J will point out that if you do not go down the road of ruthless efficiency and ride a BMW, you have only yourself to blame if things go wrong. J's ethos is based on the harnessing of cutting edge technology, the thrill of its handling at corners, its smooth quiet running an its considerable reservoir of power, there when you need it. Woody Allen might say that the only trouble with riding one was that it made you want to invade Poland.
I have always resisted this. To me these German machines look too functional. Too many good old-fashioned good looks have been sacrificed. Wharts and all, give me the chugging old Harley with its enormous V twin engine churning out potato-potato and tons of beautifully shaped gleaming chrome. That's all you need to swing round corners. Gently.
At least that WAS my point of view. Things looked different today. For the last two days I had detected a strange lateral movement in the frame. In particular whenever I decelerated from 60 down to about 45 the Harley wabbled. Today it was worse than before and J noticed it from behind and commented. At a garage where we had stopped for petrol, one of my new Harley friends pulled in on a 'Glide, and J mentioned the problem to him. "Ain't ya heard of the Harley Wabble?" he said, and suggested we looked it up on the web.
We cruised down H101 southwards, admiring vistas of the Pacific that suddenly offered themselves. With Big Soph playing up I was careful with her but progress was being made. We stopped off for a picnic lunch at Cape Look-out. It was scenic and sunny and a good spot. I had woken up that morning with a blocked right ear. There I was, munching a piece of French bread with cheese, while Jony bombed my right ear with eardrops.
Back on R101 we cruised down hill to Lincoln City, not a memorable place but it was there that we decided that the wabble had to go, and I phoned Eagle HQ. I agreed to phone back while they thought about it. When I called back Andrew our manager there told us he had located a Harley expert at Newport our destination that night, a guy called Rich at Northeast First Street. He would fix the problem. Just as well. By that time J had found "Harley Wabble on the web. It made interesting and worrying reading. And what was the problem Andrew? "Probably something to do with the wheel spokes" was the reply.
We made the acquintance of Rich, after dropping off our luggage at the Sylvia Beech hotel, Newport. Now Rich is an old school Harley man, so laid back he's almost horizotal. His working day starts at 12. He immediately went to the wheels and listened intently as he played the spokes with a spanner like a xylaphone. Several of the spokes rang low or dud notes. That seemed to diagnose the problem, but work couldn't start till tomorrow. Perhaps we could drop in at around four? Whatever it took, we said.
Back to the Sylvia Beach on J's pillion, mercifully disregarding all signs to Poland, and just time to clean up before the 7 pm deadline for dinner. The Sylvia Beech is a splendid institution run by three Mrs Marples. Its theme is British and American literature. We had what must have been one of the finest rooms in the place, the John Steinbeck room.As you enter it there is the front of an old Ford car where the fireplace once was and an array of Steinbecks books on shelves, as well as pictures of him with his large poodle. Above my bed is a wood-framed picture of a slogan which dated back to the days of the Great Depression in Grapes of Wrath, saying "Jobless Men Keep Going. We can't take care of our own".
Amusing dinner. Guests are seated by the senior Mrs Marple at one of about six square tables, and encouraged to mingle by playing a game. Each person took turns to make three statements, two true and one false. Questions could be asked and the answers were discussed. The table had to guess which the false statement was. Pleasant enough company. Agatha Christie would have found it inspirational, and she would have enjoyed deciding which of our dinner companions would not have made it through the night.
Time for more eardrops, Jony.
Jony
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