Act Up
Everything is going fine then you open your mouth and say something stupid like "I haven't had a lick of trouble with my bike. It's running great." POW! The thing will begin to make strangling, grinding, metallic banging, throbbing sounds that it never made before. Sounds that you never imagined piece of machinery could make. Even in minor cases light bulbs may fail. In some cases the smoke may be released from the wiring or worse. Utter words of praise or ignore the machine at your own peril.
This is the soul motorcyclists speak of, which translates to "acts up at unusual times for no discernable reason." Perhaps fickle is a better word. Whatever we call it, those who have experienced it are believers.
Old English bikes have "souls." That is why most of us who owned them remember, even after all these years information that is now useless. Like, how to get home when the points slam shut causing the engine to stop. "Always carry a book of paper matches in the tool kit. Use the striker to sand the points and the cover to set the gap. Use the paper end of a match to put a little engine oil on the distributor cam." What are points you ask? My point exactly.
Harley has their "mystique" which is interpreted as "act up." Japanese bikes may have souls but the urge is overridden by the fear of "loosing face" should they "act up." If they do "act up" they have to perform some sort of ritual, perhaps even self destruct. For German bikes it is a matter of national pride. Acting up "ist verboten!"
Italian bikes? Oh yes, they have soul. Let me explain. My 1976 restored Moto Guzzi had been running along with no complaints for years because I said no words of praise. I even cursed it on occasion, which works kind of like preventative maintenance. Then into the garage comes a Triumph. Now the Bonneville isn't licensed yet, but no problem. I'll use the plates off the Guzzi. I then ride the Triumph a little less than 300 miles on a Saturday.
The next Saturday I take the plates from the Triumph, put them back on the Guzzi and head out. I pull in the clutch at the first stop sign. The bike does not want to stand still but creeps forward lugging the engine down with it. I can't put it in neutral because the clutch is dragging. Hit the kill switch. Paddle it to the road side. Check the free play. Yup okay. Humm. Maybe if I ride it a few miles, loosen it up a little. Still drags. Stop again. I can't find the problem. I adjust all the free play out. Still drags. For maybe 20 minutes I start and stop, spinning the adjustment knob first one way then another, all to no avail.
That is when it dawns on me. Jealousy! That's right! The Guzzi is jealous and is letting me know it. Suddenly it all becomes so clear. I can actually hear him (or maybe it's a her.) "So! You taka my license plate and put on that Limey bitch! MY License! Then! Then you taka her out and show her off. Take her all around anda show you friends. What about me! Huh? I though I wasa you friend. I'ma the one that carry you around all these years and do I complain? NO! Then she come here ana you leave me in the garage! Her with her sleek lines, looking like a model and you justa ignore me!
Now I'm supposed to act like everything justa fine? Well it not justa fine! I tella you that! I tella you something else! I gonna dragga my clutch! I'lla show you! You can spend hours laying on you back in the garage trying to find out whata matter with me! Hah! You and the Limey bitch taka that!
After I understood that jealousy was the underlying issue, I was able to make amends. This included paying homage by laying on my back in the garage for hours. By way of penance I threw in sweating profusely, and reading the shop manual section on major clutch adjustment over and over, in the manner of a Gregorian chant.
Afterwards I took Guzzi out on a favorite country road. I let him stretch his legs out. Way out. The clutch? I think I am forgiven. For now.
Bob Eckhoff
