The Black Bullet 5.3 – Miles Covered 128.5

Finally fed up, enough, of the slipping clutch lever I asked Pete if he had anything I could make a ferrule out of, metal, this time, as the piece of plastic straw just isn’t stiff enough [TBB 3.15].

“I’m just going through my box of metal bits, as it happens, let’s go into the garage and see what we can find.”

He has a big drawer partially emptied out on the workbench, mainly brass catches, hinges, handles and keyhole covers. There are also bits of copper pipe and threaded metal strut piled against the kick-up at the back of the worktop.

“A bit of narrow gauge pipe should do it, Pete, it’s to sleeve a six-mil bolt.”

“How about eight-mil copper, that has a six-mil bore?”

“Sounds perfect. I’ll lop a bit off and return the rest.”

I pocket the pipe with a smile. I love all this stuff, looks like junk if you don’t fix things, looks like solutions to myriad problems to me. It’s terrible to be stopped by a lack of options when you’re fixing things. Ideas get you only so far.

Jane says that in a consumer culture, Consumerism is a kind of cultural participation. If this is right then I’m pointedly refusing to take part by begging bits and fixing things myself. The Black Bullet is perhaps not the best example, as unlike, say, an iPod, there isn’t a constant churn of add-on extras available to me, but it’s an interesting point of view all the same.

We drop in on product designer, Mike, on our way home and I ask him what he thinks.
“I should be for constant renewal of stuff but you know what, I hate it,” he says, liberal but never of limp opinion.

I suppose, to him, that there’s nothing wrong with making things that don’t last and which aren’t user serviceable, provided they are recyclable.

“I’m not so sure that answers the question,” says Mike, “recycling takes energy, it’s maybe not as green as you think.”

He also cites the export of busted consumer electronics to the third world where poor folks melt them down, health-and-safety-lite, to recover traces of precious metals within. This has been in the news recently under typically emotive headings such as, First World Dumps its Garbage on Third World.

Back home and the new ferrule is cut and fitted in minutes and it appears to be a resounding success. While I’m in the shed tinkering, Poz hassles me for a 'doodivah' to do 'fixing'. His mum doesn’t like it when she sees him running past, screwdriver at the ready, so I down tools to do some fixing with him.

He watches me take the cells out of a particularly irritating shouty car thing to replace the dead ones in a benign singing turtle thing and we end up opening up several defunct powered toys looking for batteries, LEDs, magnets and motors, much like the kids in the so-called third world. I remember a craze that swept school when I was a kid in Zimbabwe and decide to fit one of Poz’s bigger cars with a string, so he can pull it along after him. It works a treat, and keeps him on his feet way past the carry me point on our afternoon walk.

I wonder if there isn’t a market for this kind of toy over here and dream up a publicity campaign for the new Drag-ster as I kick the mud off my boots. Bigger kids would expect remote control but, hey, smaller kids like Poz... I look at him, pleased as punch with his new charge, up to the scruppers in a puddle. Sadly I don’t have the energy or acumen for commerce, so it’s an idle wonder.

The Black Bullet goes into the shop tomorrow for a bit of professional fixing. It would be nice to have the time to do it myself but that would have taken out the afternoon walk and playing with Poz. A bitter sweet compromise but bitter, or a balance, at least, seems to be better for you.

The Black Bullet 5.2 - Miles Covered 121.0

The Enfield concession in Didcot is friendly and not too expensive. The business is part used car sales, part bike dealer - it looks like they’ve had to diversify to make ends meet. You can tell from the look on owner Bruce’s face that the cars might make money but it’s the bikes he likes. When I picked the Black Bullet up from re-commissioning and kicked it over successfully for the first time, his stony face lit up like a child.

I had to fess-up and ask him what the various levers were for just as the staff who had been watching at a distance clustered round. They could tell I was new to old British bikes, with the wrong-way-round controls, but I remember feeling more excited than embarrassed as Bruce confirmed the layout.

“We could have sold it a hundred times in the last few days,” he said, squatting down to click the fuel on. “I suppose you’re going to get it restored?” I felt his eyes swivel toward me behind thick glasses, as his face stopped mid-turn between me and the bike. Not looking at me straight made him momentarily surreptitious and everything seemed to freeze. Birds stopped in flight, a dropped teaspoon failed to hit the ground, you know the kind of thing. Only Bruce's face now moved, at single frame speed toward me.

“I have no plans," I said slowly. "Er, I couldn’t afford it, for one thing, and provided it works I don't mind it looking a bit scruffy..." The freeze frame clicked back into normal play as Bruce snapped the fuel slider into the 'on' position. "Good, right, let's get her going," he said, all business like.

The starting technique owes a lot to preparation. I had some trouble initially, got it down now though. The sequence is: turn the fuel on and press the carb tickler once or twice, to ensure the float chamber is fully charged. Then, if it hasn't been run for a while, seperate the clutch plates by pulling the lever and kicking it over once or twice. You can retard the ignition slightly, to ease kickbacks, and I tend to lift the air valve slightly (this may be because the bike is still running a bit rich). Then you crank the starter gently to find the compression stroke.

If you don't do this bit gently, with the timing retarded, the plug can fire and kick the lever back at you, hard. For this reason I wear big boots and tend to start it right-footed, on the centre stand, with all my weight on my left foot. Strength isn't everything, it's more about feel. You know when she's about to go, you just have to exercise a little patience and keep your extremities out of the way of the starter.

The final bit before you kick it for real is to edge the piston past top dead centre, usually by decompressing the cylinder using the bar-mounted valve lifter. If it's feeling quite punchy and then goes 'dead' under your foot, the spark plug may be wet. Then you have to back off and just give it a few seconds to dry out. You can also open the throttle to admit more air as you kick it gently through a couple of times. This seems to work a treat.

Oh yes, and the fuel system is gravity fed so it helps to have a good header of gas in the tank from the off.

I learned all of this through trial and error later on. Once I’d listened to her run for the first time and settled my bill, a young guy whom I imagined to be Bruce’s son joined me in the back of the van as I tied the bike down.

“Enfield still made good bikes in the 50s,” he opened up. “This one was made before they lost their way.”

“What happened then?” I asked, locating the end of a bungee cord.

“Well, they didn’t have great management, too set in their ways. Didn’t see the Jap bikes coming, until it was too late, and then they couldn’t compete anyway because the management had no vision. A lot of British industry went the same way. But this is from the best era, for Redditch Enfields anyway, nice original condition too,” he beamed. “Glad you’re not going to have it restored.” He patted the rear mudguard and shuffled backwards out of the cargo bay.

This minor soliloquy came out pretty much in one piece. The Black Bullet had evidently been the talk of the shop for a few days and I realised then that Bruce had kept her out on the forecourt the week he'd had it, right by the front door. I wasn’t expecting so much interest, although Bruce himself, apart from his face lighting up when it started, had been strangely cool about it. The reason for this soon becomes clear.

“I’ll give you a hundred and fifty quid for it,” he says suddenly, with a cheeky lopsided grin.

“Nah, it was a gift, I couldn’t do that, even if I wanted to. Anyway I want to ride it.”

“Right, well you let me know if you change your mind.”

He's hot and cold, this guy, so I press him a little.

"It’s worth ten times that, Bruce, you know that.”

“Yeah, I know.” He smiles again but this time looking me in the eye. “It’s a nice old bike, keep it like it is, just let me know if you want to sell it.”


A Scot working at the Olympic Park told me today that a lot of Icelandic trawlermen drop their catches at Frazerburgh, north of Aberdeen, before going out on the lash. I guess some of them must head back up to Iceland soon afterwards. It's worth looking into, if I can only figure out how best to do it.

The Black Bullet 5.1 - Miles Covered 121.0

Europa Oil and Gas (LON:EOG) is back to where I bought it, which is a relief, but a new punt on property (LON:WICH) has dropped slightly. Meanwhile, Snack Time plc (LON:SNAK) just sits and growls in the darkness waiting to pounce. I’m hoping my bets will come off so I can plug the profits into this Iceland trip. I might be kidding myself but without a plan, opportunity won't know where to knock.

The Black Bullet has been booked into my local Enfield workshop for the week after next, the hundred quid I made on that green services company (LON:EAGA) is going toward a wiring rethink. Electricity is one of the black arts and I’m happy to pay for the charging issue to be sorted by someone who knows how. I’ve also asked them to put a new tube in the front, check the carb settings and tidy up the wiring loom.

There are two putative plans for this trip; one involves catching a series of ferries - Harwich to Esbjerg, in Denmark, Denmark to the Faroe Islands and The Faroes to Seydisfjordur, on the east coast of Iceland - all-in-all about five days at sea. This would cost approximately £1000 in fares but one imagines it would involve a great deal of warm and pleasant eating, drinking, reading and writing (about how great it is to be a modern adventurer), and photographing cloud formations.

The other involves the potentially risible idea that I might be able to persuade the skipper of an Iceland-bound vessel, of some sort, to fit us on board, somewhere in Scotland, and take us over. I would expect to pay something and perhaps do some work, like cook. My father made it from Holland to South Africa working on a ship. This was after the Second World War, mind, but you still see the likes of TV explorers striking this kind of deal, so why not me?

The second idea, I admit, I fear. Storms, sea-sickness, the rider doused in puke and the bike doused in ocean, never to start again. Not to mention the other imaginative things that Jane tells me happen at sea. She’s from Portsmouth which gives her the right, apparently, to talk about this stuff. Anyway, time and money will doubtless decide.

If I'm lucky with my bets, money should be no impediment either way. All that will then remain is the sensitive matter of negotiating the time off work and family responsibilities.

I use the word 'luck', in this context, with some hesitation beacuse the cheaper alternative is the more lucky, depending on outlook. As useful as money is, it has a tendancy to insulate us from raw experience - which is also part of its attraction, it has to be said. But for the purposes given here, where adventure is the aim, it could be said to represent the difference between something bought and something given.

Expanding on this briefly; you can say you deserve (to buy) something on the basis that somewhere, doing something quite unconnected, you earned the money to afford it. It is a third person exchange. It is more likely that something given requires the doing of deeds connected to the giver. Indeed, one should be so lucky as to 'deserve' such a thing. I don't know really where I'm going with this but it seems important.

The Black Bullet 4.17 - Miles Covered 118.6

I still listen to Scott Mills, even though he kicked me out of his flat so unceremoniously [TBB 4.16]. Tonight the mediasphere has descended on the O2 Arena for the Brit Awards and Scott is down there punting his stuff around. He interviews rapper, Tinie Tempah, who describes another interview in which he mentioned that the O2 was a bus ride away from where he grew up, in Plumstead. The next day a publication trumpeted, “Tinie Tempah to go to The Brits on the bus.” No substance, just noise and bubbles and fizz.

Winter is getting done, the days are longer but it’s still pretty dismal out. I ride the Black Bullet to work when it’s dry, although I'm thinking it would be useful to know if it’s likely to conk out in the rain, particularly as I’ve set my sights on making a few trips further from home. It doesn’t seem to mind the cold and gets started easily enough but the battery isn’t charging, which I’ll have to look into. The whole wiring loom is a bit of a disaster, truth be told. Heck, the mirror fell off, the clutch lever is still loose and the front tyre goes flat every couple of days - ho hum.

I’ve started saving for the trip and investing what little is left of our emergency fund in the stock market, hopefully to accelerate the process. The good news is I'm up on a green services company which dipped and then came good (LON:EAGA), but down on an oil and gas company which I bought on impulse (LON:EOG). They’re tipped to do well (hey) sometime this year, being fully funded for five drilling projects. My third punt is a vending machine company with a cut-throat reputation made only more sinister by its asinine name, Snack Time (LON:SNAK). Word is, Snack Time eats other companies and spits out the indigestible bits. The City loves it as a result.

The answer to the tooth brushing training, by the way, was so simple I didn’t see it. I just need to brush normally with my electric one without turning it on. Poz still tends to hold his brush against his teeth and suck the toothpaste off, missing that all important brushing motion, but following a friend's example we now listen out for the brushing noises before we’re done and he’s getting better at it. This is surely more meaningful, more truthful and more entertaining than The Brits.

The Black Bullet 4.16 - Miles Covered 116.2

Woke up with a phrase playing over and over in my head, again. Something from a dream in which the Radio One DJ Scott Mills appeared, “you can own an opinion but not an idea,” he said, before making it clear that I’d outstayed my welcome at his flat. He did this like a malicious schoolboy, by pointedly ignoring me and making loud and happy phone calls to all in sundry in front of me, like I wasn't even there. The more intimate the detail, the greater the insult.

The execs on the train are also hard at it this morning, bowling on endlessly about scopes, projects and consultations, and, even worse, interpersonal workplace relations. It's really irritating and also a bit insulting to my mind but I guess they didn't get where they are today by being thin-skinned. It’s dull and yet so frenetic - in that uber business-like way - that I can hardly think. I long for a plain and simple thought to take the pain away.

When Poz and I were brushing our teeth this morning I was trying to get him to move the brush up and down, like the dentist used to tell me to. These days they recommend an electric brush for a more thorough job, and now Poz is wondering why he needs to move his brush up and down when daddy clearly doesn’t. Does this mean I have to buy him an electric one, to bring his training up to date, or myself an old fashioned manual one? Or should I just leave him be? I thought brushing our teeth was a simple thought – not anymore, thanks to technology, and good technology at that.

When he is my age he’ll probably be able to have all his teeth replaced once a year, can you imagine, fashion teeth. Pointy ones like vampires, chrome ones with kanji characters etched into them, glass teeth for those blessed with the perfect hourglass epiglottis...

At least the Black Bullet is a happy place for me, it’s not simple like a toothbrush is, but it is compared to a modern motorbike. It doesn’t even have a key, can you believe it, no lock and no key. I love this for what it says about the era in which it was made and I want to inculcate the same sense of trust and freedom in my life but, of course, I'm afraid that the bike will be stolen.

I rode it into town a while back, parked up in the square and walked away with an anxious backward glance, patting imaginary keys in my pockets. As a result, I forgot to shut off the fuel tap. I returned a minute later to turn the fuel off and noticed two guys eyeing her up. They were only curious but despite my best intentions, this time, I was more than a little defensive. I glowered at them and pushed the bike into a more secluded car park over the road. Stupid really, but there it is, I was jealous and protective, like a father over his daughter.

The tube is out when I get to Paddington and a crowd is growing at the entrance to the ticket hall. I’m due to inspect a new hospital facility at Great Ormond Street so I reckon a bus to Russell Square will do. The wall map tells me a Number 7 is good and that this loops round the station, stopping twice. I choose the first stop for a better shot at getting a seat but the road is up on that side of the station and all the bus stop signs have little bags over them. I head off through the rain to the second stop. I’ll get there eventually, I just have to remain flexible.

The Black Bullet 4.15 - Miles Covered 111.1

The Abingdon Pool cafe is toddler-tastic on a Sunday morning and today, as Poz fashions a cheese sandwich into a variety of moist adornments, the ubiquitous wall-mounted TV airs a debate on the question: should we tolerate the intolerant? A fascist-looking dude and a middle eastern-looking guy are hard at it. I can’t hear them but can guess what they’re saying and wearily hope that they’ve at least dealt with the opening predicament.

What are we when we cease to be tolerant, if not intolerant? Then, by Jove, how shall we put up with ourselves? I turn my chair to evade these oxymorons. It wouldn’t bother me at all if it was just strutting and pouting, like televised sport, but some people take these contests to heart and when it spills over into the community it gets ugly.

"Oh no, cheese," wails Poz, as his sandwich falls to the floor.

With all the stuff that's going on in the Middle East this kind of thing is right up the media agenda but proper analysis is too complex for TV, to my mind. People lose their lives over arguments like these. I rescue Poz's sarnie and think how utterly devastated I’d be for the rest of my life if I lost him, or his mum.

"Tankoo daddy," he grins.

Is there anything that important to be seen to be right about? And can you imagine the news team then trying to capture your tears for the likes of those that gawp at traffic accidents. Terrible.

I'd like to see the same audience presented with: should we give in to hate?

"Er, yeah, well if they killed my mum..." Yes, well, we all know mums that deserve a shiv in the neck, right fellas?

Dark sarcastic thoughts, on a beautiful day, put there by stupid TV.

"Home," says Poz, and, "Beebies?"

The Black Bullet 4.14 – 111.1 Miles Covered

The Black Bullet on the track up to the Ridgeway

The Black Bullet 4.13 - Miles Covered 111.1

The rookery opposite goes up like a black firework as I crunch down the garden path at first light. It’s been a blustery night and one of fitful sleep, for everyone. Poz lets us know when he’s ready to get up by shouting “hulooo!” from his cot at the top of his voice. The pine board doors in our cottage don’t offer much resistance to the passage of sound, so he’s pretty much in charge of mornings.

Jane’s new used Honda glistens with raindrops in the car park. A colleague gave me a lift to Milton Keynes yesterday to pick it up and I’m fitting Poz’s car seat in the gloom. It’s a bit of a fiddle but at least the seat is now clean. I shook out as much of the atrophied snack material as I could when I rescued it from the write-off but the cover needed a good wash. I pulled this off and stuffed it into the washing machine before catching my lift up to MK, this way I could almost be said to be doing two things at once.

It’s an unremarkable story but one which serves a point. I’m lazy but I also like things to get done and out of this tension comes the family creed, such as it is, of No Journey Wasted. In its most prosaic form, No Journey Wasted means taking your plate back to the kitchen when you’re on your way through to the bathroom anyway, but I like to think this can be expanded to apply to any process you care to mention.

In terms of bike maintenance it would include a good clean and check of associated components when you do a particular job. A change of brake pads, for example, might include polishing as much of the brake piston as you can push out, without removing it completely and having to re-bleed the whole system (that would be two 'journeys'). No Journey Wasted is flaming obvious and infuriatingly subtle in turn. Sometimes I even have three things on the go at once and, as with juggling, you're bound to drop one sooner or later, and then you have an anomaly.

You can generally spot a NJW anomoly by its out of place-ness - a spanner in a tea cup on the stairs, a set of keys balanced on a sandwich by the door. To a careless bystander NJW anomolies might look like sloth or forgetfulness. It’s taken me ages to persuade Jane that a spanner in a mug on the stairs was the momentarily misplaced fruit of higher thinking. In fact, I might still have some work to do there but you try it and you’ll see what I mean, it’s addictive, in the same way that bargain hunting is addictive. At its best, NJW is almost something for nothing, and that’s got to be good, right?