Loathing and Desperation In the Parking Garage; The Smallest Part on the Bike; Playing the Hand You're Dealt; Apartment Based Motorcycle Mechanics and the Zealots in the Practice.
They painted the parking garage at the end of last summer, so I was forced to move my bike upstairs for a couple of days. I hadn't looked at the thing since the summer before when the insurance ran out after a protracted misunderstanding with building management. They saw the rules about leaving things other than vehicles (motorcycle parts, tools, the odd bottle of oil) in parking spaces, and not performing maintenance on vehicles as ironclad, unbreakable commandments, whereas I treated them more like guidelines. Volumes of paperwork flew back and forth. Warnings and second warnings, rebuttals, dissertations from my attorney and chief of inventory (both personal alter-egos). Eventually i just cleaned everything up after the insurance ran out and left the bike parked there, too frustrated to even properly winterize the damned thing.
But that garage was getting painted and unless I wanted my bike painted, too, it had to come upstairs. So, having not run it or even turned it over in almost a year, I turned it on and gave the ol' kick lever sh*t. My amazed landlord, who had marched down there with me expecting to have to push it up the ramp, stared as she turned over and roared to life. I blew the cobwebs out of the exhaust with a few fat rolls of the throttle, jammed it in to gear and took off up the ramp. No helmet, no gloves, just a wide grin and a wave.
It was just up out of the garage and around the corner to the back lot, but I was hooked all over again. The trouble that I had gone through having to work on the bike under less than ideal circumstances the year before vanished from my memory. How could I have let this beautiful machine sit down there all summer? Some steel wool, autosol and a rag to make it look respectable, fresh tags, dust off the gear and we're off. It didn't want to idle properly - almost certainly clogged pilot jets - but what the hell was I supposed to do about it? I'm just some poor apartment dwelling sap with a bunch of paperwork-loving sticklers overseeing my every move. And besides; the Vancouver Indian Summer could only last so long. It was time to RIDE!
Eventually the weather caught up with me and the beautiful, red CB750F went in to hibernation. But after every sunset comes a dawn. Determined, I dragged a spare set of carbs up to my apartment and kissed my kitchen table good bye for an undetermined period while I figured out how they came apart and went back together clean.
There are a number of things that apartment mechanics must put up with, but the most glaring and an undeniable common thread is the lack of a designated shop. The parking garage doesn't belong to us alone. Both the parking garage and the back lot, where it's sunny and not as dusty and dingy, are subject to no small amount of traffic. Somehow, the concept of working on old motorcycles is a romantic one to many, and vicarious living though a conversation with yours truly is an entertaining sideshow on a summer's day.
"Wow! How old is that thing?" "What are you doing to it?"
These are my neighbours, so I indulge them, but it gets a bit tedious. Sometimes people stop and watch and chitchat for up to a half hour. One guy wanted to know how it worked. The whole thing. Usually people don't stop for the tour more than once, but they'll make sure to say hi the next time they pass. "Still not running, eh, Braden?" No. Not yet. Soon, though.
As soon as the carbs went back on the bike and were ready to run for papa, the electricals started messing up. Down I went back in to the parking garage, over in to the very corner stall - the only one with a plug for my battery charger, and the only one that isn't rented out because of simple filth. It's the lowest point in the garage, and all of the debris collects there. I found a used hypodermic needle down there lined up along side of one half of the pliers out of my general issue Honda tool kit and a disassembled ball point pen. Likely, it's the filthiest spot in this building. Like I said, though: there's an electrical outlet for my battery charger.
Intermittent spark at the plugs and points so it's time to trade Saturday Night for time with my multimeter. I tracked down the problem pretty quickly; The run/stop switch was knackered, the contacts having come apart. Easy fix, though, I've just got to re-align the spring in to the hole and make sure not to dro-
The pin that makes the switch click into position when it's installed fell from my hand to the dirty, grimy, gritty floor in slow motion and without making a sound. For a solid minute, I was too scared to move. Down I went with an LED flashlight for far longer than an adult should spend searching for a tiny little piece of brass. The smallest part on the bike - down for the count. Honda won't sell you just that piece; it's the whole switch assembly for $109 US, plus shipping to Canada. While the perfect little brass nub - all I need to make the bike run - lies un-detected in the sludge.
Attempts to fabricate another nub out of the aluminum from the tab of the can of my pity beer were fruitless, so I packed up my tools and hauled them off to the elevator. Nothing can be left by the bike, both because of regulations and transient thieves. All tools must be brought down and back up with each visit. Anything left upstairs had better not be something you'll end up needing. I'm part mechanic and part pack mule.
I'm not frustrated, or dejected. I love my bike and the knowledge that I have acquired fixing and maintaining it is unique and indispensable. This is not supposed to be easy - it's a 30 year old bike, not a wooden box or a model airplane. These things take time and effort. One day, I will move out of this tuna can and in to a proper house, with a proper garage. There, I will have appreciation for my shop, my bench, electricity and my beautiful, clean floor. I will fix little things and big things. I'll build project bikes, maybe one for the wife, maybe a car...
For now, though, this is a dream. At this point in time and space, I must acquire a stop/run switch and continue, loving every minute.
