My daughter’s suggestion as I helped her take out the cam shafts. Another possibility was that too much time and money was spent on the bike and a neglected girlfriend took a knife to her competition; venom born from the nails, painted but ignored, the sharp claws of a demented animal.
But delving deep into the smoking engine, the casings split and I discovered the truth. Sand had been poured in, to contaminate the life blood and destroy every bearing, moving part and smooth surface. The accurately machined tolerances have not run out from the sands of time but tolerance ran out and the sand of spite was to blame. What can be done? As I scraped the oil soaked grit from the sump I realized this was an inside job.
This loved, nurtured and accessorized bike was to be reprocessed, an occurrence the desperate owner had considered to be a hostile takeover and if he couldn’t ride her no one would. So from bailiff to auction to dealer to me I have become the half aware victim of blatant sabotage due understandable circumstance. I still prefer that werewolf theory though, it has more bite. Although reposition has more creditability in the current credit crunch climate.
This is not the first but defiantly the biggest step in preparation of the next trip. To find a bike to take me to South America. Eyes wide open but not in x-ray mode, I knew I was buying something with a troubled history and the negotiated price reflected this but it stopped being a bargain when the awful truth of revenge was revealed. I knew it came with baggage that's why I bought it; panniers are expensive to buy on their own.
So now it’s time to establish new connections, discover used parts, and rely on past experience to get my motor running. It remains a bike of accessories and character, embellished with excess and scarification.
The Christmas tree is dead but the presents remain.
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