Before I attempt to describe the solution to what I have to call Nick's wobbly bottom, our more literary readers will be delighted to learn that Saturday morning finds us in the Sylvia Beach hotel in Newport which is as unlike our previous accommodations as could be imagined. Gone are the rather spartan furnishings, the communal kitchens, the bare walls and ubiquitous wifi. Instead I am writing from a cozy, homely room, surrounded by the ephemera of a literary life...the life of John Steinbeck. To my left is a map of his journey round America with his dog Charly, plus photos of both, To my right an image of Cannery Row, about which he wrote, photos of destitute americans searching for work in the 1930s, a microscope (?), and of course a bookcase full of his books. Most dramatically, behind me is a wall-sized painting of the fully laden truck on which he travelled with a real radiator in its centre.
Each room at the SB hotel has a similar literary theme; there is a library. It is, in short, something of an institution in this part of the world and visitors return year after year. At supper last night, we were seated among the other guests and encouraged to interact by means of a charades-like game...There is, of course, no wifi. I rather like it.
As it happens, the hotel is also conveniently close to R&R 'Hawg' Motors (Not Affiliated to Harley Davison), as their sign board proudly announces. Thither
we directed our wobbling footsteps yesterday, first left, second right and continue down the track past the derelict warehouses, sort of thing.
And Lo, like Ezekiel before him, Rich himself appeared holding a reassuringly oily wrench. A man of few words, he cast himself upon the ground and set to tapping the spokes on Nick's wheel. This produced a rather tuneful melody and much sucking of teeth because, of course dear reader, they're all meant to sound the same!
As this was occurring, we looked into Rich's establishment and saw that it was packed full of rusting hulks, the debris of a motorcycling life well lived. None of yer trendy sports bikes or naked racers, here were the skeletons of classic hand-built bikes from the 1940s and earlier. There were leather seats, brass mascots, half-built engine blocks, names of classic bikes of a bygone era.
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| One of Rich's bikes before he began his magic work
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And, sitting quietly in the corner, was someone very like Father Time himself. If Rich was 60, this guy was nearer 80. Rich came in from his tuning and began to tell us of a classic two-week cross-country ride from Florida to Washington State, using almost entirely back roads, that is shortly to take place and for which he is rebuilding one of his bikes. Even though the machine itself lay in bits all around us, you somehow knew that both bike and man would make the distance without breaking into a sweat.
Like Steinbeck before us, we had left the main track and somehow stumbled on this alternative, very real, biking universe where they don't plug in the laptop to diagnose a problem but take the dang thing apart.
Inevitably this all takes time, especially since their working day appears to start at about noon. 'Oh. shall we give you a ring about 1.00ish then?' we suggested, foolishly thinking that it couldn't take long to tighten a few spokes. 'Well,' drawled Rich, 'we'll have to take both wheels off, and both the tyres to look at the thing properly. Let's say about 4.00 o'clock shall we?'
We shook hands and mounted up on my own trusty teutonic steed which carried us to our hotel (and would probably have carried us to Berlin) without the faintest hint of wobble or oily exhaust. But after what we had just seen, I'm sure I wasn't alone in feeling that this ruthless efficiency was, perhaps, just a tiny bit boring.
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