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.
