The Black Bullet 5.16 – Miles Covered 172.4

Having kids does some weird things to your mind and when childrens’ TV presenters start giving you porny looks it’s time to turn your back on them, shut the door and do something different. Jane and I have both borne the brunt of this subtle form of parental abuse, at one time or another.

You can say one thing about Hitchcocks, they don’t hang about. The package arrived yesterday morning and I hastened to the shed in my lunch hour to see what I could do. Having tried unsuccessfully to unscrew the fuel tap plunger, I thought it would be worth seeing if the shaft was a friction fit. It doesn’t seem credible that a perishable cork seal would be fitted to a shaft you cannot dismantle and the contingent availability of replacement seals adds up to a serviceable part in my view.

Well, I went easy on it, from previous bitter experience - locating the stop end of the plunger in a handy slotted plate (part of a cheap Rolson T-square) clamped in the vice, using a pair of snub-nosed pliers to then grip the nipple - but pull as I might, the bugger wouldn’t shift. I stopped after one or two good goes, sighed as I inspected the burrs left in the brass, and reached for the phone.

It’s nice to talk to the guys at Hitchcocks, they really seem to get it - which is not as rare with bikes as it is with car parts departments, I have to say. You can tell they have hands on experience and appreciate that their knowledge base drives repeat business. I tell the guy where I’ve got to and what I’ve found out and when he says that the spare corks are stocked for vintage taps, which do come apart, and that the replacement ones don’t, he senses my dissatisfaction.

“I’ll pass the point on,” he says, “we don’t manufacture these pieces and if we find that people are generally dissatisfied with them, we stop stocking them. What you can try is reducing the size of the stop end before you attempt to squeeze the cork on. I haven't tried this myself but I've heard it can be done. Sorry, but that’s as much as I can tell you. You definitely shouldn’t cut the cork and try gluing it back together, don’t think that’ll work, not for a minute.”

I thank him and realise that this isn’t a half bad idea, so I set to work on the stop end with a file and in about 20 minutes it’s all looking a lot more plausible. End of my lunch hour though so I drop one of the seals in hot water to soak for the afternoon and head back to the office. I have a designer chrome wine bottle stopper, a cone with a rubber ‘O’ ring, which I shove into the hole in the seal to sink it and simultaneously begin the stretching process. It’s a little taste of no journey wasted, the cork soaks and stretches while I finish my last report for the Olympic Park.

The combination of actions works a treat and when I get home the seal goes on without splitting and we’re back in business (see photo). It’s a bit tight getting the plunger back in but so it should be. The grub screw is adjusted to stop the plunger from popping out again and the tank is recharged with gas. There’s a slight moistening of petrol where the old pipe union bolts onto the replacement brass tap but I can live with this and overall it looks like a successful repair job.

Poz needs his dinner so no time for a test ride. I put a fresh newspaper under the bike to pick up any telltale drips overnight and call it a day.

If all is well, I'll fill her up and reset the range trial. This is surely not the end of it, long term I should be thinking about refurbing the tank and opting for a single dual function tap feeding the carb via an elbow union, instead of two taps into a ‘T’ - the fewer connections the better. But for now I can allow myself to feel satisfied, a solid bit of problem solving, for once.

The Black Bullet 5.15 - Miles Covered 172.4

One of the loops on my old stripey dressing gown caused the fabric to rip when I stepped on the knotted belt some years ago. My ex-wife’s mother kindly stitched it for me keeping the gown in service way past its bin date. Catching sight of myself in this, in the full-length mirror (in heroic ironing pose), the repair looks like an ugly scar on my bee-like abdomen. It’s not a sight to inflate one's self esteem and I prefer to dwell on how lucky I am than to feel defeated by the unenviable excoriations of time.

The Internet has delivered some useful answers to my leaky petrol tap situation. God bless the bike nerds, it seems that grit from the tank will abrade the cork, and grit I have aplenty [see photo in TBB 2.0]. The tap has a filter but on close inspection the clear hose I opted for, to keep an eye on things, shows a build up of sludge at the lowest point. So stuff is getting through, which makes it disingenuous to go back to the supplier with a face on. Another reason for failure, as any winemaker would know, is the cork drying out and shrinking.

In this vein, it is interesting to note that replacement seals may be made more flexible and engorged by soaking in hot water. Complete new plungers are available but the very fact that Hitchcocks stock the seals would indicate that this is designed as a serviceable piece, so I’m going to have a go at it. Getting the cork sleeve over the stop end piece, intact, is what I can’t currently fathom. The plunger doesn't unscrew so perhaps soaking the cork in water is the answer, I'm only going find out by having a go.

If I am incapable, I can always resort to the fully integrated, forty quid main/reserve slider, which is probably the most sensible long-term option. With a blanking bolt in the (current) reserve side that'll be one less future leak to think about.

One forum contributor reported a small fire as a result of fuel dripping onto his Mag leads, so when another suggested cutting a strip from a wine cork and wrapping it round the plunger with Evostick, well, I ordered three pre-formed ones. One to fuck up, one to get right, hopefully, and a spare.

To make the order worth more than the postage I’ve included a couple of copper sealing washers, a length of clear fuel pipe, some tiny Jubilee clips and a small fuel filter. It’s about time I replaced the old one, which is about to implode.

After tinkering with these issues, perhaps I'll do what I should have done in the first place, and that's perfom a more fundamental internal tank refurb. It needs to come off; shingle goes in once fittings have been removed and holes bunged up, shake until numb, empty and wash with petrol, pour in 2no. tank treatments, swill and empty, leave to dry, and refit. The coating should capture any remaining loose particulate matter and protect it from rust, for a while.

Summer's coming, an afternoon's work on a sunny day, it's proper preventative maintenance and I'm talking myself into it. Shit, I could do with some of that myself.

The Black Bullet 5.14 - Miles Covered 172.4

The weather has turned but we had a perfect lunchtime ride on Friday, down the budding lanes, cutting through to the main road and back via the pub at Ardington. We whooped as the Black Bullet hit 55mph on the A417. I took it really easy on the back roads but, even so, Jane said the vibrations gave her pins and needles (“more of an all over vibrate” - TBB 5.12). It’s not really a touring machine, not for two people, not when the only springs aside from the forks (which are stiff anyway) are in the driver’s seat.

But it was fun, and she’s such a looker the old boys couldn’t help but stop to admire her on the way into the pub. Jane, that is.

The smell of petrol from the shed has been mentioned next door and I’ve had a look to see if there’s anything I can do about it. The leakage is also buggering up my range trial, so it needs sorting out. It’s mainly coming from the reserve tap, the one I bought from Hitchcocks when I first got the bike to cure the leak it came with. I cleaned it off with a rag to try and see if the leak originated from the tap itself or the joint to the tank. It seemed to be the plunger (click photo), which, if you remember, came out in my hand the one time I used it [TBB 5.7].

Pulling it out again to inspect it only made matters worse and soon I was calling for a bucket, or something, anything, squatting in a spreading pool of petrol like a good Dutchman with my thumb over the hole. When the tank had finally drained, into an old bleach bottle, you could see that the cork seal had sustained some damage, either from grit in the tank or the stop screw that is supposed to prevent the plunger from coming out in the first place. I guess I was supposed to set the stop when I installed the tap, or else it has vibrated loose like everything else.

It seems like a duff design to me at this point, with the bike now immobile until I come up with a solution. I could put a blanking bolt in the reserve side and keep just one tap, or replace the seal on the plunger. I don’t like the idea of running out unexpectedly and having to tip the bike over to spill the reserve into the other side of the tank, particularly on a fast road, but there is a single tap with reserve lever solution available – for forty bucks. Replacement cork seals are available for a few pence but I can’t figure out how to disassemble the plunger to slide a new cork on.

I'm going to have to talk to Hitchcocks. This tap isn't all that and I'm not going to buy the forty quid one without telling them about it. It's not that I want to complain, it's just a fact and I ought to give them the opportunity to respond. No need for anyone to feel threatened, or defensive, just a straight communication about something of which they should be aware. It's a bit of cast brass and it was 25 quid, you know what I mean?

The Black Bullet 5.13 - Miles Covered 162.1

I wish the politicians would stop their infernal tinkering. Every time there’s a spending review, or budget announcement, my stock picks plummet. It was a shame to have to shelve my plans for an extended road trip on the Black Bullet [TBB 5.9] but I’d be struggling to pay for it on current performance.

The background trend is healthy enough, with the FTSE 100 heading back up towards the 6000 mark, but it looks like I bought Europa Oil and Gas (LON:EOG) at a premium, at 40p. Wichford plc (LON:WICH) is bogged down at 7p and Snacktime, oh Snacktime (LON:SNAK), I thought you were a Lion Bar at 114p, not a Curly Wurly at 104p.

It’s a tricky game picking a winner and one not for the fainthearted. I did some reasearch but effectively bought EOG on impulse, having looked around for a suitable oil company for a couple of weeks. Trouble in the Middle East colliding with rising energy prices seemed to strike out Arabian hydrocarbons. Throw in the current unpopularity of atomic energy and the cocktail of influence should favour an operation like Europa. Enter the Chancellor with his latest brainwave, a windfall tax on oil, oh how brilliant.

When I bought Europa I was excited, I had read an interview with the CEO and Proactive Investor didn’t have a bad word to say about them. Reasonable volatility promised the chance of a swift return and the trend that day was upward. The very moment I bought them, this ended. It was as if everyone else had read the interview and registered the same set of influences before me, snowballing the share price to 40 pence, and, like a relative who's all front room and no back parlour, we haven't been back there since.

Impulse is like throwing a dart blindfolded, you don’t expect to hit the bull's eye, but half expect to get on the board. Looking at the chart, I couldn’t have timed my deal better, if the idea was to buy high. I hit the bull's eye there alright. I began to wonder if we had all been neatly played by a well-timed piece of PR.

You do hear stories of price manipulation and the real pros understand, for example, what’s happening if a MD buys or sells his own stock. For reasons I don't fully comprehend, it matters if that director is coming up for retirement, or if he/she’s a young buck. This kind of background information is grist to the mill for professional investors. This is where research and intelligence come in and there’s a lot of money in that alone.

I haven’t got this far into it and unfortunately the results speak for themselves. I don't have enough of a stake to make sense of paying for professional research so I stick to some basic rules, such as; don’t put all your eggs in one basket, don’t chance what you can’t afford to lose and Warren Buffet’s somewhat counter intuitive rule, never take a loss.

This might seem a bit glib - nobody wants, or plans, to take a loss - but you have neither a profit nor a loss until the deal is closed. So don’t sell until you have a profit is his message, however long it takes (assuming the company doesn't go belly up). This requires that the investor's hand is not forced by circumstance, so only money that is not needed qualifies as a useful stake. This said, our emergency fund was severely depleted when Jane wrote her car off in January, so I am playing a little bit fast and loose within my own rules at the moment.

The spring days are just beautiful and I’m stuck inside doing a design review for the new Commonwealth Games stadium in Glasgow. Ho hum. I should be out on the bike.

Happy Birthday Hack.

The Black Bullet 5.12 - Miles Covered 162.1

Pressure testing buildings to so-called Passivhaus standards is a frustrating business involving a lot of crawling and scrambling about inspecting junctions and interfaces for the tiniest gaps and cracks. The theory is that with mechanical ventilation and heat recovery there is no reason why the fabric should leak conditioned air, and therefore energy. With a huge jacket of insulation surrounding the building, including the floor, even the heat from the toaster is not wasted.

I visited an early example of a super efficient house near Nottingham once, and Bill Dunster’s Zero Carbon housing estate in Croydon. Apart from a sort of cave-like feeling, the windows being set deep in the surrounding insulation, it was pleasant enough inside these dwellings. No heating, or at most some top up arrangement involving wood burning, but apparently still comfortable through the winter. I have to say it was nicer sitting in the red pavilion by the Serpentine gallery in glorious October sunshine. It was more of a tent than a building and we really enjoyed the loose inside/outside spatial definition.

These projects sit either side of a line; two hardly use any energy at all, the third would require a constant injection of transient heat to keep it toasty - as profligate as a patio heater. As an energy efficiency engineer, I’m not predisposed to taking the red pavilion seriously as a habitable building, and to be fair it would make a better bar than a dwelling, but if the energy used to heat it was renewable and carbon neutral, well, would it matter how energy inefficient the space was?

Actual heat escaping from buildings isn’t the primary cause of global warming, right? It’s greenhouse gases and the sun. Are we then destined to return to cave dwelling? What can I say when I liked sitting in the red pavilion so much, sipping coffee and watching life pass by. Poz loved it too, he made a friend and they pinballed off the fabric and furnishings, neither properly inside nor out. Maybe caves are for sleeping in and tents for going out, it’s rarely all one way.

Being two means Poz has occasional meltdowns, the source of which can be hard to discern. The slightest thing can set him off which is frustrating for all, especially him. We think a lot of it is his frustration with understanding his own emotions and screwy communication with us on this delicate subject. When he’s in a real state, nothing is right, even if he gets what we think it is that he wants. You try not to laugh but it’s hard, we’ve all been there, and sooner or later you’ve got to let it go. Rage burns bright but it’s totally unsustainable.

Recently after a bout of crying Jane asked him, “Poz, are you having a bit of a negative moment?”

“No, no, no,” the little boy sobbed.

It’s not easy being two.

The Black Bullet 5.11 - Miles Covered 162.1

The decision to build a website featuring The Black Bullet was driven by outcomes from a Google search for my own blog. This conceit led me to compose a rather pointless email to Google customer services, as follows:

“Why in the first 20 pages of your results for a search on “The Black Bullet”, is there no reference at all to the blog entitled, “The Black Bullet”? There was a random post, from 2003, with a passing reference to Royal Enfield motorcycles, but nothing on the currently active blog named in inverted commas in my search terms. How can this be?”

Inverted commas are supposed to prioritise occurrences that match the sequence as well as the words used in any search, so The Black Bullet doesn't exist as far as the search engines are concerned. Of course, there is the issue of popularity to consider and balance against relevance. In this case, the most relevant and popular listing reads:

“The black bullet, which is exclusive to Ann Summers, now has 3 speeds. It is quiet, waterproof, travel sized and designed for precision pleasure.”

I’d like it noted that The Black Bullet actually has four speeds, it is definitely not quiet, or waterproof, but it is designed for travel and pleasure. “It’s also more of an all over vibrate,” added Jane helpfully, “so, in that sense, not really ‘precision’”.

There were some other notable references; a band called the Kidney Thieves, a prototype fighter called the Northrop XP-56, Teflon coated actual bullets, of course, and a web media company, but nothing much relevant to motorcycling. This is when I thought perhaps a simple website would be easier to find, and went looking for a domain.

Buying an address was straightforward, despite the rumours concerning domain name speculators. The advice is not to shop around, just in case an unscrupulous operator registers your interest and cadges the name, or bumps up the price after the initial enquiry. I didn’t find this out until I’d shopped around but although prices were very different between registrars, I managed to go back and secure the cheapest option after completing my research. And as soon as I’d bought www.theblackbullet.net it became unavailable – so job, apparently, done.

Domain registrars typically offer hosting services as well but in my ignorance I split the two interests up. Transfer of the URL from registrar to host turns out not to be all that straightforward, you have to wait 60 days for some reason. It took some digging to find out that changing the nameservers allocated by the registrar allows the two to function as one and the site is now live. At first it looked as if I'd have to wait two frustrating months, or change tack and buy both services from one provider.

It is typical of any venture undertaken in ignorance that the questions you'd most like to know the answer to don't appear until later. In this case, questions like; what should I bear in mind when shopping for a name? Is any particular reason why registration and hosting should be held under one roof? And, why doesn't Google like me? I have only myself to blame for jumping without looking but it would be naiive not to surmise that some things are purposely kept quiet when in the interests of business.

There is a business case that cheap registrations might be offset by more expensive hosting and vice versa, as a kind of loss leader. I was almost surprised to find a way to usefully combine the two when this fact dawned on me. My site is a simple portal and not worth the kind of hosting being offered by the cheapest registrar. Conversely, the name would have been more expensive bought through my chosen host.

There are bound to be exceptions to this but 'don't shop around' was the advice, when I bothered to look. I could have shopped around with a dummy URL, I suppose, but with eyes on the prize this didn't occur to me.

It's early days yet but www.theblackbullet.net is still invisible to Google. Notwithstanding this, I’ve added some META tags in an attempt to raise its profile. Again, I don't know if this is the right approach, I guess that traffic would make all the difference, but it's pulling yourself up by the bootstraps isn't it. When I've figured out how to do this, I'm sure someone will have some good advice.
Heck, well why didn't you ask?

The Black Bullet 5.10 - Miles Covered 160.2

The 06:39 to Paddington trundles out of the mist into Didcot Parkway station. It was a restless night and our quality of sleep was poor. In the end I just got up, had a what-the-hell-do-you-think-you-are-doing-at-this-hour shower and left early for work, at the Olympic Park.

On the bright side this means I am just ahead of the full-on commuterati and instead of the usual hullabaloo I share the carriage with a few older city gents who probably don’t sleep much anyway and who don't feel the need to toss the first business gauntlet of the day by thrashing away on their laptops. It’s also too early for combat phone calls, which is a blessed relief.

The terrible news continues to roll in from Japan at a rate seemingly index linked to the importation of career journalists. There’s not much we can do to help, not with words, and I pity the prey that are unlucky enough to wander into the path of a news team. Stop him, ask him his name, has he seen any bodies? How many of his family are missing? Doesn't he know he’s lost everything? At least the world can see this appurtenant wave breaking on the rocks of Japanese dignity.

“If anything good could come out of this,” the writer, David Mitchell, told Channel 4’s culture correspondent, “we should change our view of the Japanese...for the better.”

The Markets are spooked and investors are pulling out of equities by the bucket-load, not just Japanese ones. The rawness of it all has everyone in a risk-averse financial stampede for 'safe' havens such as cash and government debt, but in the cold light of a banker’s lamp, the misfortune of some is a fortune to others. “Business is business” confesses today's FT and as the Robin Trower song goes, “The takers get the honey, the givers sing the blues” (Too Rolling Stoned, Bridge of Sighs - 1974).

For my part, I see a huge opportunity failing, spectacularly, to materialise. Middle Eastern oil and global atomic energy are taking a beating but Europa Oil & Gas (LON:EOG) seem incapable of capitalising on it. Unless they’ve got fundamental problems, the share price is bargain basement right now (+/-26.00p). I’ve toyed with pulling out of property (LON:WICH) and doubling up on my energy stake, but that’s against the rules, my rules, and as Andy Murray says, “Where would we be without rules...? France.” So I’m stuck with a paper loss at the moment.

Perhaps the lesson is to always keep an opportunistic cash float. Thing is, I probably would have spunked it on that other bike by now.

Spring has arrived and as it's nice to be outside again, at last, I pulled the Black Bullet out of the shed this weekend for a rub down with an oily rag. I took some arty photos for the website project and went for a short blast up to the Ridgeway and back, which was just great (see photo).

The shed smells of petrol and it's clear that the tank, now that it's almost full, is leaking around the taps. It's not that offensive but it is a waste which needs to be addressed.

Judging from the colour of the fuel filter, the tank could do with another swill-out anyway, that'll be the time to deal with the leaks. There must be a petrol resistant gasket sealant, or something else that I can use on the threads.

The Black Bullet 5.9 - Miles Covered 158.1

Already bruised by unrest in the Middle East, the markets continued to dive as the ocean swamped Japan. News of the scale of destruction and loss of life came like its progenitor, slowly but inexorably across the sea. In the lull between happening and consequence everything turned red in my portfolio and I struggled to understand the connection between another earthquake far away and the financial markets. This preoccupation was soon to be put in its place when I finally got to sit down in front of the news but until that night, two days after the event, I was rueing the slow puncture in my finances. This is not a recession, it’s a depression, I thought, and with that I put my current plans for an extended road trip on ice.

It’s as much about realism and duty trumping dreams of glorious self, as the more pragmatic pros and cons of the journey. All a bit depressing but I have to be realistic, I’m not 24 and not a free agent anymore - take note you twenty-somethings and get on with exploring the world in ways that adults might disapprove of. Safety is also a concern. I will ask the Biking Viking [TBB 5.8] if the unsurfaced roads in north east Iceland are navigable on a road bike in the summer. If not, I’ve plenty of time to rethink my plans. My only self-imposed deadline is to make a trip by the end of next year.

The Bullet was and probably still is manufactured in trials format and I’m interested in this from a right-tool-for-the-job perspective. Steve Wilson of Real Classic magazine has this to say about the Enfield Trials (article not dated), “Indian-built Royal Enfield Bullets have been in production for nearly half a century now. A mile on Indian roads is reckoned to be the equivalent in wear and tear to three miles on European ones, and that's a fairly convincing argument for them possessing the very-tough-as-old-boots character needed for off-road endeavour.” They do look compact and sturdy, and great fun, reminding me of where the whole bike thing started for me, at the motocross circuit near Narita [TBB 3.3].

You can probably sense the wheels clicking in my mind but it’s all the wrong way round. The Black Bullet was an unexpected arrival which has been leading me down a path ever since, now I’ve got the bug and I’m generating all kinds of off-shoots. I’m stupidly excited, for example, to see a working 1937 side-valve 250 on eBay, with fishtail exhaust and girder forks. It’s a rare beauty and I keep going back to look at it.

I’d pull my float out of the stock market and snap it up as an alternative investment, but quite where I’m going to keep the Black Bullet if we have to relocate (what with work moving and all), is difficult to say. If we can't afford a garage and there is no suitable shed, I guess Pete would look after it - it couldn't have a better home - but two bikes would be pushing it. Disregard for reason is a symptom of passion, it’s a delicious kind of struggle, but often with consequences for others.

I've taken a month of Mondays off to look after Poz, while Jane attacks an upcoming marketing assignment. If I get some time, I'm planning to launch a website to promote the story of The Black Bullet. It's been a while since I did any website design and I'm looking forward to it. Another interesting digression sparked off by the gift of this bike, for which I am thankful.

The Black Bullet 5.8 - Miles Covered 154.4

Reply to my email to the Icelandic bike rental agency reads as follows:

Thank you for your enquiry.

There are unfortunately no blacktop roads to the arctic circle, April is too early to ride north east Iceland due to unpredictable weather.

Best regards,

Eythor Orlygsson
Managing Director
Biking Viking

Bugger.

The Black Bullet 5.7 – Miles Covered 146.2

The Black Bullet popped and stopped on the path this morning, with a comic 'chuffing' noise. A squint into the tank confirmed that it was out of gas. I pulled on the reserve slider which came right out in my hand - all a bit slapstick for first thing in the morning. It seemed to go back in okay but I’m a bit pissed off about this, it was the first thing I changed on the bike and it wasn’t a cheap replacement.

Luckily the plastic can I keep fuel in for the garden machinery had enough to get me to the petrol station in town. I say ‘luckily’ but the truth is I never drain it to the last unless I'm going into town straight afterwards, and I can refill it. Then if something runs out unexpectedly, there's always a little left. I'm forgetful, so I have to have rules like this to keep things moving.

Some of the Iceland travel advice I read over the weekend, which put me in such a funk [TBB 5.6], noted large distances between filling stations. I have no idea what the range is here so I put a full tank in, at 145 miles covered, we will see how far this takes me (no fuel gauge, of course). There will be mpg data out there for this model but who knows what the truth is after all the wear and tear and recent carb tinkering, and my riding style of course. I might need to install a rack and jerry can arrangement to make this trip.

The petrol station woman was interested in the bike, because her son would have been if he‘d been there. Her daughter popped a gum bubble and stared disinterestedly out of the window. I’ve begun to note people's reactions. It’s an unusual sight this bike and even if you don’t know anything about it, or care, it pops and bangs like Christmas. Some people, though, seem oblivious.

A curious side effect of this burgeoning interest is that I look into peoples’ faces as I go along. I hope I don’t look so bored and unhappy so much of the time. The only guy who smiles unreservedly every day, collects trolleys at the supermarket. What’s his secret? I know what you're thinking but maybe he’s on some huge natural high, so stuffed with goodwill that he just had to get a job facing some of the most miserable people on the planet. ‘Come on everybody,’ his smile says, ‘at least you’ve got choices’.

The Black Bullet 5.6 - Miles Covered 138.8

Right tool for the job would seem to be a basic lesson, one which if you’d ask me over a pint will provoke a monologue of considerable length and worthiness, but I’m buggered if I can get it right for all that.

The disappeared French Legionnaire, who melodramatically held a knife to my throat, tried to tell me I had the wrong car for the Sahara [TBB 3.5] but I was too young and proud, or stupid, to take much notice. Now I’m planning to take an old bike with almost no suspension to one of the crinkliest bits of congealed, fractured, glacier-infested lava in the northern hemisphere. Am I now too old and proud, or, indeed, stupid, to remember this basic lesson?

It’s never gratifying to admit fault and when curiosity drew me to see what had been published on the net about motorcycling in Iceland, it was sobering, to say the least. Only ordained off-road enthusiasts and a few hog riders, sticking to the so-called Ring Road in summer, could be found. My plans fit neither of these categories, at the moment.

If I'm honest, a bit of the the old ego has crept in here and melded with a story I once read about this daft-as-a-brush Honda CG125 adventurer who attempted to ride to the arctic. It was such a ridiculous idea that it stayed with me all these years and probably catalysed this plan. But right now, on the cusp of my decision about when to go, I'm having a timely moment of doubt.

Our one and only weekend in Iceland demonstrated that the weather is fickle and driving conditions can be dangerous. Even major routes change from blacktop to dirt at a moments notice. The Black Bullet is heavy and it doesn’t handle, I wouldn’t like to guess what damage half a ton of hot, pointy iron would do to flesh and bone if it came down on top of me. I'm pretty sure I won't be lying there pinned to the ground laughing it off.

Isolation in these circumstances is another thing. Mike says I should find a buddy to go with, particularly if it's really going to be a phone-free trip. It's infuriating to admit that far from being sensible I am close to deluded, believing that will and desire can overcome stone and ice. Two of these can definitely kill you, so it would seem sensible to anyone, surely, to factor them in. Travelling in/on the wrong vehicle for the terrain is not a mere detail, it’s a fundamental issue and one I've wilfully overlooked.

I've emailed an Icelandic bike rental outfit for some advice and am going for a hot bath to melt this bum vibe. The Iceland trip may not be over but this attack of pragmatism is like flicking the lights on at the end of a boozy night and it's making my head hurt.

Photo: U-turn at Gulfoss, Iceland

The Black Bullet 5.5 - Miles Covered 138.8

The sun flicks through the trees fast and syncopated, like a jungle beat. The Black Bullet pops joyfully on overrun as I toy with the idea of taking a daft low-rider tooling along the A417. It’s good to have the bike back and I’m in high spirits on this cold and bright spring morning but the bike, quite frankly, doesn’t have the raw power to play with modern cars.

Once again the work carried out on it seems less than what was discussed. For example, I'd asked for new tank mounting rubbers, the originals are shot and the tank rattles against the frame at certain frequencies of vibration. I can do this easily enough myself but while it was in there...anyway, this hasn't been done. The wiring doesn't look any different, although a new ammeter has been installed. I trust this has sorted the charging issue. Money's tight so part of me is relieved, the other part wants to see a neat, sorted arrangement of parts that looks less likely to cause problems.

The mechanic's service sheet says the 'puncture' was a faulty valve core and that the rectifier and points have been checked over. The carb feels different, the tickler is stiffer and it idles at last. The funny thing is that without a key, there's no obvious method of shutting her off after a ride. When I got back from the garage I put her up on the stand and stood by scratching my head as she ticked over contentedly. I'm used to her simply dying on me. In the end I pulled in the compression lever - is this right? Otherwise the only thing I can think of is to stall her in gear or simply turn off the gas, which surely isn't right. It's a bit of a mystery.

I’ve had news which may force my hand with regard to this putative trip to Iceland. This coincides with an opportunity to take some time off without blowing my entire holiday allocation for the year, but it has to be in April. Easter and the Royal Wedding will combine to facilitate 10 days off for the price of three. It’s a bit earlier than I’d wanted to go to on this trip but it’s a thought.

I’ve been looking at Aberdeen to Lerwick, as a means to intercept a Denmark-Faroes ferry however Ferries-r-us says: Sorry, our Lerwick - Torshavn page is no longer available due to this service not running anymore. Deja vu, I feel I’m being pushed down the three ferry route via Denmark, unless the trawler out of Frazerburgh idea holds water. I spent a bit of time on Cargo Ship Cruises dotcom but everytime I joined up the dots to Iceland I got: Sorry, there are no voyages available matching your description.

I have a Plan D, though, which opens up new horizons. If I catch the ferry to Ejsberg, I can in theory ride up through Demark to Hirtshals, on the north coast, and get a ferry over to Iceland from there. This would give me a 200 mile ride up through Denmark instead of Scotland, which I would trade for, having never been there. It’s nearly three days on the second ferry, each way, which is a whole chunk of my trip, but it’s an option.

Right now all I’ve got are thoughts and options and it’s all a bit daunting. The combined ferry ticket price is £1120, add on, say, £30/day subsistence for 21 days (630), £150 for gas and £50/night for about 12 nights on land (600) and the running total for the trip is £2.5k. My investments are unlikely to do much between now and when I have to recoup the money to book stuff and I wonder if I’m not being a bit unreasonable pushing this along, under the circumstances.

It’s a thought that crosses my mind whenever I see some TV chef, for example, adventuring through far-off lands, sans wife and kids. I mean are these well-heeled explorers even vaguely cool and interesting, or just overpaid, self-indulgent egoists with uxorious, long-suffering partners? I couldn't do this without Jane's permission, it's a lot to ask and I'm not sure it's even right to, under the circumstances.

The Black Bullet 5.4 - Miles Covered 135.2

Jane’s dad is not sure that securing a passage for me and the bike to Iceland out of a port such as Frazerburgh would be strictly legal, unless it has a border control post. I hadn’t thought about this, I find the whole concept of political borders and passports an anathema. If I could find someone to take me, I think I’d go anyway but only if I felt sure I could get a similar ride back, otherwise things might get tricky. Failing this a return ferry ticket from Scotland to Torshavn, in the Faroes, and on to Seydisfjordur from there, presents a less risky option.

Directferries.co.uk has this to say about 'Plan C'; Sorry, our Scotland - Faroe Islands page is no longer available due to this service not running anymore. Bummer. I did read somewhere that it’s always worth calling as some sailings somehow go to Iceland even when they technically don’t exist. I’ll be following up this line of enquiry by phone. On the plus side, the two ferries implicated in Plan C should work out cheaper than the three in Plan A [TBB 5.1]. I would also get to ride through Scotland.

My investments haven’t taken off, yet, and I have to face the fact that I’m likely to be on a tight budget when the time comes. Two companies I nearly invested in are doing very nicely, proving what a gamble it all is. Baobab Resources (LON:BAO) is particularly buoyant; I was attracted to this mining outfit having been to Tete, in Mozambique, where they operate. Indeed, the Tete river crossing is notorious in our family history and it was my first ever ferry ride.

All the way from Blantyre down to the Malawi/Mozambique border my sister and I pestered our mum with questions about the trip we were making through to Zimbabwe, as dad bounced the bashplate on our Morris 1800 through the ruts. Mars (for they were Mars and Hack to us) told us about the ferry boat – shops upstairs, cars downstairs – and that there might even be a ping pong table for us to play on, while the parents went for whatever at the bar.

When we got to Tete the river was swollen and the ferry nothing more than a raft chained to a smoky tugboat. We were horrified but it was the only way across. I’ve never been tempted by theme park rides - why would you want to go on a log flume after the Tete ferry, 1970s style? I remember sitting in the front seat of the car, belt on, watching the boiling brown torrent lashing at the small boat wreathed in diesel smoke upstream, a long stretch of rusty looking chain keeping us all from croc-infested oblivion.

Mum and dad endured but never really gelled with Africa proper. Colonial Africa was their thing, a kind of suspended disbelief in shorts. Christ, they even wore business suits with shorts and called them Safari Suits. This kind of dislocation from reality is what you get when you stick doggedly with what you know, even though you’re thousands of miles away from home. Crazy really. And when they eventually did return to Europe it had changed beyond recognition too. Double whammy.

I dropped in to see if I could catch the old boy at Bruce’s shop who works on the vintage bikes but he was gone. I got talking to Bruce instead, who is less cagey than I first thought. The man builds bikes to order and he’s selling the car business to concentrate on this. He’s got to get though a brain operation later in the year before he kickstarts his core interest out of a home-based workshop. So the Black Bullet will be in safe hands when things need done in time to come. I hope it all works out for him, I really do. The bike comes back tomorrow.