It’s minus more than usual for this time of year and the Black Bullet is asleep in the shed. My dad, bless him, had a thing about thermometers and I appear to have caught it. I have one that remembers highs and lows and it’s telling me there’s been a minus nine-and-a-half recently. On the roof of the kitchen where the probe resides, deep winter has come early.
Back in the summer, when I rather cleverly bought mountain bike gloves for all the clever reasons given, I’d forgotten what minus anything felt like. Even my gauntlets don’t look up to the job anymore. These temperatures are not in the book of Motorcycling for Pleasure.
It hasn’t helped that I’ve picked up a cold and when the freezing air hits my lungs they jump out of my mouth. The retching that follows dampens any appetite I may have had for a crisp frosty ride to work. That and the strange smell my balaclava seems to have absorbed from the under the stairs cupboard.
With nothing to report Bullet-wise, I’m filling in time. It’s going to be a long slow haul through winter but with the threat of eviction put off until the sun comes back around there's time to get under the covers with a good book, cuddle the baby (avoiding the inevitable elbow to the throat and heel to the balls), cwtch the girlfriend and neck some decent spirits by the fire. Life isn't so bad then.
Monday, 29 November 2010
Tuesday, 23 November 2010
The Black Bullet 3.16 - Miles Covered 81.0
After living in Japan for a year and a half the plan was to take the music we’d made in my apartment in Katsutadai and make a go of it in the wider world. We’d had some studio time in Tokyo with Miki’s uncle who was some kind of producer with NHK but we dismissed this opportunity as another example of gaijin value and set our sights on London. In some ways it would have been better to go to New York or Seattle, or something, and continue to exploit the edge of difference but I remember being adamant that only making it in London would do for me.
Like so many before and after us we arrived in London full of hopes and aspirations. The capital soon washed over us, robbed us of our mojo and all our gear which we waited weeks for to be shipped back from the east. In the meantime, I bought a bike on a credit card, cut the corners off a pocket streetmap so it would slip in and out of the fairing easily enough when I stopped at the lights, and set off to pay the bills. The daily grind of life as a motorcycle courier meant I’d only see Jim on the weekends, which interrupted our previously intense songwriting and recording partnership.
It isn’t necessary to dissect our failure to make a living as musicians in London, it is a tough life and only a few people ever make a decent living at it. And most of these are well connected or indecently talented, we weren’t either. We had fun and we loved making music but we were hopeless at the promotion side and never made a bean out of it. I listen to some of the old recordings from time to time and think we made a good fist of it, artistically, but the zeitgeist was always just around the corner. It was always this way with us.
Even when living in bohemian Brixton I recall somehow missing all the seminal gigs and the exclusive parties that everyone spoke of in the days afterwards. I'd listen to these party autopsies with a fixed smile, quietly seething, thinking, 'hang on, I wasn't busy that night, where was my invite?' The problem with that word 'exclusive' is, of course, the 'exclude' bit. But you know what? I’m happy with that now, it suits me well enough. I love the stories but I’m glad it wasn’t me who did half the things in them. I was cursed but also saved by not being in with the in-crowd.
I think of Renny, completely blotto, allegedly, seen waving a can of Brasso under people's noses at an Alabama 3 gig; Hugh, looking for a late beer and giving some lip to a couple of wiry Arab shopkeepers, losing a tooth and getting a fat lip for it. I remember the defunct kids nursery they squatted where all the door handles were knee-high and the toilets were tiny and the dealing (and therefore the partying) never stopped. Steve and the strange shrine he built, and the French girl he kept in his room who never spoke a word. And there was a guy who clearly lived in my car one summer, although I never actually caught him at it.
Heck, it was so hot that year we moved the entire contents of the lounge onto the roof, carpet and all, and sat up there every night. And then it was so cold that winter that my GT750 became stuck, frozen to the ground by a huge cascade of ice from a broken rainwater pipe. There was no central heating or insulation in those flats so everyone used to keep their cookers on for warmth, turn their gas meters round and run them backwards to manage the bills.
One year an old Irish guy called Adrian, who played with Van Morrison once, went too far and had to keep his cooker on for two weeks through the bombastic heat of summer to make up the difference. He'd put the gas on in the morning, open the windows and head off to work. when he came home he spent the evening in the pub over the road, out of the way. The goths upstairs sat through it all, you never saw them out of their black garb those guys, no matter how hot it got. Beauty knows no pain.
I came out of that craziness pretty well unscathed, all in all, from the ridiculous to the sublime. I do miss the dynamism of it all though, the urbane attitudes, the polyglot street culture and the cool, cool people. There’s nothing quite like strolling down Coldharbour Lane of a Friday evening with that palpable sense that a weekend of wild partying is about to kick off. Brilliant, even if you’re short of an invite. But it was loose and it got looser, and when crack hit the streets and began to filter into our stairwell, it was time to move on.
Like so many before and after us we arrived in London full of hopes and aspirations. The capital soon washed over us, robbed us of our mojo and all our gear which we waited weeks for to be shipped back from the east. In the meantime, I bought a bike on a credit card, cut the corners off a pocket streetmap so it would slip in and out of the fairing easily enough when I stopped at the lights, and set off to pay the bills. The daily grind of life as a motorcycle courier meant I’d only see Jim on the weekends, which interrupted our previously intense songwriting and recording partnership.
It isn’t necessary to dissect our failure to make a living as musicians in London, it is a tough life and only a few people ever make a decent living at it. And most of these are well connected or indecently talented, we weren’t either. We had fun and we loved making music but we were hopeless at the promotion side and never made a bean out of it. I listen to some of the old recordings from time to time and think we made a good fist of it, artistically, but the zeitgeist was always just around the corner. It was always this way with us.
Even when living in bohemian Brixton I recall somehow missing all the seminal gigs and the exclusive parties that everyone spoke of in the days afterwards. I'd listen to these party autopsies with a fixed smile, quietly seething, thinking, 'hang on, I wasn't busy that night, where was my invite?' The problem with that word 'exclusive' is, of course, the 'exclude' bit. But you know what? I’m happy with that now, it suits me well enough. I love the stories but I’m glad it wasn’t me who did half the things in them. I was cursed but also saved by not being in with the in-crowd.
I think of Renny, completely blotto, allegedly, seen waving a can of Brasso under people's noses at an Alabama 3 gig; Hugh, looking for a late beer and giving some lip to a couple of wiry Arab shopkeepers, losing a tooth and getting a fat lip for it. I remember the defunct kids nursery they squatted where all the door handles were knee-high and the toilets were tiny and the dealing (and therefore the partying) never stopped. Steve and the strange shrine he built, and the French girl he kept in his room who never spoke a word. And there was a guy who clearly lived in my car one summer, although I never actually caught him at it.
Heck, it was so hot that year we moved the entire contents of the lounge onto the roof, carpet and all, and sat up there every night. And then it was so cold that winter that my GT750 became stuck, frozen to the ground by a huge cascade of ice from a broken rainwater pipe. There was no central heating or insulation in those flats so everyone used to keep their cookers on for warmth, turn their gas meters round and run them backwards to manage the bills.
One year an old Irish guy called Adrian, who played with Van Morrison once, went too far and had to keep his cooker on for two weeks through the bombastic heat of summer to make up the difference. He'd put the gas on in the morning, open the windows and head off to work. when he came home he spent the evening in the pub over the road, out of the way. The goths upstairs sat through it all, you never saw them out of their black garb those guys, no matter how hot it got. Beauty knows no pain.
I came out of that craziness pretty well unscathed, all in all, from the ridiculous to the sublime. I do miss the dynamism of it all though, the urbane attitudes, the polyglot street culture and the cool, cool people. There’s nothing quite like strolling down Coldharbour Lane of a Friday evening with that palpable sense that a weekend of wild partying is about to kick off. Brilliant, even if you’re short of an invite. But it was loose and it got looser, and when crack hit the streets and began to filter into our stairwell, it was time to move on.
Me (left) and neighbour Mario jamming on the roof (with a lobster)
Sunday, 21 November 2010
The Black Bullet 3.15 – Miles Covered 81.0
The problem of the clutch lever mounting mechanism is nearly solved, unfortunately it’s different in my mind’s eye to the physical manifestation, which is always the important bit.
Getting down to final reassembly I see that the original bolts have an unthreaded collar, designed to clear the shoulder of the half shell mounting. The new 6mm bolt I purchased this morning is a standard hex threaded along its length. As I tighten it up the head runs into the shoulder of the half shell and stops dead, with a little way left to go. I can do up the other side and it all stays in place under tension but I have visions of the whole thing vibrating loose and falling off as I ride.
This is frustrating, to say the least. What I need is a bolt of similar design, or a sleeve of just the right size to imitate the unthreaded bit. This way I can tighten the bolt so it is less likely to vibrate loose. I go hunting for something to do the job. To an onlooker, this part of the problem solving ritual looks like aimless bimbling. In fact, the problem solver is so focused it’s a bit frightening. In this state of fixation it’s not unknown to start dismantling otherwise perfectly functioning everyday items and leaving a mini trail of destruction as you go. Anything that looks the part is fair game, it’s a reckless state of play.
On this occasion, a stiff plastic straw from one of the child’s drinking cups presents itself as at least an interim solution. He, and more importantly the mum, will never miss a few millimetres neatly hacksawed off the end. The bore of the straw is a perfect match for the bolt and the pliability interests me from a vibration damping point of view. The only suspect property of this repair is how robust it will be over time. If the collar splits and falls off the lever is likely to go loose again but I’m prepared to take that chance, for now, until I get round to sourcing a sleeved bolt. The arrangement can be noted in the accompanying photograph.
The nice thing, if it works, is that I’m building a relationship with this bike, in a very real sense. Not only am I becoming increasingly aware of its foibles but I’m introducing a few of my own.
I can imagine a time when the lever becomes loose again and perhaps I’m giving someone a ride. While they deal with doubting the wisdom of accepting a lift on this bucket of bolts I will know exactly what’s going on and be able to review the strengths and weaknesses of my design decisions, moving swiftly on to a more permanent solution.
There won't be any panic, or anxiety, and I want to extend this to other aspects in my custody of the Black Bullet. Taking this to its logical conclusion, I suppose the best thing I can do is take it to bits and put it back together again. But I'm not a mechanic of any experience and who knows what bugs i'd build back into it.
At least on this occasion the underlying problem has been solved. If I had bunged up the stripped hole with epoxy and shoved the old bolt back in, and I needed to get the piece off at a later date, I would have an even bigger problem on my hands. So I’m happy to see whichever outcome this repair presents, as I now understand the problem, even though my current solution is a bit flaky.
Getting down to final reassembly I see that the original bolts have an unthreaded collar, designed to clear the shoulder of the half shell mounting. The new 6mm bolt I purchased this morning is a standard hex threaded along its length. As I tighten it up the head runs into the shoulder of the half shell and stops dead, with a little way left to go. I can do up the other side and it all stays in place under tension but I have visions of the whole thing vibrating loose and falling off as I ride.
This is frustrating, to say the least. What I need is a bolt of similar design, or a sleeve of just the right size to imitate the unthreaded bit. This way I can tighten the bolt so it is less likely to vibrate loose. I go hunting for something to do the job. To an onlooker, this part of the problem solving ritual looks like aimless bimbling. In fact, the problem solver is so focused it’s a bit frightening. In this state of fixation it’s not unknown to start dismantling otherwise perfectly functioning everyday items and leaving a mini trail of destruction as you go. Anything that looks the part is fair game, it’s a reckless state of play.
On this occasion, a stiff plastic straw from one of the child’s drinking cups presents itself as at least an interim solution. He, and more importantly the mum, will never miss a few millimetres neatly hacksawed off the end. The bore of the straw is a perfect match for the bolt and the pliability interests me from a vibration damping point of view. The only suspect property of this repair is how robust it will be over time. If the collar splits and falls off the lever is likely to go loose again but I’m prepared to take that chance, for now, until I get round to sourcing a sleeved bolt. The arrangement can be noted in the accompanying photograph.
The nice thing, if it works, is that I’m building a relationship with this bike, in a very real sense. Not only am I becoming increasingly aware of its foibles but I’m introducing a few of my own.
I can imagine a time when the lever becomes loose again and perhaps I’m giving someone a ride. While they deal with doubting the wisdom of accepting a lift on this bucket of bolts I will know exactly what’s going on and be able to review the strengths and weaknesses of my design decisions, moving swiftly on to a more permanent solution.
There won't be any panic, or anxiety, and I want to extend this to other aspects in my custody of the Black Bullet. Taking this to its logical conclusion, I suppose the best thing I can do is take it to bits and put it back together again. But I'm not a mechanic of any experience and who knows what bugs i'd build back into it.
At least on this occasion the underlying problem has been solved. If I had bunged up the stripped hole with epoxy and shoved the old bolt back in, and I needed to get the piece off at a later date, I would have an even bigger problem on my hands. So I’m happy to see whichever outcome this repair presents, as I now understand the problem, even though my current solution is a bit flaky.
Saturday, 20 November 2010
The Black Bullet 3.14 - Miles Covered 81.0
One down to Sheldon Brown. Thanks Sheldon, your pain is my gain. You've saved me twenty quid today, if it all works out OK.
I picked up a single 6mm tap at an old fashioned hardware store in nearby Abingdon, ensuring the right fit by taking the offending bike part in with me. The tap was £4 the handle £12. I'd seen handles on eBay for a fiver so I passed on that and when I got home a pair of locking pliers seemed to do the trick.
This is not best practice but a ghostly presence, let's call it 'Old Pete', took hold and before I knew it I was half way in, making reverse turns every so often to break up the swarf and clean the cutting faces of the tool, just like Sheldon said. The photo speaks for itself, a nice shiny new thread clearly visible where earlier there was just a stripped out hole. Happy with this.
I was so concentrating on making the right decisions in the shop that I forgot to ask for a 6mm bolt to go with, so I'm not quite finished. There something else though; a thread will strip out when a bolt is overtightened but the clutch lever has always been a bit loose, which is a bit of a mystery. I've tried to tighten it and it sort of worked but then it didn't.
Getting down to the tapping process, I noticed the shell of the lever mounting was overly concave, by this I mean that the threaded faces would not sit flat on the workbench if I turned the piece over. So the assembly really needs to be shimmed out before it's tightened down. Tightening the shell with the ends already meeting would strip the thread and not sort out the slippage. I think this is the root of the problem.
And, although I'd made up my mind not to mention this, of course, as anyone who has read Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance knows, the best shims are made out of old soft drink cans - a pliable, sticky metal. There, I've said it, now if we can all just forget about Pirsig, it's my blog and it's all about me, OK.
Friday, 19 November 2010
The Black Bullet 3.13 - Miles Covered 81.0
It doesn’t seem to matter where I stand on the platform, I always seem to be one of the last on the train. Fortunately I got lucky yesterday, choosing the right hand turn once I was in the carriage vestibule. I plopped down on the first available seat, said an unwelcome good morning to the guy by the window and watched the idiots who went left filter back down the train looking for scraps.
The tap and die sets, which I need to refit the clutch lever, are described on the net up in a language I don’t understand. I don’t know how the sizes work, or if I need to drill the hole smooth before I start out. In the old days I would pocket the bolt and run down to my local everything you’d ever need store and ask a guy with 30 years experience, marvel (hopefully) at his tidy mind and efficient data retrieval system and come back with a plan.
Unfortunately, it’s too specialised a tool for the likes of a generic hardware chain (the type that sells batteries in threes or sixes when you only ever want twos or fours) or the one, small, just about surviving hardware store in town.
On top of it all, Pete is in Cape Town, so I’m temporarily stuck without expert advice. Bugger. But then as much as I love old Pete, he'd probably go at it with rusty nail and inscribe a thread that will just about do. Call me ungrateful but I'd quite like a lesson in cutting threads to suit - teach a man to fish and all that.
All I've currently got to go on is the experience of a wrinkled nut called Sheldon Brown, with a forked beard and a plastic angel glued to his bicycle helmet. This lunatic has written a piece on tapping threads which originally appeared in a 1983 edition of Bicycling magazine and it's internet gold. It's comprehensive and most importantly, comprehensible, which is surprising considering his outlandish appearence. I've printed it off in anticipation of securing the necessary tools this weekend.
The tap and die sets, which I need to refit the clutch lever, are described on the net up in a language I don’t understand. I don’t know how the sizes work, or if I need to drill the hole smooth before I start out. In the old days I would pocket the bolt and run down to my local everything you’d ever need store and ask a guy with 30 years experience, marvel (hopefully) at his tidy mind and efficient data retrieval system and come back with a plan.
Unfortunately, it’s too specialised a tool for the likes of a generic hardware chain (the type that sells batteries in threes or sixes when you only ever want twos or fours) or the one, small, just about surviving hardware store in town.
On top of it all, Pete is in Cape Town, so I’m temporarily stuck without expert advice. Bugger. But then as much as I love old Pete, he'd probably go at it with rusty nail and inscribe a thread that will just about do. Call me ungrateful but I'd quite like a lesson in cutting threads to suit - teach a man to fish and all that.
All I've currently got to go on is the experience of a wrinkled nut called Sheldon Brown, with a forked beard and a plastic angel glued to his bicycle helmet. This lunatic has written a piece on tapping threads which originally appeared in a 1983 edition of Bicycling magazine and it's internet gold. It's comprehensive and most importantly, comprehensible, which is surprising considering his outlandish appearence. I've printed it off in anticipation of securing the necessary tools this weekend.
Wednesday, 17 November 2010
The Black Bullet 3.12 - Miles Covered 81.0
It almost happened again; cheerless commuters pushing me to the back of the queue with their savvy ways. I got a seat this time, though, next to an eagle-eyed city spiv with a pink shirt on. His overzealous personal grooming is giving me the creeps. Nobody goes to a proper job of work looking like that. He must be surfing the wave of everybody else’s labours, a city banker or lawyer. 
In contrast, a troubled reflection of my lined face stares back at me in the carriage window, I look worn out. The chipped ends of my forgotten fingernails tap gently on the keys of my laptop. The guy over the way is banging out an email at a furious pace; it’s almost as irritating as the drum solo leaking out of some headphones nearby. I’m feeling old and just a bit threadbare this morning.
Today I’m working through a condition survey in the ex Arab Consulate building in London’s Belgrave Square, which was once the residence of the Duke of Bedfordshire. It is going to be partially restored to its former glory. The remainder will be finished in a modernist style, let us hope the two don’t clash. The new owner has also bought one of the OTT apartments at the job I’ve just finished, One Hyde Park, allegedly the most expensive residential development in Europe.
There’s another, altogether stranger connection between the two jobs. The owner (possibly a Quatari royal) has had a mock up of the master bedroom at OHP built in one of the gutted rooms at Belgrave Square. Get this, to R&D the aircon! He wants to get it right before it’s installed so he doesn’t have to endure any draughts when flicking through Yachting World in bed on a lazy Monday morning. Shit, that’s some kind of crazy lifestyle Mr Oil-rich dude.
Waving away luminous visions of a complete set of Ducatis lined up in my shed, I have to report that the clutch lever assembly fell off the Black Bullet the other day. I’m pleased to have found this fault before my trip to Redditch (which is taking on a Waiting for Godot-like air). The lever assembly is clamped to the bars by two bolts, one of which has stripped its thread. I’m going to have to buy a tap and die and rethread the clamp to make a proper job of the repair.
Prince William has followed my lead and proposed to Kate Middleton, yes, that’s right, and she said yes. William got lucky too, so everybody’s happy.
In contrast, a troubled reflection of my lined face stares back at me in the carriage window, I look worn out. The chipped ends of my forgotten fingernails tap gently on the keys of my laptop. The guy over the way is banging out an email at a furious pace; it’s almost as irritating as the drum solo leaking out of some headphones nearby. I’m feeling old and just a bit threadbare this morning.
Today I’m working through a condition survey in the ex Arab Consulate building in London’s Belgrave Square, which was once the residence of the Duke of Bedfordshire. It is going to be partially restored to its former glory. The remainder will be finished in a modernist style, let us hope the two don’t clash. The new owner has also bought one of the OTT apartments at the job I’ve just finished, One Hyde Park, allegedly the most expensive residential development in Europe.
There’s another, altogether stranger connection between the two jobs. The owner (possibly a Quatari royal) has had a mock up of the master bedroom at OHP built in one of the gutted rooms at Belgrave Square. Get this, to R&D the aircon! He wants to get it right before it’s installed so he doesn’t have to endure any draughts when flicking through Yachting World in bed on a lazy Monday morning. Shit, that’s some kind of crazy lifestyle Mr Oil-rich dude.
Waving away luminous visions of a complete set of Ducatis lined up in my shed, I have to report that the clutch lever assembly fell off the Black Bullet the other day. I’m pleased to have found this fault before my trip to Redditch (which is taking on a Waiting for Godot-like air). The lever assembly is clamped to the bars by two bolts, one of which has stripped its thread. I’m going to have to buy a tap and die and rethread the clamp to make a proper job of the repair.
Prince William has followed my lead and proposed to Kate Middleton, yes, that’s right, and she said yes. William got lucky too, so everybody’s happy.
Thursday, 11 November 2010
The Black Bullet 3.11 – 81.0 Miles Covered
Last night I became ill, so my trip is on hold. We’d assembled a pub quiz team and I was looking forward to a couple of pints of bitter and some banter but by Round 7 I was stumbling home across the fields in the dark, feeling awful. The worst of it seems to have passed but it’s not the day I had planned.
Thank god the weather is pretty terrible, or I would be kicking myself. The rain is light but the winds are heavy, working up to gale force tonight. I’m going to have to sit this one out.
I was talking to one of Pete’s scientist friends last night, before the trembling kicked in. Like Pete, Gary has worked on the nearby Harwell Science and Innovation Campus and with the Black Bullet in the back of my mind I asked him what he thought of British manufacturing (I know, I bet he was really pleased to see me). It may be a bit unfair but sometimes a very open question is like a lucky dice roll, he could have laughed it off, I was ready for that, instead he wanted to talk about the Parsons Generator.
“A great piece of kit,” he said, which Charles Parsons struggled to get into production. His coup was to reduce the forces acting on single blade turbines by developing a multi stage system and one of the applications for this was as a marine steam turbine. Anyway, to get noticed he gatecrashed the 1897 Spithead review in his prototype craft, the Turbinia, immediately after the inspection of the fleet by Queen Victoria. The story has it that he and his daring crew suddenly appeared weaving in and out of the Royal warships at a speed of 30 knots, they were uncatchable.
After this exploit he founded the Parsons Marine Steam Turbine Company, no doubt with the tacit support of the admiralty. His company went on to revolutionise (no pun intended) battleship propulsion. Of course I’ve just found this out on the net, which is why it reads like a potted history. It’s a good story though and if it’s a reliable example of how the innovative and talented make way over here, it speaks about the conditions faced thereabouts, or soon after, by the British bike industry.
I haven’t really dealt with this properly, but it’s an important ingredient in my enjoyment of the bike. I know from browsing the net that a lot of Enfield owners live in the USA and Canada, that’s a long way from home in terms of British Bike history. I hope my trip to the source of the business will be of some interest to enthusiasts, and anything I learn about British manufacturing on the way will be a bonus. We’re in deep recession and frankly I feel resurgence in manufacturing may be key to any sustainable recovery.
Anecdotally, one of my current work projects is the new Manufacturing and Technology Centre in Ansty, Coventry, where I’m engaged in my role as a building fabric consultant. The partners in this scheme are Rolls Royce, Land Rover (and others) and the regional universities. Now, it’s unfortunate that Rolls Royce aircraft engines are under the spotlight after one failed out of Singapore recently. Interesting to note, though, that a Parsons’ derived multi-stage turbine blade was ruined by an oil fire in the incident, which caused the engine to shut down.
The tendrils of history run right through...
Thank god the weather is pretty terrible, or I would be kicking myself. The rain is light but the winds are heavy, working up to gale force tonight. I’m going to have to sit this one out.
I was talking to one of Pete’s scientist friends last night, before the trembling kicked in. Like Pete, Gary has worked on the nearby Harwell Science and Innovation Campus and with the Black Bullet in the back of my mind I asked him what he thought of British manufacturing (I know, I bet he was really pleased to see me). It may be a bit unfair but sometimes a very open question is like a lucky dice roll, he could have laughed it off, I was ready for that, instead he wanted to talk about the Parsons Generator.
“A great piece of kit,” he said, which Charles Parsons struggled to get into production. His coup was to reduce the forces acting on single blade turbines by developing a multi stage system and one of the applications for this was as a marine steam turbine. Anyway, to get noticed he gatecrashed the 1897 Spithead review in his prototype craft, the Turbinia, immediately after the inspection of the fleet by Queen Victoria. The story has it that he and his daring crew suddenly appeared weaving in and out of the Royal warships at a speed of 30 knots, they were uncatchable.
After this exploit he founded the Parsons Marine Steam Turbine Company, no doubt with the tacit support of the admiralty. His company went on to revolutionise (no pun intended) battleship propulsion. Of course I’ve just found this out on the net, which is why it reads like a potted history. It’s a good story though and if it’s a reliable example of how the innovative and talented make way over here, it speaks about the conditions faced thereabouts, or soon after, by the British bike industry.
I haven’t really dealt with this properly, but it’s an important ingredient in my enjoyment of the bike. I know from browsing the net that a lot of Enfield owners live in the USA and Canada, that’s a long way from home in terms of British Bike history. I hope my trip to the source of the business will be of some interest to enthusiasts, and anything I learn about British manufacturing on the way will be a bonus. We’re in deep recession and frankly I feel resurgence in manufacturing may be key to any sustainable recovery.
Anecdotally, one of my current work projects is the new Manufacturing and Technology Centre in Ansty, Coventry, where I’m engaged in my role as a building fabric consultant. The partners in this scheme are Rolls Royce, Land Rover (and others) and the regional universities. Now, it’s unfortunate that Rolls Royce aircraft engines are under the spotlight after one failed out of Singapore recently. Interesting to note, though, that a Parsons’ derived multi-stage turbine blade was ruined by an oil fire in the incident, which caused the engine to shut down.
The tendrils of history run right through...
Wednesday, 10 November 2010
The Black Bullet 3.10 - Miles Covered 77.0
Tomorrow is the big day. It looks like the wrong day this week, if the weather forecast is to be believed, but it’s the chosen day.
I rode the Black Bullet into work this morning, the long way round. It was bright but cold and my hands and face are burning as I type. It’s probably nothing but there seemed to be a new rattle in the engine noise this morning. As I say, it’s probably nothing.
The good news is that the plug looks fine to my eyes - brown-ish, definately not sooty. I'm told it's better to run a little bit rich than too lean so a quarter turn in should richen it slightly, and put my mind at ease. The carb should really be properly set up but there's no time for this.
I thought about switching the day and going today but I have to get some reports out of the way, so I can start work on the Ship Hall to the Mary Rose project on Friday (see illustration). I’m expected in Portsmouth to present my findings next week and there are three CDs of drawings to get through.
The route is plotted and I’ll be looking for a gap in the clouds to take me up to the Midlands, via the Cotswolds. I hope to be in Enfield Road, Redditch at 12:00 noon, a quick photo op and a cuppa at my colleague, Simon’s, before I roll back down the road to Oxford.
It’s exciting, the only bugger is the rain. Too much of that and it’ll be an endurance event.
I rode the Black Bullet into work this morning, the long way round. It was bright but cold and my hands and face are burning as I type. It’s probably nothing but there seemed to be a new rattle in the engine noise this morning. As I say, it’s probably nothing.
The good news is that the plug looks fine to my eyes - brown-ish, definately not sooty. I'm told it's better to run a little bit rich than too lean so a quarter turn in should richen it slightly, and put my mind at ease. The carb should really be properly set up but there's no time for this.
I thought about switching the day and going today but I have to get some reports out of the way, so I can start work on the Ship Hall to the Mary Rose project on Friday (see illustration). I’m expected in Portsmouth to present my findings next week and there are three CDs of drawings to get through.
The route is plotted and I’ll be looking for a gap in the clouds to take me up to the Midlands, via the Cotswolds. I hope to be in Enfield Road, Redditch at 12:00 noon, a quick photo op and a cuppa at my colleague, Simon’s, before I roll back down the road to Oxford.
It’s exciting, the only bugger is the rain. Too much of that and it’ll be an endurance event.
Wednesday, 3 November 2010
The Black Bullet 3.9 - Miles Covered 71.2
The date of my pilgrimage to Enfield Road, Redditch, is set for next week. I’ve emailed the Birmingham Post, regional BBC and the Mail, and booked a day off work. I hope I’m blessed with some decent weather. I don’t mind the cold it’s the rain that makes it miserable. You’ve got to concentrate all the time, remembering that dislocation from the immediate physical effects of the weather that other drivers often have.
After a few Photos at Enfield Road, I’ll go for a cup of tea at a colleague’s house. I have to make a few checks before I go - top up the oil, check the plug and pump up the front tyre, which seems to have gone soft. I should assemble a roadside repair kit but what to take?
The motorcycle museum isn’t far from there and it would be nice to pop in to have a look at Ted Simon’s unwashed Triumph, the bike from Jupiter’s Travels.
I contacted Ted once, when I was the editor of jaguar-racing.com. He was planning his second round the world trip at the time and only seemed interested in raising money. I was a big fan and wanted to involve him in one of our events but came away a bit disappointed. I guess that can happen when you have expectations about people that you think you know when you really don’t.
I don't think he made it the second time round - I don't honestly know why he tried. It must be so hard to live up to your own reputation when you've done something so amazing. I think I'll stick with Redditch, for now.
After a few Photos at Enfield Road, I’ll go for a cup of tea at a colleague’s house. I have to make a few checks before I go - top up the oil, check the plug and pump up the front tyre, which seems to have gone soft. I should assemble a roadside repair kit but what to take?
The motorcycle museum isn’t far from there and it would be nice to pop in to have a look at Ted Simon’s unwashed Triumph, the bike from Jupiter’s Travels.
I contacted Ted once, when I was the editor of jaguar-racing.com. He was planning his second round the world trip at the time and only seemed interested in raising money. I was a big fan and wanted to involve him in one of our events but came away a bit disappointed. I guess that can happen when you have expectations about people that you think you know when you really don’t.
I don't think he made it the second time round - I don't honestly know why he tried. It must be so hard to live up to your own reputation when you've done something so amazing. I think I'll stick with Redditch, for now.
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