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
