ah, what happens if it turns out to have been stolen, I mean years ago, is there a chance I might lose it?"
"I can't tell you that. In six-and-a-half years of working here, I've never come across a situation like yours. I'll get you a receipt for the registration fee."
The die is cast, as they say. It was interesting to note that my 'situation', as Humourless called it, is not a common one. I don't know what the implications of this are but in anticipation of a good result I've booked a few days off, hoping that I'll be able to hit the open road before the end of the month.
I've decided to attempt a small pilgrimage, to the birthplace of the bike. There are backroads to Redditch - across which the M40 doubtless storms. I've cleared it with the missus and if "you'll never make it" can be taken as a statement of acceptance, I'd better source some waterproofs and gloves.
The counter ticket machine is on the blink but there's a severe woman handing out handwritten ones. I'm actually on my way to a job in East London, so I ask politely about the wait. She underestimates by half and I stand patiently in a pool of sunshine just outside the door.
Unsurprisingly, the humourless girl behind the counter doesn't know what the letter from the dating officer means.
"Did my colleague say this was acceptable?" Clearly my previous visit has been recorded.
"No, she said the bike would need an inspection, in Theale, but I didn't have an insurance certificate..."
"I don't understand. Normally we just see a dating letter, not a refusal to issue one. I'll have to ask."
"What's the problem?" The ticket woman has sidled up behind me. It turns out she is a senior manager. I'm glad I was polite to her.
"The gentleman has a letter refusing to date the vehicle."
I sense the girl is overly fixated on the refusal aspect of this damn letter.
"There appears to be some confusion regarding the frame number. I say 'appears to be' because no one knows for sure if there has been a factory-based error, or a subsequent change..."
"It says," she persists, tapping the page and reading aloud, "'I have had to refuse a dating certificate on two grounds' and 'I cannot issue a dating certificate due to overstamping of the frame number...'"
I turn to the manager, "It also says, 'the bike is a 1953 Bullet and is correct in every detail'. The bike is all original, it just might not be one bike..."
The manager nodds imperceptably at the frank admission, straightens up and looks more severe than ever - no Poz to mollify her more extreme considerations this time; "Book it in at Theale, and we'll see what they have to say," she says, and walks off.
I'm not sure what nearly happened there but I'm glad I was on hand to deflect it, if that's what the nod was about. A phyrric victory, perhaps, but there's always the chance that the inspector might be sympathetic and we can move swiftly on from this bureaucratic bend in the road.
I must organise transport and prepare for the inspection. And, as at school, take the given chance to pump the lecturer for clues on the upcoming test.
"Is the inspection primarily a roadworthiness thing?" My voice is unexpectedly conniving, as I shuffle papers into my splitting 'Bike Docs' envelope.
"No, it's to identify the vehicle. That'll be fifty-five Pounds."
"Oh yes. So, ah, what happens if it turns out to have been stolen, I mean years ago, is there a chance I might lose it?"
"I can't tell you that. In six-and-a-half years of working here, I've never come across a situation like yours. I'll get you a receipt for the registration fee."
The die is cast, as they say. It was interesting to note that my 'situation', as Humourless called it, is not a common one. I don't know what the implications of this are but in anticipation of a good result I've booked a few days off, hoping that I'll be able to hit the open road before the end of the month.
I've decided to attempt a small pilgrimage, to the birthplace of the bike. There are backroads to Redditch - across which the M40 doubtless storms. I've cleared it with the missus and if "you'll never make it" can be taken as a statement of acceptance, I'd better source some waterproofs and gloves.
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