The Black Bullet 7.10 - Homeward Bound

Capitulating, in a sense, and recognising how I’d been tempting fate coming on this journey without a clue as to the real provenance of this bike, left me feeling a bit hollow. I was in bike saving mode from this point on and although the days at the Chateau de Chanteloupe were pleasant enough and I did get to the circuit and sit near the Dunlop Bridge, where a mate took my photo when I was 25, my mind wasn’t much on the race and I felt like a bit of an interloper.

Bearing in mind that I had another photo taken during a track invasion fifteen years later in front of the same bridge and that when I was the editor of autosport.com I experienced the 24 Hours from the pit lane, it was a bit of a waste that my mind wasn’t really on the job. I did find the cheesy bar beneath the roundabout at Tertre Rouge for the first time, snaffled a Pastis and wandered into the circuit by there to see the cars take off down the Mulsanne. And it was ‘fever’, as the guys at Autosport would say, but it was more like a memory of fever than a first-hand infection.

There were flyers in the bar advertising Strippers at Midnight which reminded me of some colour our friend, Steve, gave me about the race in the old days, before it became a big ticket event.

“They used to have a stripper truck at the circuit,” explained Steve, in his Medway accent. “The sides came out like a camper, you know. At one end there was a steep gallery of seats, and I mean steep, and at the other there was a stage. They would pack in a hundred and fifty drunk and sweaty English blokes, like sardines they were, and some old sort would come out and shake it all about for ten minutes before they pushed ‘em all out one side as the next lot came in. And this went on all night. The back of the truck was a like a screen and you could see the shadow of the girl inside on it. It was well seedy, not like it is now.”

He looked wistful and you can see how it must have been, the sports car set’s dirty weekend away. And why not, we all need a bit of time off from ourselves.

By teatime on Sunday it was all over. A great race by all accounts. No one killed, fortunately, although it looked damn close when McNish parked up on the tyre wall.

I took it easy on Sunday evening, got to bed reasonably early, earplugs in, getting ready for the blast back up to St Malo. The Village People took over the piano bar and rolled back into camp at dawn after too many rounds of Hey Jude. Even with earplugs I heard them come up with typical pissed determination for another drink before bed. I also heard Steve unzip his tent and shout “Go to bed!” Which set off a round of mutual ‘shushing’. Steve, being wise to the condition, shouted back, “NO, not ‘shush’, JUST GO TO FUCKING BED!” Sure in the knowledge that there is no reliable volume control on a drunk.

The trip back went smoothly enough, it was a good ride but for the marauding summer showers that swept across the flat, open countryside. I rode hard to get ahead of one, hid under a bridge during another and drove the entire bike into a bus shelter to avoid a third. I stopped at Mont St Michel (see photos on the website) and bought garlic and shallots by the roadside. Like an idiot, in the car park at Mont St Michel, I pushed the bike off the stand forgetting that I’d locked it and bent a spoke. Doh!

We stayed at the municipal camping and took the ferry back the next day, so all I had to do was the final stint back up to Oxford in the evening. I stopped at Lockinge Kiln to hurriedly photograph the bike at sunset, a bit alarmed that my six volt headlight didn’t even dent the onset of darkness. I’ve never ridden at night, I realised, unless you count that time I rode back from the pub with no lights at all. Christ I’ve done some stupid things in my time.

Miles Covered - 936.5

This is the end of The Black Bullet - Part One. Part Two, entitiled No Journey Wasted, will comprise an account of my attempt to become more knowledgeable, from a technical standpoint - a voyage in rather than on the bike. A book of these combined adventures is due to be published on the bike's 60th Anniversary, in 2013. Email me to recieve advance notice of the publishing date. I am currently looking for an agent and publisher.

WP July 2011

The Black Bullet 7.9 - Bind on the Bonnetable Road

Out on the Bonnetable road the wind came up and dark clouds loomed, I pressed on hoping to make it to the campsite before the rain. Suddenly, without warning, the bike lost power and sounded really rough. My nerves were frayed as it is and I pulled in the wooden clutch, looking for a lay by or somewhere off the road with a bit of shelter but there was nothing but Armco. I let out the clutch again and worked the throttle in frustration. The Black Bullet popped and spluttered, picked up and died again. Then it picked up and the power, such as it is, filtered back in. I couldn’t tell if it was back to normal but, under the circumstances, I’d take whatever locomotion I could get.

Soon the turning for the Chateau came into view. I drove in, pulled up, and swore my next move on the bike would be in a homeward direction. I was rattled. I didn’t want to blow up in France, not again [TBB 3.5]. Some old acquaintances had arrived and set up next to us, so I stepped off and grabbed a beer and recounted the story of my day with nervous energy. I still haven’t got to the bottom of why this loss of power occurred, but it has happened since. It could be sludge from the tank getting into the carb via the unfiltered reserve line, you can certainly see it in the clear pipe, or it could be some kind of seizure due to crap in the oilways for all I know.

I did calm down and go out to the circuit on it the next day, and even had that same clutch problem in the traffic by Tertre Rouge. This time I pulled off the road and stopped by an old Frenchman leaning on his gate, watching the world go by. He didn’t blink an eye as I set about retrieving the situation. I stupidly felt like flipping him the bird when I pulled away again. It’s not so bad when you know what the score is and I think that this is an important theme in this story. It’s unpreparedness that freaks you out. I knew I hadn’t much of a clue but felt the bike had proven enough basic reliability to take it on this run, especially as my insurance included for repatriation.


In the event, though, a breakdown isn’t a pleasant experience and it can really mess up your day. Repatriation insurance doesn’t prevent you from having that sinking feeling, from hanging about, maybe in the rain, waiting to be rescued. Not being able to fix things makes me feel vulnerable and defeated, even though I'm not a mechanic, so why should I know this stuff anyway? The thing is I like fixing things, it feels good, it's good for the self esteem. On the flip side, people are not at their best when vulnerable and defeated and it bothers me when other people can’t see that, or won’t make allowances for it in others. Perhaps if you never move out of your comfort zone, you just don’t get it. Then I suppose you can ignore people who are in trouble, or laugh at them, or just send them the wrong way when they're evidently lost.

Once when we were kids, our Austin Morris broke down on an isolated dirt road somewhere in Mozambique. I remember the feeling of utter devastation when I realised we were well and truly stranded. As I recall, my sister and I were in tears as our dad poked around ineffectually under the bonnet – he was an accountant, less technical even than I was to become. We were rescued by a sullen family in a Citroen, which rattled along in the dust for hours until we reached a town. Our father stayed with the car while we stayed in a mosquito den of a hotel for the night, and spent the next day waiting for news. The experience was traumatic. I must have been seven or eight at the time. It’s maybe why I want to learn to do these things for myself, even though I’m not particularly technically minded, or a lover of grease, dead skin, chipped black nails and inflamed cuts.

So, this more or less wraps up my recent series of self-inflicted misadventures on the Black Bullet. But before I shut up shop for the summer [TBB 7.8], I have the latest news on the bike and a short passage to relay about the return journey. Don't forget there are some pictures from the trip up on www.theblackbullet.net

The Black Bullet 7.8 - Old Le Mans

The Black Bullet project, at least Part One of it, is nearing its end. I’ve enjoyed tapping out these notes immensely but it was never intended as an open-ended commitment. There is a a bit more of this story to come - I’m still lodged in the Chateau bar of course - but I just wanted to say that I'm going to take some time out. I'm planning a second part for the Autumn, a more detailed technical journey. Further details will appear as a postscript to Part One.

Our stay at the Chateau was soaked in beer and wine and washed each night by a little summer rain. The Black Bullet lived under Norm’s spare groundsheet when she wasn’t ferrying me about. I didn’t take a spare lid, I decided in the end to minimise stress on the old girl by refusing to take passengers. All-in-all this seemed like the right decision after the clutch started giving me gip.

It’s traditional to take lunch in old Le Mans on the Saturday afternoon, shortly before the start of the race. On this occasion, being free to suit myself, I scoffed a plate of steak frites and headed off to the circuit to buy a ticket. So simple in the re-telling but my plan was scuppered by the Le Mans one-way system. Convoluted and impenetrable and shot through with intersections diaboliques, pretty soon I was as clueless as my compass.

Then, at a particularly mean set of lights, glaring balefully out over five lanes of rev-happy traffic, the bike started crawling forward all of its own accord. I pulled the clutch lever tight to the bar but she just kept pulling so I dropped anchor and stalled, in gear, just as the lights turned green. The traffic boiled around me and as it beeped and scraped by I heard a hollow heckler's laugh. Why do people do that?

The bike was stuck and the clutch lever had gone limp but somehow it slipped out of gear as I strained to push it to the pavement. In retrospect, I might have decompressed the cylinder and pusher her off the street but I didn't think of that at the time.

Once out of immediate danger I pulled off my clobber, both panicked and annoyed, suspecting a split cable. At least I had the replacement in my backpack, so all was not yet lost. It wasn’t until I crouched down by the gearbox that I realised I didn’t have a spanner to loosen the adjuster. The worst of it was I’d planned to travel at all times with my small adjustable but I’d just never got round to digging it out of my box of bits, which was back at the campsite.

It had finally happened. I’d broken down by the side of the road far from home, and the natives were laughing at me. Everybody had probably been waiting for this moment and soon they would know they were right. What a stupid idea it was taking a knackered old machine abroad anyway, would I ever learn? I tugged on the end of the offending cable disconsolately, expecting it to slip out of its sleeve. It felt strangely tight. I stood up and waggled the lever which caused the gearbox end to slide in and out, like the connection was still good.

“Something’s not right here,” I murmured, looking more closely at the lever. It was then that I saw the cable sleeve had jumped out of its slot, so there was nothing for the lever to pull against. Slotting it back in returned full operation to the linkage, even though it still felt a bit wooden. Only an immense amount of play in the cable would allow this to happen, like if I let the lever out but the clutch remained disengaged. Could it be soggy clutch springs, or a severely sticking cable perhaps? Something was amiss but at least it looked as though I had what I needed to get going again.

"Forget the circuit," I thought, suddenly relieved. "I'll push the bike out of this insane one way system and back onto the main drag, then I'll head back to the Chateau to address the situation with a full set of tools." The race would be starting in a couple of hours. I could watch it on the terrace at the Chateau, with an ice cold beer in my hand, nice and civilised. It was a bun fight at the circuit at the start anyway. I shrugged my jacket back on and thanked my lucky stars. We lived to fight again.

The Black Bullet 7.7 - Chanteloupe at Last

By Beaumont I was running on fumes but the Black Bullet has only one cylinder and is frugal when you rider her easy. I stopped at the Tourist Office for directions and coasted down the hill and across the bridge to the petrol station. ‘Not far now’ I thought, with quiet relief, first tipping a measure of REDEX into the tank. I still had to find the Chateau on the Bonnetable Road, relying on a three-year-old memory of the place, but I was so close now, I’d very nearly done it. Everything from then on would be part of the journey home, a small but important distinction.

Again, it may not seem a great achievement as adventures go but this is surely relative to the person undertaking them. Not everyone has the constitution or the opportunity to dog sled across the Arctic. Indigenous persons aside, this kind of thing is not really relevant to the experience of Everyman. If anything, hardcore adventuring is kind of selfish. Do we really care if the Amazon is canoed top to bottom, or if the berk trying it just drowns on camera? I mean is bigger always better?

The way I see it, the time I had at my disposal, and the means, were in one way or another gifts, things to be unwrapped and appreciated, otherwise what would be the point? I was sorry to give up Iceland [TBB 5.8] but it was a bit selfish (cost and time-wise) and somewhat unrealistic. By scaling back and slowing down I’d begun to travel in more detail and the more I cut things up and sifted through them the more unexpected gems I encountered. It is like coming across a beautiful ruin in the middle of nowhere and having it all to yourself for the day, simply because it isn’t on the map.

It's a bit whacky but I have to say I believe each one of us can manifest this sense of adventure in the normal course of our lives. Wherever you go you take your own particular view of things, analyses to contribute, even solutions. We evolve on the back of solutions and this is surely as much of an adventure as anything. There was enough adventure in it for me anyway. In a few days I would be expected back home, in one piece, ready to resume family responsibilities. It was important that Jane and Poz could rely on this, you could say it was part of the bargain.

After Ballon I got lost again, but a brilliant fat man and his large lady wife gave me excellent directions to the Bonnetable Road out of Le Mans. I hit it about half way up and mentally flipped a coin for left or right. Left turned out to be right and soon the drive into the Chateau appeared up ahead. I very nearly lost the front wheel on a patch of gravel as I turned in, what cruel ignominy that would have been. Then we pulled up by the Chateau itself, I kicked her into neutral and decompressed the cylinder to stop the engine. Home at last, for the next few days, and time for a well earned beer.

Just as I hoicked her up on the stand, the Chateau owner swung by, clocked the bike and asked how far I’d come. He whistled as I told him and said, “What, on this? You are crazy...and welcome.” he beamed. The bike ticked appreciatively as it cooled, I went to the bar to do likewise.

(Note: this is my 100th post. To celebrate I have uploaded a gallery of pictures from the trip to the website www.theblackbullet.net Just click the rusty bolt - cheers!)

The Black Bullet 7.6 - Lost in France

I took off like a rabbit at the dog track when I left Sille Le Guillaume, in entirely the wrong direction. My compass spun joyously with the frivolity of it all and gave me no clues, drunk on magnetic flux. It was a small angle of difference between right and wrong at the critical fork in the road, which just grew and grew as I rode east, north east and then just plain north (the campsite being east-south-east).

It was mid afternoon and the road became narrower and windier, pushing up and away from the Valee du Sarthe. The riding was good, a ribbon of asphalt bucking and weaving through small picturesque farms and villages. Goats skipped away as I drew near, leaning the bike this way and that but gradually I became aware that I recognised none of the signposted names. The next sizeable town was Beaumont-sur-Sarthe, I knew that much, but it was after lunch and there was no one around to ask. After a while I saw a farmer working near the roadside and pulled over.

I fired in three different pronunciations of Beaumont with a questioning brow, thinking one will surely hit home, but I guess the bike was too loud. He hesitated but walked over after a mock cupping of a hand behind an ear. I tried again, unwinding the throttle back to the stop. He gave an exaggerated wave in the direction I was already travelling and stomped back up the field. 'Really?' I thought. It seemed foolish to doubt him and somewhat rude and pointless to ask and then turn around, so I set off in the direction indicated.

A beautiful and even triumphant afternoon had once again taken on an unnerving aspect, although places in the mortal grip of a siesta can also do this. Everything shut up, like an invasion was expected, only mad dogs and French farmers out in the midday sun. I rounded a corner pulled on the throttle and all of a sudden the power dropped off, with an elongated pop, actually a poooooffff.

I’ve run out of petrol many times before but not without some warning – usually a short phase of intermittent cutting out – even so, I pulled in the clutch and scrabbled around under the tank for the reserve plunger. The bike slowed, I pulled out the plunger and let out the clutch lever, there was a gnashing of chains and pinions, a thrumming of cams and valve gear, huffing and puffing from the piston as the remaining fuel drew through the system and then, just as suddenly, the power came back online.

I looked for a signposted junction and stopped again, pulling out my map, perplexed. I thought I’d more fuel than that. The trial I’d undertaken before setting out had indicated enough range to get me from St Malo to the Chateau Chanteloupe, with a bit to spare. The leak had clearly been significant [TBB 7.5]. On top of this, I’d opted to travel off the beaten track and hadn’t seen a petrol station for miles. I had no idea how much fuel comprised the reserve, so potentially I was in a bit of a pickle.

The immediate question was forward or back? I was by now off the photocopied maps of my intended route and as I’d already lost my faith in both compass and 'in-breds who'd never been further than the next village', I decided to turn back. I had Liz’s iPhone but frankly couldn’t face spending half an hour trying to figure out if she had a map app, let alone try to use it. I’d already taken a lot of stick from the Village People for expressing a somewhat negative opinion about these devices, primarily over the inference that they were not particularly intuitive to use. I do not doubt their incredible versatility but remain concerned about what could be termed 'user lock-in'. I've encountered a curiously touchy sensitivity among some iPhone owners on this subject.

Luckily, I had the whole-of-France map on me (complete with the penned-on route of our failed expedition to North Africa [TBB 6.7]) and the road I was on was just visible, running north to south. It was clear from the sun and my own internal compass that I was going north, so I figured I’d retrace my steps and gas up in Beaumont - assuming there was a petrol station there and that I could find it in time.

The Black Bullet 7.5 - Sille Le Guillaume

It’s my birthday today and I thought I’d have this story wrapped up by now but I’m only halfway to Le Mans - got to get on. This is what happens when you begin to sift through events and see the connections. There’s a lot more going on than at first meets the eye and you need to slow down to see it.

I’m also excited because my old friend Rob has decided to regain his motorcycle licence and ride the marque his grandfather rode, a Norton. Incredibly, he remembers the registration number of his grandfather's bike and even has the old man's diary, detailing his rides. It's a potent cocktail of history and belonging for Rob, whose path has not always been smooth. He speaks with longing of the time when he and his twin brother were young and indestructible, and kings of the Australian highway (Kawasaki GPZ 750 vs. Honda Bol D’Or 900, as I recall). He once showed me a photo of one of his favourite bends – now that is dedicated riding.

Just before Sille Le Guillaume I noticed a dreadnought of a car coming up behind me, chrome flashing in my mirror. It was like a scene from Monte Carlo or Bust when these two guys in their 1930-something Bentley Speed Six passed me by, waving excitedly. The Speed Six is a huge car, from an era before the book of standard sizes was written, it made them look like children. They'd pulled over for lunch when I caught them up and it looked more like mooring than parking. It was break time for me too and I went on a bit further looking for a slope to stop on.

As I climbed off I shut the gas tap but the bike smelled strongly of petrol. Then I noticed a steady drip coming from the carb end of the lawnmower pipe Rob and I had installed when we changed the fuel filter. It felt jellified, lengthy exposure to heat from the cylinder directly in front of it had softened it and wiggling it only made the leak worse. Fuel was now dripping at quite a rate and vapourising on the hot engine casing. The thought of fire made me step involuntarily away from the machine, “shit, shit, shit” I hissed, impotently. With both taps off the carburettor float chamber would soon run dry but this wasn’t good, I’d have to turn the petrol on again sooner or later.

Foolishly I wondered if the draw of fuel through the pipe while I was underway would reduce the actual leakage, and if I shouldn't just ride off. I also thought of only using the reserve tap but the carb union connected the two pipes, so fuel would still leak out of the left hand side. I should have bought the forty-quid two-in-one tap, blanked off one side of the tank and and ditched the two-way union, it made sense but I was too tight [TBB 5.14]. The hiss of vapourising fuel said I had to stop vacillating and do something.

I’d read on the boat that chewing gum could be used in an emergency to fill a hole in a fuel tank – I could get some, pull off the plastic pipe, block up the union and run on the reserve tap but this didn't fill me with much confidence. Then I remembered the garden wire I’d shoved in the onboard tool box on the recommendation of one of the old guys at Hitchcocks. I retrieved this and some pliers but trying to twist plastic coated wire, in a tight corner, covered in petrol, was tricky to say the least. Eventually I fashioned a crude tourniquet around the middle of the pipe and pushed it up on the barb until it offered some resistance. The drips slowed and stopped.

Phew, the bike needed to cool down and I needed a drink. I thought of the Lilliputians in the Bentley and wondered if they had any mini cable ties, to make a better job of it. I’d packed plenty, but in the back of Norm's camper. A bit of bad planning there but the wire seemed to have worked, so I walked back down the road for a Pastis.

Team Bentley were from Huddersfield and we swapped stories while I worked round to taxing them for a tie. They were very decent about it and when I returned to the bike and switched the fuel back on it all seemed fine. Wiring up the pipe when it was hot seemed to have produced a good fix so I twisted another piece on, pocketed the cable tie and promised myself not to ride without a break for too long. I considered fashioning a heat shield out of the foil my sandwich came in but the emergency had passed, I had a reserve fix in my pocket and I could even change the pipe for the thicker stuff that HItchcocks had supplied at camp, later that day.

All in all I was in a pretty good mood when I bumped her down the road again and we took off for a big green patch on the map, one with plenty of winding roads. I'd been looking forward to this from the moment I'd seen it, so much so that it didn't occur to me to check and see how much fuel I had lost.

The Black Bullet 7.4 - On to Mayenne

I had thought to stop for lunch in Fougeres but, like Winchester, it came too soon. So I had a coffee in the town square and continued on to Mayenne. It was my first interaction in French for years; “Un cafe?” the waiter corrected, after my opening gender foul up. ‘It’s not hard, really,’ his tone said, so I tried again, repeatedly, under my breath as I moved a chair into the sun. “Uhn cafe, uhn cafe..." The French might seem to ignore the 'h' sound but they don't really, they just use it more creatively. Think of a breathless girl saying 'yes' - "oui-hhh" - pure cheese but it works for me.

The middle third of my journey pointed straight at Rome again but there was little traffic so I relaxed, slowed down and got settled to enjoy the country unfolding before me. The Black Bullet was turning out to be an affable companion, slow but inexorable, not the unreliable short range tool I’d maybe thought. The hard rear was giving me no problems although I had a chunky lock in my backpack that I could do without and a chain for a barrier, or lamp post, should I need to set off on foot to find help. I wound this round the base of the seat to spare my shoulders, at Mayenne, checking carefully for wires and whatnot, should it vibrate through them.

There were also four books in my rucksack: a small book about investment strategies (Bull Moves in a Bear Market, P.D. Schiff, 2008), a slim volume on generic motorcycle maintenance (Motorcycle Care and Maintenance, David Frost, 1961), a pocket phrase book and a somewhat larger history of the Enfield marque (Royal Enfield - The Complete Story, Mike Walker, 2003) which should have been in my spares box but arrived the morning of departure. Interleaved with all of this were spare cables, a bottle of petrol additive, water, dried fruit, puncture repair aerosol and maps, which I’d printed off the net.

I’d eschewed the traditional tank bag and panniers because I love the unobstructed lines of the bike, I also have the luxury of a bunch of friends in two campers on the same trip and, yes, all through the planning stage I was imagining what it would be like to trudge down the road with everything I owned to find help - for some reason I was always going to be doing this in the rain. In retrospect, a magnetic tank bag with a map window and straps, to convert it into a rucksack, would have been a better idea but I didn’t know, yet, that such a thing existed.

Instead, it pains me to say, I stuck a flat plastic map compass on the tank with epoxy resin which, in the presence of all that thumping heavy metal, spins drunkenly as I ride along. I can hardly bear to describe this foolishness, which amounts to a simple act of vandalism, and I urge you not, under any circumstances, to do the same thing. It's nothing short of drawing on your grandfather's face with a laundry marker while he's asleep, and not nearly as much fun.

The Black Bullet 7.3 - St Malo and beyond

The road out of St Malo is so damn straight. I blame the Romans, it makes me wish I had something a bit quicker, like the BMW I followed off the boat. That would eat all this up and make a little burp afterwards. It’s either the bike that’s wrong, or the road, and my wistful fancy for a more modern ride thankfully evaporates when I find my exit from the Route Nacional and drive off into the countryside.

The flat exhaust note, with nothing to reflect it, is replaced by the rich burble that makes riding the Black Bullet such a pleasure. She pulls enticingly out of the bends and pops on overrun into the villages. "Eat Enfield exhaust note Frenchy." I murmur with a smile, blipping the throttle.

The overnight ferry trip was such a treat. To be free of family responsibilities for a while, not running away, just taking time out, like you’d do in a long hot bath, a five-day bath. Everybody needs a bit of time to themselves and this form of transport provides the perfect opportunity. We had whisky and Simon played the piano but I was in bed by midnight, what with a big riding day ahead and all. The next thing I knew, we were becalmed in the mist by the imposing walls of this old fortress town.

An impossibly perky reveille fought through the bath towel I’d stuffed over the speaker under the table in our cabin. I saw it when I was stowing my damp boots, tongues out, and thought, "Hello...oh no you don't." All the same, I was keen to make it to breakfast and get on with the leg down to Le Mans.

The next stint was about 140 miles which at 40mph, tops, made three and a half hours of solid riding. Add in three twenty-minute breaks and maybe an hour for lunch and that came to five and a half hours in total, by my back-of-a-fag-packet reckoning. This was provided everything went like clockwork. A contingent couple of hours made it potentially a full working day.

I laid a paper napkin from breakfast in the oil patch under the bike while I buckled up and realigned the levers for start up. One of the other riders came over for a chat as several car drivers in our vicinity started their engines, prematurely, oblivious of the exhaust fumes in their air conditioned comfort.

“Come far?” he said cheerily over the noise.

“Oxford,” I said, frowning at a couple of aged fashionistas. They’d been gossiping loudly in the cabin next door and were now revving up their Range Rover 'Vogue'. They giggled infuriatingly and winked back.

“My dad used to ride one of these, it was a Model G.” he continued.

“So is this.” I responded curtly, regretting that I couldn't be a bit more polite.

“Oh really, I thought this one was earlier, what year is it?”

“It's a fifty-three.”

“It’s a rigid frame, though, isn’t it? I thought they all had a swing arm by then.”

“I don’t know, I’m sorry, I really don’t know that much about it.”

“It should have a swing arm,” he insisted, “unless it’s a military one..."

I just wasn't in the mood and he thankfully retreated, "Well, good luck anyway.”

I was to have a lot of these conversations along the way and although the interactions were generally welcome and sometimes genuinely informative, I was not always receptive, particularly immediately pre and post time in the saddle - when I was nervy, or tired. That morning I just wanted to get out there, settle down to the job in hand and get some miles under my belt. I would have all the time in the world for chatting once I got to the Chateau.

The Black Bullet 7.2 – Ferry to St. Malo

Although a pint at the Still and West marked a small milestone on my journey it wasn’t quite the end of the day, I still had to meet up with the Village People and catch the boat to St Malo. I saw them standing by Tony’s camper, waving, as we rolled down the bike lane to passport control.

My own lack of confidence in the adequacy of my preparation had made me extremely cautious and I’d primed them for a negative outcome. This was to be a feature of each new leg of my trip, which must have begun to chafe on their sensibilities, but they endured my wittering on about blowing up in good humour and continued to offer their support for which I was grateful.

Among them was one of my oldest friends, Rob, who has endured far more of these amateur dramatics than anyone else.

“Hey, you made it, well done,” said Rob coming over, proverbial fag in hand.

“Thanks mate, it was a good ride in the end, apart from the rain.”

“Yeah, we thought of you when it came down, wondered if you got caught in it. How was the bike?”

“Sweet, no problems, even in the rain. Still losing oil though, need to keep an eye on it.”

Before we set off, Rob had come over to help me swill out the tank and change the fuel lines (TBB 6.14). We also intended to remove the chainguard to look for the source of this oil leak but I couldn’t figure out how to get it off, so we left it.

Fixing can easily become breaking when you’re ignorant of the principles and processes involved, you have to be cautious until you get through this stage. Of course experience doesn't grow on trees and the only way to get it is to mess up a few times, I just didn't want to do that right before my trip. So when I removed the fixings and one turned out to be an oil drain plug, which didn’t make sense at all, I stopped. No chainguard I’d ever seen had an oil compartment, what was that about? The skimpy user’s manual shed no light on the situation.

I imagined the oil leak was due to a failing engine or gearbox drive shaft seal but there was no way to check this without removing the guard. In truth, I wouldn't have had time to replace such a seal anyway so my temporary measure was to just keep an eye on the engine oil level which was dropping consistently. Gearbox oil tends to be thicker and leak more slowly so, right or wrong, my priority was the engine.

Thinking about it now, I'd drawn an obvious connection between the familiar patches under the bike and the disappearance of oil from the engine but automatically linking these two things together turned out to be a weak diagnosis. There was a clue I'd failed to give full credit to, in that the leak was directly beneath the gearbox, not the engine. I may have discounted this, reasoning that oil could have blown backwards off the engine onto the gearbox housing and dripped off the bike from there but there was no evidence of this.

I have to face the fact that I was more inclined to believe that which suited my situation at the time than to undertake any proper investigation. This had undoubtedly contributed heavily to my pre-trip nerves. The question was, what else I may have overlooked?

The Black Bullet 7.1 - Arrival at Portsmouth

Clothes still a little damp, I checked the map, determined to stay off the motorway. Old George warned me that the bike wouldn’t endure sustained high speeds and the thought of all those air conditioned, turbo charged, ABS-fitted cocoons whipping past me without a care eroded my enthusiasm for the fast lane. So, with a sequence of A Road destinations in my head, I shrugged on my rucksack, pulled my chinstrap tight and swung into the saddle. This would be my home for the next few days and I was pleased to note a comfortable fit in all the important areas. Then I rolled down the hill, dropped the clutch and were away again.

After Wickham the road descended and turned east to run parallel to the coast. The trees thinned out and we weaved with sheer pleasure on first sight of the sea. Blokes with tattoos watched us come and go while women (with tattoos) looked straight through. We passed a fish and chip shop reminiscent of a 50s American diner and the thought of stopping to eat fish and chips by the sea popped like a greasy bubble in the pleasure centre of my brain. At last I had a plan to suit my early arrival.

The Still and West is a landmark on Portsmouth's historic dockside, the bitter is excellent and they also do fish and chips. The food is not the best in the world, it has to be said, but the pub has a unique aspect, you can sit right over the water’s edge and watch ships pass by a spit away - Sitting on the Dock of a Bay, in every sense it was meant. I sipped a pint of ESB and necked some fish while watching my ship come in. Meanwhile, the Black Bullet drew passersby to a standstill with her pleasing proportions and graceful lines (click photo), and closed the deal on their affections with a little oily wee on the pavement.

The Black Bullet 7.0 - en route to Portsmouth

The mix of emotions that gives rise to, “What the hell do you think you're doing?” is served as an hors d’oeuvre to most journeys I’ve undertaken. Why choose to put yourself at risk, to cross the comfort line and leave the quiet containment of home? As a young man there was, metaphorically speaking, a hermit crab-like urge to swap shells for something roomier, as an older one the drivers are not so clear. It was doubly difficult to divine this on the day I left for France, when twenty minutes into the trip the sky drained into my crotch and boots.

Simultaneous with the discovery that my ‘stay dry’ trousers were actually designed to absorb the contents of rainstorms (presumably to preserve the dryness of others around me) was the crushing wave of realisation that if the Black Bullet had a weakness for water it was about to be found, not only on the cusp of my ‘great’ outset, but on the fastest, least hospitable section of my route.

“Stupid, stupid, stupid.” I muttered as a truck sloshed past, like a log in a giant flume. It may only be a short step over to France and back but as one biker at a petrol station said, when he thought I was out of earshot, “Christ, mate, look at that, that’s dedicated riding.” When I returned from the cash desk my ride looked suddenly old and fragile - one pot, one spark, one rider with a fearful heart.

But the Black Bullet didn’t stop or even splutter in the downpour and when the rain stopped and the road ceased looking like a great sheet of wavy glass I felt the first small counter-swing of confidence. I may have thought a good deal about preparation but I hadn't really done much and never been out on the bike in a rainstorm like that. Even so, the test of man and machine, if not trousers, had begun with a positive outcome.

The ferry out of Portsmouth was at eight but I'd left after lunch thinking I'd either blow up and have time to organise recovery of the bike by the time the village Le Mans posse swept by, or I'd simply dawdle along and stop on the way. After surviving the rainstorm, Winchester didn't seem like far enough to stop and once I'd circled a while in the mean and senseless grip of the town's one-way system, I'd lost interest in the place. Anyhow, I had to find somewhere that I could get my trousers and boots off to try and dry them out.

It turned into a fine evening and the sun came out so I stopped in a field near the pretty town of Wickham and hung my wet gear on the bike (click photo). I felt happy at last, I was on my way, it had been a long time since I'd been on the road like this and I hadn't really lost my appetite for it. Vulnerable is a fluid state of being, which is closer to the the way things are, whatever we might think, however we might try to apply protection or preservatives to our affairs. Another person said it was brave to attempt this trip on that bike, my pre-trip wobble aside, I could only see it as foolish not to.

The Black Bullet 6.19 - Miles Covered 403.3

My lunchtime departure approaches, bags are packed and deposited in the Village People Carrier and the route is prepared. There’s a road I like the look of through Winchester, which crosses the M3 and dips southeast to Fareham before meandering into Portsmouth. On the French side I’m going for another cross-country ride with plenty of opportunities to get lost, navigating the old way, with a map and compass. Both routes have been chosen with directness and speed, or lack of it, in mind.

I’m trembling with nervous anticipation but once I’d ordered split links for the Black Bullet’s drive chains the pre-trip tension that was destroying my sleep subsided. Unless something major like the engine or gearbox goes I reckon I can expect to make it. Oh, I mustn’t forget to stop at Halfords for a can of puncture remedy, a combination of compressed air and gunge, good enough to get me to a tyre shop.

One of the Village People has offered me a mobile (I only have a work one), so I can let them know if I’m stuck or in need any of the spares they’re carrying for me. Otherwise I’m on my own, which is what I asked for, so I can’t complain. I have to report a strange and confusing mix of fear, anticipation, pride, anxiety and sheer excitement. It’s like being a teenager again.

At my age? What the hell do I think I'm doing?

The Black Bullet 6.18 - Miles Covered 403.3

The Original ‘No Tears’ Onion Goggles inspired a search for something similar, with a better look. Looks don’t make you cool, of course, but there are limits. Eventually I found some cycling sunnies employing the same technology on an affordable ticket, so I bought them and took them out for a test ride.

What an improvement over my site glasses. You lose a bit of peripheral vision but when you turn your head at speed you don’t become tear-blinded in the windward eye. This is critical from the standpoint that I have to turn my head regularly to check the rear view mirror, to avoid nasty surprises. Bring limited to 40-50 mph means that even trucks tend to lunge up the outside on the open road, which can be more than a little disconcerting.

It was a beautiful evening for a test ride, which fully whetted the appetite for my upcoming trip on this self-centered form of transport. A fellow courier on the Wapping squad once announced in our cramped rider's Portacabin that he’d bought a helmet intercom so that he and his girl could chat as they rode along. Half the assembled bikers started laughing while the others dropped their heads into their hands.

“What?” he said, looking hurt, “it works...”

“She told you to get it, didn't she?” snorted one, doubled up with laughter.

“It was seventy quid,” he pleaded indignantly, as if the price made it right.

I don’t need to explain what made them tease him so. Personally, I think of motorcycling as a solo activity, that’s one of the beautiful things about it. If you ride out with friends, you’re together but also alone, until you stop and share stories. It’s peaceful in that helmeted state, I wouldn’t have an intercom, no way, I’m not even sure it’s that safe. To be honest, I don’t really like taking or being a pillion passenger either. But each to his own and I digress.

It was a beautiful evening so I rode up onto the downs with great fistfuls of throttle. Alright, it looks like I’m going backwards when something modern comes past but 400 miles in and I’m really beginning to get the hang of riding this thing and it’s great on twisty country roads with a decent surface. Lack of rear suspension means it’s predictable and what power there is goes straight to ground.

The sky was low and brooding, undercut with evening sun. Long shadows wheeled right and left as we swept up to Lockinge Kiln, I could have gone all the way to Newbury but I had no phone and was expected back home. Reluctantly I turned back making a circuit through Faringdon. The run up to Faringdon church was on a battered B road bursting with wildflowers, a break in the hedge showed green wheat and poppies beyond, in sharp chromatic contrast. It was as if all of England was aching to be France, or is it just me?

Time is in short supply now and I can only pray for good mechanical fortune. The weather forecast is dry on this side of the channel, on Wednesday, with light showers expected in St Malo the next day. There’s a bit of wind to contend with which makes for tiring riding but I tell myself it’ll be good to feel tired, man and machine battling the elements, etc.

We trialed the tent this morning and I’ve packed a box of bits; spanners, plug, contacts, oil, oily rag, cables, cable ties, inner tube, foot pump and so on. I shied away from installing vibration reducing grips, something I may yet regret, I think I will take my gauntlets and hope they reduce the numbness. It’s probably just as good for the bike as the rider to take regular breaks. Must just remember to stop on a slope, though, she doesn’t kickstart well from hot but will bump easily enough.

A very nice man gave me a push start outside the bank in Wantage, after my ride up on the downs. Some people just know what the deal is and don’t need to make a fuss about it. As he loomed to my right I thought, uh-oh, here comes a chat, instead he leaned in and quietly said, “Would you like a push?”

“Er, sure, that would be great. She doesn’t start so well from hot.”

“We can go into the town square, or up that way if you’d rather, if you think it might not...”

Several people in the queue for the cashpoint were now looking over. “No, I’m confident, thanks, it’ll work.”

And so it did, I swung round wildly to give him a wave as the bike jerked away, it was a nice scene, a good lesson in manners to the cashpoint people and a good omen overall.

Now that the trip is imminent, though, I begin to nag myself with doubts. Should I have de-coked the head with Old Pete, bought new drive chains, installed the new cables while I have a workshop facility? This is normal, however, and I mustn't let it spoil the fun.

It's been a journey getting to this point as it is. I've managed to get road legal, sorted the carb, the wobbly clutch lever, the slow puncture and the recent fuel leak. I've made myriad decisions on both a technical and strategic level and these are about to bear fruit, one way or another. In a funny sort of way I'm about to find out if I think straight, or talk shit. Heck, no wonder I'm a bit nervous.

The Black Bullet 6.17 - Miles Covered 382.2

Stuck on site today, for hours, in a top secret MOD building failing its air leakage test. So, lots of hanging around listening to builders’ talk. Apparently servicemen must be, “a bunch of wankers for doing that job, ja’mean? Getting your legs blown off and then moaning about it afterwards because nobody gives a fuck.” Well, you learn something new every day. On the other hand, I take it that ending up as a labourer with poor personal hygiene does not similarly define you. I’d like to think we could all pull together to build a more equal and humane society but it’s like a jungle sometimes it makes me wonder how we keep from going under.

Today I want to talk about rap, and hip hop. It’s a subject close to my heart as I spent the best part of two decades being bombarded with it in Brixton. It’s wild and crazy and the really good stuff blows most everything else into the weeds. It’s funny, prescient, ballsy and haunting. I don’t dance, dancing makes most people feel free, it makes me feel a bit silly, it’s just one of those unfortunate things. If tapping my toes and waggling my head only counted as dancing, but I don’t think it does. For this reason I haven’t started out talking about beats.

If you don’t mention the beats, however, it’s like ignoring Italy because you don’t like ice cream, which I don’t, but that’s neither here nor there. Rhythm is the primary mood and scene setter here and some pieces are pared right back musically, giving greater emphasis to the notes that are left. I think of Missy Elliot's Get Your Freak On (2001 Goldmind/Electra), that nutty pizzicato koto thing swept up and down Coldharbour Lane all summer, in a variety of remixes, and it's so catchy it probably still does.

One of my favourite albums is Let’s Get Free by Dead Prez (2000, Loud Records). When you get down to it, it’s got a bit of a right wing black supremacist thing going on, in parts, which I can’t really relate to. Despite this I do sing along to, “I’m a African, I’m a African...and I know what’s happenin’”. If where you’re born is where you’re from, I feel I have every right to do this. Again, it’s probably like my dancing and not really within the accepted definition but this CD stays in my changer when all the others have been replaced twice over. These guys have the courage of their convictions, you can't fault that.

This reminds me of a ridiculous situation I found myself in the newsagent over the road one day. An old drunk Jamaican slammed a hand on the counter as I walked in and shouted, "Drink, Babylon!" at the Bangladeshi proprietor. It was an attempt to intimidate a free bottle of stout out of the guy, who wasn't going to take it. They were still cussing each other out as tried to buy some skins: "You hook up wid de white man Babylon," the rant went on, and then he turned on me, "Africa, Babylon, Africaaaa!" I could feel drops of his spittle on my arm as I handed over the money.

"Yes, Africa," I croaked, throat tight with fear and anger. "Like where I'm from. Africaaa! Have you ever been to Africa old man?" He blinked his rheumy eyes as he summoned up some reserve anger. I left without looking back. You've got to let it go to get free.

Flick forward to 2011 and Wiz Khalifa’s Rolling Papers (Atlantic & Rostrum); I bought this CD because I really liked the trippy retro keyboard sounds and, yes, the beats. The more I listened to the lyrics, however, the less I liked it. He’s really letting himself down banging on about his millions and when he isn’t drinking Crystal in the proverbial club, watching alla his bitches turn they ass out, he really could do with sitting down and thinking about the rest of life, such as what he could do for his less fortunate homies who is still on the block. But that’s just my opinion.

This is the flaw in the diamond; misogyny, egotism, an overt fixation on material wealth. Dead Prez may wanna fuck the system but these guys look more and more like a system that’s set to fuck its own and everyone else besides. I guess Wiz's peeps are no longer opressed, which is a good thing, but I dislike the broadcast view of his fortune. For example, I've rarely felt more ripped off or discriminated against than in a nightclub - I wonder if the irony of the VIP section is lost on him.

But the point is if you ain’t no nigga and don’t know how, or indeed, if, you’re going to be allowed to be part of the crew, this may impact your enjoyment at least of the lyrical content. Feeling a bit left out, for a while I bought into white UK rap such as Skinnyman, Biro Funk, Plan B, Jhest and so forth. This helped some but you end up missing the outrageous production of the top guys, like Dr Dre. To be fair, the best rappers don’t need to use the most obvious of sticks to beat the oppressor with and race doesn't really cut it anymore. It's bad versus good and it ain't black and white.

I’m not putting Dead Prez down here, I think their thing is getting history rewritten right and white power is always going to get pretty good going over in this context.

The spares for the Black Bullet have arrived making Hitchcocks the most reliable spares department I've ever used - thanks guys. Even so, I should unpack them and compare them to the bits on the bike, before we go - next week!

The Black Bullet 6.16 - Miles Covered 382.2

I realise that threatening the Kings of Leon with exile from my CD collection claims no moral high ground [TBB 6.15]. No more at least than the KOL publicity team does by cajoling their charges into trumped up self-aggrandisement. Being a celebrity sucks, when you look at it like this. I mean we’d probably all have the money, right, but the hands on our time, the pressure to perform one function or another to satisfy all these other people, it would drive you nuts after a while. And there’s probably more of this ‘other’ stuff to do than creating product, to use the vernacular.

This raises an interesting dilemma, from a business perspective, what if the creative requirement could be downgraded, or even eliminated, as far as the band, or brand was concerned? Inspiration is so messy and unpredictable anyway, what the entertainment industry needs is people who prefer and are most able to do all the ‘other’ stuff. A project team can slot in some backroom creatives to prop the whole thing up, and front it with the right look. If the star has any talent at all, well, hey, it’s a bonus. Just as long as they don’t think that gives them the right to do their own thing.

It’s not a pretty picture and I don’t include the likes of, say, Sigur Ros in this but celebrity, like all cults, has definitely grown into a bit of a crazy monster. I can understand kids thinking, ‘if I were a star, I could have my girl/boyfriend of choice, everybody would respect me and I’d never have to do homework again’, but adults should know better.

As usual, it’s a Pot Noodle analysis, just add boiling water, but I feel vindicated in having a bit of a stir, celebrity culture, beyond Cbeebies, seems kind of cruel and unnecessary. Unless you actually like living in a dreamworld that is. Forget about the millions the industry pays in taxes each year, and the thousands of jobs it supports, this kind of post-rationalisation is just a ruse that gets brought out and spun around everytime a big old duff idea finds itself under the scope. People love to spend money and I can't believe a lack of form without substance will stop them.

I’m trying not to live in a dreamworld and have bought some spares to take along to Le Mans. The front brake cable is new and the valve lifter and advance/retard lever cables are not essential to the running of the bike. So, in a spirit of economy, I’ve ordered clutch and throttle cables, points, bulbs, and a couple of other minor pieces. Damn carb still leaks a little but everybody who has ever said anything about old British bikes to me agrees that they stain the garage floor.

Got a lot of field testing on this week, so off to bed with you.

The Black Bullet 6.15 - Miles Covered 363.8

In 1973 the continental (supposedly Dutch but I think there was a Belgian in there somewhere) jazz rock outfit, Focus, released a Live at the Rainbow album. The indefinite article is used advisedly as this venue in north London accommodated many artists who subsequently released live albums recorded there - Bob Marley, Queen, Iron Maiden, Thin Lizzy, Ian Gillan and Genesis, to name a few. There must have been something special about the place. Indeed, Pink Floyd performed the first live sets of Dark Side of the Moon there, also in ’73.

There is no doubt Focus were match fit and on fire the night they recorded their eponymous live offering. I first heard it in the late 70s and still get goose bumps from it. I sommetimes catch myself involuntarily humming progressions from the unimaginatively entitled Focus 3, that’s how deeply ingrained Jan Ackerman’s guitar notes are. To be brutally honest, I don’t listen to the rest of the album much anymore, it's as if that version of Focus 3 has moved across the face of my expectations to form some kind of musical eclipse. Only that hesitant, haunting opening will do.

But music has changed, right? And I don’t mean the organisation of the notes. Help me out here, point me at a recent live recording where all the notes are played by the people on the stage and they are delivered in a way that makes the hair stand up on the back of your neck. There should be loads right? The Lady Gaga band at Radio One’s Big Weekend, perhaps? Maybe, maybe so, but does anybody know who those guys are, or are they just the Gaga brand facilitators? She sure can belt it out but hasn’t celebrity taken music hostage here?

Bless Jane, she said it all when I started watching a rags-to-riches rockumentary about the American band, Kings of Leon. “I can’t bear it,” she said, “why would I want to watch them manufacturing their own legend?” From that point on I realised couldn’t watch it either, it was like, "tell me buddy, what makes your bro such a great guitarist?" "Well, Dave, now that you ask, I reckon it’s all down to your sickeningly, sycophantic and repetitious rhetoric. Don’t you?”

I don't mean to be mean, I quite liked them, but now I can’t even listen to them. It’s not Jane’s fault either, they just blew any cred they had by being a teeny weeny bit too media savvy and a whole lot too previous. I got as far as the bit where the open-top interviewmobile pulls up outside the humble hometown venue where they cut their rock teeth. Even the frontman looks a bit embarassed, like he wishes they would move on before anybody catches wind of the toe curling self-aggrandisement that was going on out front. "How did I get myself into this shit, dude?"

It's part of the deal, even celebrities have to do as they're told. Maybe they should do a Live at the Rainbow album and pay homage to some established rock legends. If they can nail a version of Focus 3, I'll have them back.

The Black Bullet 6.14 - Miles Covered 363.8

There’s a quarry on the route to Brize Norton and the road there is peppered with grit. I was crying by the time I got past it the other day, riding with one eye shut and blinking back the tears in the other. Site glasses are clearly not the answer to my quest for suitable Black Bullet kit, on a budget. The tinted ones make excellent sunglasses at a fraction of the normal price but while there are gaps around the edges there will always be a way in for foreign objects. I could put up and shut up but riding with just one eye on the road is pretty damn well asking for it.

I’m not keen on cheap plastic goggles but leather and glass ones are expensive, so I looked up sports sunglasses and found some neat snow ones with flaps round the sides, for about eighty quid, also out of my price range. More intriguing still, a pair with a discrete foam rubber glasses-to-face gasket glued to the inside of the ocular part of the frame. ‘Perfect’, I thought, but a hundred and twenty bucks! Then I remembered the onion goggles I got from Jane’s sister one Christmas.

They look pretty ridiculous, I have to say, but for the time being the ultimate ‘no tears’ onion chopping glasses are my new best friend. What a winner and a hundred-odd quid saved, so thank you Julia and TJ.

Rob came over to help me replace the fuel filter, which is choked with rusty sediment from the tank. It’s good to have a buddy to bounce your crazy schemes off and go for a pint with and gently cajole the pointy pliers off the child while you’re in the process of pouring fuel all over yourself. Rob has helped me build a bed, erect a bookcase, make a desk, you name it. We work well together and his assistance is invaluable.

That’s what the press release would say. Typically, when he's not holding the thin end of the wedge, he looks on dispassionately with a roll-up clamped between his fingers while I fanny about posing endless rhetorical questions, laying a smokescreen, if you like, for ongoing fatuous ineptitude.

We started with the front sprocket cover which I wanted to remove to see if I could find the source of the oil leak. I detached the footrest and undid a nut which turned out to be a drain plug. It was a Laurel and Hardy moment as the thick oil spewed gently out. I thought it was just a cover, why would it be full of oil? That’s all I can say for now. Enduring ignorance ensured we made no progress at all on this issue before we switched back to our primary purpose.

The old fuel pipes came off easily enough although they seem to have gone off, turned yellow and gone hard. Perhaps lawn mower pipe isn’t really up to the job after all. Hitchcocks have supplied an altogether meatier grade of pipe with the same bore and Jubilee clips to match. We installed a piece of this on the reserve side however the pipe is too thick to make the required arc on the main tap side, which it has to do to accommodate the inline filter. So, I’m sticking with lawn mower pipe on that side until the fuel comes up clean and I can forgo the filter. To accelerate this end we sluiced the tank out, again, and recovered another tablespoon of rust particles.

There were some teething troubles with everything back in place, a leak, a split pipe, fuel overflowing from the throttle chamber (?) but a few tweaks and test ride later it all seems sorted. The rear footrest and sidestand bracket had come lose again, access to the nut is awkward but I tightened it as best I could, and the spark plug nipple came off in the plug cap. These are clearly vibration issues and so, note to self, a regular visual and tactile check of components is recommended during any trip. I could also make good use of some thread locking compound.

Poz protested at being left out by covering himself in his mother’s best lipstick. It’s difficult, I try to include him but not when I’m splashing petrol about the place. It was like a scene from a horror movie when he appeared at the back door, plastered in shiny red emulsion, smiling guiltily (see photo).

The Black Bullet 6.13 – 356.3 Miles Covered

The Black Bullet paid out a dividend today. I had a site inspection at RAF Brize Norton, so I took the Enfield. At 18p a business mile that’s about seven quid to me, or half a tank of gas at today’s prices. Unfortunately the oil leak is looking, shall we say, significant. I'm losing enough to have to top her up regularly, so I've shopped around on eBay for gaskets and whatnot in preparation for a post Le Mans rebuild.

One really nice thing about my job is the texture of it. Yesterday I attended Her Majesty’s Navy, at Portsmouth, today the Royal Air Force. There’s a distinct difference in culture between these outfits. I can’t discuss it with any authority but they feel very different. If anything, the RAF looks the poorer, judging from the dilapidated standard of the accommodation on this station.

While I was checking in at security I noticed the flight times to Iraq and Afghanistan listed on a screen behind the desk, then three coach loads of squaddies in desert combats pulled up as I waited for my escort. Despite my early morning reveries [TBB 6.12], this is as near to the frontline as I’m thankfully likely to get. Then I thought, would I have the quality of life I enjoy without these people? I squinted at them as they passed by in the bright sunshine. I don’t know how I feel about all of this. It looks exciting, but also kind of archaic and pointless. My escort arrived and I unscrewed my face, sparkling blue eyes under a bob of brown hair.

“You Mr Postman?” she said, getting my name all wrong.

“Er, yeah, shall I follow you in?”

“You’ve got your pass and everything? Good. Let’s go, Andy’s waiting for you.”

A smile and she was gone. I fiddled with the fuel tap and hoped the old iron would start nice and easy so I could catch her up. It wouldn’t do to get separated from my escort.

There aren’t many female site managers, or assistant site managers in this case. Curiously, this is not so with the continental construction companies we occasionally work for. First off you think of the sexist crap they must have to put up with but Aimee, my escort, seemed to positively revel in the attention she got and was able to use it to get things done.

Thinking more generally about work on the way over, after I received a bitch-mail from one of the management. A global popped up yesterday entitled New Invoicing Procedures and when I queried something I was told they are the same as the old procedures. The thing is, it took 750 words for my line manager to describe how the procedures hadn’t changed, so to get shirty with a suggestion that we all meet to discuss this appeared testy to me, to say the least.

I think I poked him in a sore spot, he knows he’s no good with people and he felt I’d criticised his management style, which, if he felt it, then I suppose I had. We sorted it out on the phone later but if I’d sniped back, cc-ing everybody else in, it would have gotten severely out of hand and hiearchy would have made me the loser.

We spend so much time at work that occasionally things get muddled. We lose sight of ends and means and get locked into battles of will, or clashes of ego. Worse still, we even start to believe in relationships that don’t really exist, in the sense that they may only be underwritten by the bottom line. I can think of plenty of people I’ve spent an awful lot of time with that I’ve never seen or heard of since I signed their ‘Good Luck’ card.

Consider the Social, or team building exercise, where you might find yourself wishing you were out with your mates instead. Or worse, fending off the unsolicited attention of a colleague who has finally got you to themselves, out of the way of significant others. I recall two occasions (no, three, if you count the boiler room episode) when I fantasised about making a play, or taking up a perceived offer. Thankfully all of these remained firmly in the realm of fantasy, unless you count the one years ago when I actually took the girl out only to watch her desire dissolve into the sticky pub atmosphere, as the reality of our situation loomed horribly, sweaty and bulging.

Anyway, we both escaped unharmed but the point was it's a damn shame that we have to spend so much time at work to make ends meet. There's a classic Sabbath track I haven't yet mentioned that says it all - Killing Yourself to Live (Sabbath Bloody Sabbath, 1973 MEMS). We're so busy we surely miss the trickle of time passing, kids growing, relationships maturing, communities evolving, stuff that can really make us happy.

The workplace is also a community, of sorts, but when relationships are metered by performance and shaped by imposed hierarchies, chemistry has nothing to do, so it sits down and puts its lazy-arse feet up. In extreme cases, the inability, or unwillingness, to seperate feelings from the needs of the business is marked as weakness. So I have to conclude that there's not much room for personal considerations in business, not really.

Management professionals might shout, “We want people to be able to express their feelings at work, feelings are good!” Well, whichever side of the line you’re on, just do one thing, take a leaf out of the big book of being Japanese and tell people at work about your feelings in a manner that always leaves you an escape route.

Avoid putting it in writing - there is a caveat to this, if a record is useful, but generally it is far more effective to talk directly to the people your feelings concern. Then you can gauge their reaction and modify your response, on the spot. This is how we sorted out the New Invoicing Procedures episode but, note, the initiative had to come from me, a shop floor level employee, and this is a bit disappointing. But if it's important to you you have to step up to the mark, otherwise you risk taking a hit in the self esteem department.

The Japanese go out after work and get drunk and claim they have no memory of anything unpopular they might, or might not have said while under the influence, which is brilliant. Drinking after work in Japan is not about pleasure-seeking. It’s hard being a salary man and quite common to see a wife tut-tutting her puke-smelling husband off a station platform and into the car after a heavy meeting. It may be wasted on my colleagues but I’ve secured a meeting to discuss the New Procedures, now if I can only get them all pissed...

The Black Bullet 6.12 - Miles Covered 317.1

First light. A quality all of its own. Filtering into the house through windows I didn’t even think faced the sun. It’s so tranquil as I sit on the bottom step and peel back the tongues of my site boots that I feel a little light-headed.

The preparation of PPE is like getting ready to go for a ride, which fills me with anticipation and makes me want to climb onto the Black Bullet and disappear, and not come back. I might get as far as Afghanistan before some paranoid war pig snuffed me out - for riding without due care and attention for Imperialism, or Jihad - but if they looked at the wreckage of this poor traveller and it made them really, really sorry, might it not be worth it?

Probably not, actually, definately not. Neither of these tyrants is likely to wait up to consider the lot of the free spirit in their schemes. The one that does not bend to their will is not useful, does not contribute to the cause. They would just pick me off and insist their work is righteous, unfortunate at times but nonetheless righteous. The world is full of people making allowances for their own shoddy behaviour, without giving an inch to the next man.

Wild and dreamy thoughts to start the weekend, which I indulge for a time as the rest of it is work. Even the farming programme on Radio 4 is in another place as I start the van. A female reporter comes on air mid sentence, she’s talking about lambs, and redemption, and I think I’ve got the long wave version where the Christians live. This dawn fervour is now getting out of hand so I slot in some Black Sabbath to push it all over the edge and pull out of the lock-up nodding to the beat of Am I going Insane (Sabotage, 1975, Warner). Sun floods into the cab, I change up and we’re off in a twirl of dust.

A schoolfriend introduced me to Black Sabbath with the double album We Sold Our Souls (1975, Sanctuary/Vertigo), which is rare in being an excellent compilation. I’m working in the Midlands today, also home of the Black Bullet, so Sabbath is an appropriate choice even though their experiments with production are now hurting my ears. Ozzy’s screaming voice is clashing with Tony Iommi’s sibilant guitar and these speakers just aren’t up to the job but I can’t listen to it quietly, what would be the point of that? So I sing along as loud as I can and give myself a cough.

Another real stormer from Sabotage is Symptom of the Universe, it’s like they sat down one day decided to try and find the meanest riff known to man. Even the economy of movement up and down the fretboard is mean. It chugs along with heavy dissonance, each phrase punctuated by a discordant jab. A messy swirl of overlaid slapback guitars finally gives way to what is, for me, a musical moneyshot. A completely unexpected jazz ending, with a guttural splat of Ozzy singing bluesy soul. Mesmerising.

I had a seven inch of this with Hard Road on the flip side, this is more traditional rock fare but I really like it too. It’s the chugging riff and the singalong chorus. Unimprovable.

In some ways it reminds me of the Blizzard of Oz track, Shot in the Dark (Follow the Reaper, 2000, EMI). This is altogether more slick and of-its-time but it has essentially the same ingredients. It also has a cool key change right at the start of the main solo, lubricated by a juicy squirt of slide. Nice.

The rock guitar solo has become much maligned, and for good reason in the majority of cases, however I would recommend Warning off the eponymous Black Sabbath album (1970, Nems), if you like it raw. Sleeping Village sets the scene and what follows is a gruelling trip though Iommi's virtuosity, squeezed out with single-minded grit and determination. It feels like it hurt him to do it and it's compelling for that reason alone. It makes me screw up my face and waggle my head.

Sabbath recorded some terrible tripe as well, it has to be said, but when they weren’t addled with cocaine, they were often inspired. Who knows, maybe drugs were also part of that inspiration, it could have gone either way. Snowblind (Vol 4, 1972, Sanctuary/Vertigo), for example, is reputed to be about cocaine use, and it’s a corker. In fact, there's a thinly veiled credit to their LA coke dealer in the sleeve blurb on Vol 4, and some other great tracks (also check, Wheels of Confusion), so bang goes another crackpot theory.

At least Ozzy went on armed with a rep and was able to afford some of the most accomplished musicians and producers for his ongoing solo projects. I haven't followed his career closely, moving on into an appreciation of other genres as I grew up, but I do sing along to Ozzmosis once in a blue moon. I picked it up in a charity shop - one of the best 50 pees I ever spent.

The Black Bullet 6.11 - Miles Covered 317.1

With Ravi Shankar on the stereo, the sun is hot and I’m squinting up the road imagining a different place. It’s not the B430 for Junction 10 (of the M40) anymore it’s the road to Chennai, or some other dusty place far, far away. For a moment I am transported and my heart quickens. Christ, there are animals all over the road - I swing the wheel of the car this way and that - and thin people loping along the verges. The only people you occasionally see along here are litter pickers and the unlucky.

I once hitchhiked out of the West Country and stood all day on the slip to the M5. I’d walked most of the way to Exeter, slept on the moors and in a field, and I was dog tired. There were a lot of solo drivers whizzing past that day, so much for no journey wasted. Perhaps it was the large backpack that put them off, or the crumpled friend, or the slug in my matted hair.

It used to be okay to hitch (from the right spot) and pick folk up but everybody's got the fear now. As a student, taking the train would mean blowing the ents budget for the week, so it was necessary at times to do a bit of hitching, or fare dodging. Problem with fare dodging is when you get away with it, it’s a party, when you pay and no one checks your ticket, it’s a party you missed out on. Also the adrenal buzz, the thud of your heart until your hearing starts to go numb, is addictive. Definitely preferable to the ‘walking dead’ of jaded commuters - that’s when you’re 18.

The cash has all dried up this month so the spares I need for my trip to Le Mans on the Black Bullet will have to part of June’s budget. Hitchcocks are pretty reliable so I’ve no concerns about getting them in time. It's just a shame the self-invested part of my portfolio is so long in the doldrums. I've decided to draw back from shares and shore up my cash position, via an ISA, the outlook is not rosy and I'm beginning to feel a bit 'exposed'.

Europa Oil’s MD has stepped down, giving me cause to suspect he pulled some levers to inflate the settlement value of his retirement package about the time I bought my shares [LON:EOG]. I don’t know what mechanisms are available to a man in his position but what a coincidence otherwise. The share price peaked when I read this interview with him that convinced me and probably lots of others to buy in. And all the while he must have known he was going to step down a few weeks later. I’m learning the hard way, but I’m not disheartened, just frustrated.

But, heck, to hell with all that. Congratulations to Nick and Catherine on the new arrival. Well done everybody.

The Black Bullet 6.10 – Miles Covered 317.1

All this talk about money is making my head spin [TBB 6.9]. Like technology, it kicks up a lot of contradictions. It's like reading a holiday brochure and really believing you can have a de-risked, pre-cooked, off-the-shelf experience that’s still full of adventure. The ingredients surely contradict each other.

The trip out to Banbury went pretty well. The Black Bullet didn’t blow up, it dropped a bit of oil but I gave it a good hard run and it made it, that’s the main thing, there and back. The oil seems to be coming out from under the front sprocket cover, so I imagine when I get the cover off it’ll be the seal to the driveshaft or something. It’s not much in quantity but it’s blowing onto the back tyre, which is not too clever.

I got a bit fed up of being hit in the face by bugs in studded leather jackets though. I’m new to open face helmets - very safety conscious as a courier - and even though I had my stand-and-deliver face cloth on, the exposed skin between this and my site glasses was shot-blasted by critters and stones and crud lifted up in the turbulent wakes of trucks. It seems a shame to opt for the full face but for a longer trip it’ll be safer and a lot more comfortable.

At times on the faster sections it was just a case of hanging on. The lack of suspension was curiously not a problem, it’s the exposed riding position that wears you out at speed. In fact with a load onboard the handling hardly changes, there’s none of that wallowing sensation in the corners or change of pitch in the riding position. My back is fine after two sprints of 45 miles and my bum did not go numb. You've just got to watch the road surface and avoid any holes.

The exhaust note goes flat in the open, with none of the glorious richness it has in the lanes. I missed the clear aural feedback and relying more on the feel of the bike is not without its problems. It took half an hour to get the feeling back in my hands when I arrived. All that fancy talk about gloves last year has come back to haunt me [TBB 2.8]. The gel palms, on closer inspection, only cover the heels of the hands, which is proving next to useless.

At one point, after a long stretch in top, I slowed for a roundabout and went for the clutch only to find the grip had slipped halfway off the bar, and my fingers were flailing about for the lever in thin air. I hadn’t even noticed this suicidal, slapstick development as I couldn’t feel a thing. This and the oil on the tyre are slightly worrisome.

The Black Bullet 6.9 - Miles Covered 224.0

The Black Bullet goes on test tomorrow. We’re off to the new office, in Banbury, to attend a pension review meeting. Yes, that’s right, even rockers make pension arrangements, but this doesn’t mean selling out, oh no, not when the company matches a percentage of the personal contribution.

Some of the guys at work are of the opinion that pensions aren’t going to be worth anything when they retire and they just about live on what they earn anyway, so no deal. I suppose they think if they earned a bit more they might be able to afford it. I couldn’t say but if my pension is worth half the combined contribution it’s still worth it. I can console myself by thinking it’s only the company’s money that went down the pan. As they say in Romania, if it’s only money, it’s cheap (thanks to Fat Tony for that one).

When Poz was born we took out a Child Trust Fund (CTF), back then the government was also giving out free money in the form of a £250 CTF voucher. Thanks to this and the generosity of his extended family Poz chalked up an impressive £750 stake in his first two years. The CTF has done well to date, better than my puny speculations, and he is so near the beginning of his life that he’s closer to the end, if your belief is in oblivion either side. To keep things fair, I have to find another £750 to invest for Child #2.

One night, before Poz was even born, I 'hid' a monkey in a unit trust, because I had it and I liked the sound of it, Jupiter Ecology. Little did I know but the markets were on their knees at the time and my 500 quid grew rapidly as things improved. I made 40 percent on it in two years, providing the stake I need for Child #2. It was beginners luck, for sure, but it sparked my interest in investing. I began to realise what the banks were up to, with their mingey sub-inflation level returns on our savings.

Some people might find it a bit distasteful talking openly about money. They might even try to hide knowledge of their income like it was their balls hanging out. Why is this? I guess you’d hide your balls if they were too big or too small, or really ugly in some way. I don't know about the latter but if your income is embarrassingly big, there are a number of simple solutions based on the same precept: ditch some of it, preferably in favour of those that have too little. It’s no more complex than that and I could even imagine it being good fun, like letting your balls hang out. It’s a cliche but giving it away is probably still the quickest route to freedom, which, as everybody knows, is another word for nothing left to lose.

If your income is too small, or you're just about doing okay and can only see poverty in all that hippy talk, earning more money or making what you’ve got go further might be your preoccupation. This would arguably be the lot of Everyman. Veiled modesty or not, big income earners often say it’s ‘the deal’ that keeps them going - they love the cut and thrust of business more than the money. If this is true, some of these guys must be on course to amass more wealth than they can usefully spend. Then I guess they develop a taste for the same top notch stuff they had before but now encrusted in diamonds, to keep that aspirational feeling.

It all begins to look like a self stoking cycle and what I can now say for sure, is, I know exactly what you’re thinking...It’s like a magneto-based ignition system, isn't it? Money makes money like sparks make more sparks, it's a beautiful system when you think about it like that.

The Black Bullet 6.8 - MIles Covered 224.0

I set out to write stories with pithy, veiled meanings, thinking I’m almost 50-years-old and have as much right as anyone to put my experience down. Apart from the ugly egotism, the persistent naivety, and the dubious craftsmanship, I’d like to think I’ve done okay. But recently things took a turn for the worse.

I was sitting outside a pub holding forth on one of my favourite subjects, Fatherhood, and had just got through telling a gay friend about the three ages of personal development:

1. Child - being looked after;
2. Adult - looking after oneself, followed by;
3. Parent - looking after someone else.

When I was gently but fundamentally chastised, learning that his mother had been an alcoholic when he was little and often this foisted on him the role of child-carer. My shoulders sagged and I slid into my pint, and stayed there for the remainder of the evening. Feeling glum, I lamented the demise of this pet theory to Poz’s mum when I got home, asking her to adopt a classically unfair partner's role and ‘please tell me when I’m being a pompous arse’.

“Really?” she said, dropping her book to the duvet and peering over at me.

“Really,” I said, toeing off my shoes and flipping them into a corner.

“Well I could start by suggesting you leave off your lecture on fatherhood to gay men. You know what I mean?”

It all started out so well-meaning, how did I get it so wrong? I pretended to tidy up my clothes by moving them from one place to another as I absorbed this double blow. And then I’d only made it worse by fessing up to my stupid stupidity. Three strikes and you're out. Looking for vindication but I just kept digging that hole.

It’s fortunate for me that a lot of gay people have had a lot worse from supposedly liberal heterosexuals. I remember once telling a female colleague about the changing rooms at Brixton Leisure Centre:

“I have nothing against gays," I rounded up emphatically, "as long as they’re not waving their cocks in my face.”

My colleague smiled a knowing smile, at the clear them-and-us demarcation, and came out the following week.

The Black Bullet 6.7 - Miles Covered 224.0

The baby had a restless night and an overlong nap at lunchtime (one of the huge benefits of living near the office) made me feel sick. It was worth it though, pointless sitting at your desk yawning with deep down tiredness just to keep up appearances. If I get pulled for erratic time keeping I'll just tell the truth, I’m target oriented not a clock-watcher. The point is surely how efficient you are, not how long you can sit at your desk dreaming about walking out while appearing to be useful. Anyway, I must have been sponge diving in my sleep, I dropped like a stone, which is probably why I feel a bit sick.

When I woke I heard Undertow, by Warpaint, drifting up the stairs from the kitchen radio. Their debut album, The Fool [Rough Trade, 2010], is a slow burner but well worth the effort in my view. Rob and I went to see them in London a while back - I felt a bit sick that night too, for a completely different and slightly weird reason. The air was thick with the smell of oestrogen and I swear it started to wash over me, in noxious waves. There’s only so much a straight guy can take in the land of purple velvet. Or as Jane indelicately put it, "it’s rock minus the cock, right?"

The required days off and ferry to St Malo are booked so the Black Bullet is going to Le Mans. It is 80 miles to Portsmouth and another 140 on the other side, avoiding motorways. I am satisfied with this. It’s far enough for openers and, provided I don’t nail the throttle too long down the dual carriageways, it’s surely not too much to ask. There will be a spare seat in the back of Tony’s camper should the Bullet go 'Kapow'. I have to phone the insurer and check if I must go back with the bike.

Spares to carry include mostly things I can fit myself, and if I don’t get round to doing the de-coke, and therefore the head gasket, I suppose I might take a kit along. Need to talk to the insurer first. If they pick the bike up and take it all the way back home, leaving me in France, I’ll be less inclined to try and fix it out there. It would be a shame to be caught out by a busted bulb, or cable, though, so these things need to be ordered and packed. I think it’s against the law in France to be without spare bulbs in any case.

When our old Series II Land Rover blew a piston near Agen, back in the day, we had no Plan B. We limped to a campsite and walked miles into town to talk to some guys in a freight agency. We were desperate and strapped for cash, our entire fund would get the Land Rover back to Dover, where we’d have to sell it, or borrow money to get it fixed. In the end the vehicle was too tall by a few centimetres to train back to the UK anyway, and they wouldn’t allow me to let down the tyres to conform with the height restriction.

We visited a local Jag dealer who said it would cost thousands of Francs to fix and basically laughed us out of his shop. Back at the campsite we drank a bottle of Pastis with this guy called Max, who was labouring with a road building company, and decided to have a go at it ourselves. We were worried that the owner of the Chateau would not look kindly on a couple of itinerant youths turning their classy campsite into a tented workshop, so the disassembly went slowly at first, at dawn and at dusk. We stashed the parts in the tent and slept in the back of the wagon.

A week later the site manager came over and asked how it was going. She was sympathetic and told us the owner’s brother-in-law had a farm vehicle workshop down the lane. Without those guys we would have struggled to make this plan work, they really bailed us out. I had little experience and no training as a mechanic, just a box of Imperial spanners and a Haynes Manual. Fortunately, a 1962 Land Rover is like Meccano for adults, with very few special tools required.

Once we’d pulled the pistons, they came by with a digger and lifted the engine out of the bay on a strap. We did a bit of back-breaking work on the neighbouring farm and waited for the pots to be skimmed by an engineering works. The gasket set and assorted parts arrived and the workshop guys gave me a bench for a couple of weeks. It's funny to recall the giant tools in that place. Big tools for big machines. I was like a man from Lilliput taking a job at Gulliver's Garage.

I set about looking like I knew what I was doing but was often stuck and relied on assistance. One particular guy was in charge of making sure we didn’t take up the bench longer than necessary and when he realised I was pretty clueless he gave me as much help as he could, to chivvy things along. Then disaster struck one day when he noticed the head was cracked and told me a new one would have to be found.

My girlfriend’s dad, the guy I wouldn’t listen to [TBB 6.6], gave us some minor bull on the phone about a business trip he had to make to nearby Toulouse and that he’d located a replacement head (of which there were none in France) which he would deliver to us at Toulouse airport. He was looking out for us alright, but typically I didn’t see this at the time. I kept being bailed out but insisted on keeping my pride intact. I think Max must have given us a lift over there to pick it up, I’d never been so happy to see Old Brian, I can tell you.

So, I’ve had some experience of blowing up in France, and the stage is set for my inglorious return on yet another form of even more ancient transport. It might be better to have a timely chat with Old Pete about the de-coke. It will surely be a confidence booster but I’m just a little bit worried I might build in more trouble than this preventative maintenance is meant to fix.