Peyote Dreams
By
Art Bone
"Poor Mexico; so far from God, so close to the United States." Porfirio Diaz
From my first trip to the Isle of Man, I longed for a partner with the same passion I had for the Island. To me, the Isle of Man is the spiritual home of motorcyclists and anyone calling him (or her) self a motorcyclist has to visit there.
CJ and I just returned from our annual trip to the Isle of Man and, for those of you who’ve put off visiting the Island for whatever reason, you’ve waited too long. This year for the first time they’ve instituted a speed limit on the whole island. There are speed cameras everywhere and signs that say “Slow Down” and give your speed in flashing lights. I even saw a cop with a radar gun in front of Creg na Baa.
The Good Ol’ Days are dead and gone. I wonder how long it will be before they outlaw lane splitting?
That said, it was a wonderful Manx Gran Prix. The weather was as good as it ever gets in the Isle of Man, attendance was up for the races, and there were many big names among the racers. We attended the “TT Heros” dinner where they had one or two racers seated at each table and interviews with racers past and present. It was a lot of fun and I plan to put that on the agenda for next year.
We went down to Castletown and had dinner at the place we held our wedding reception in 2004 and that got me to thinking about CJ’s first trip to the Island.
As I was returning to the Isle of Man from a ride through France and Switzerland in 1998, my 82 Yamaha Vision started having starting problems. When I pressed the starter button sometimes I got a metallic screeching that didn't sound healthy to my trained mechanic's ear. By the time I got to Liverpool I was resorting to parking on hills so I could bump start it. Somehow I got it back to George Costain's home in Port Erin where I was staying on the Isle of Man and got the sidecover off only to discover the bolts holding the sprag clutch had come loose, in the process chewing up a flat washer (that accounted for the screeching) and three shoulder bolts, and breaking the holder of the balls and springs of the sprag clutch. For my readers not mechanically inclined, what all this meant was, I was screwed. This is a bike they never sold in the British Isles and there were no parts available within 2000 miles and I had talked a woman who was not a motorcyclist into coming to the Isle of Man with promises of riding around this beautiful place on the back of my motorcycle and now. . . I wasn't going to have a motorcycle to ride.
This adventure started in July when CJ answered my ad on matchmaker.com with the suggestion I look at her profile. We met, had coffee, and were not repulsed with each other which led, a month later, to my suggesting she join me on the Island after I returned from my jaunt around Europe.
She was really excited and, being CJ, immediately started making lists of what to bring. I told her not to worry about clothes so much, everyone would be wearing leather. I forgot she had never been around bikers. I think she thought I was some kind of leather fetishist. When I saw the leather jacket she borrowed from a friend it was “fashion leather” about as substantial as tissue paper. But it’s the thought that counts. She was trying.
In light of all this, there was no way I wasn’t going to get this bike going and, being on the Isle of Man, there was a good chance, if I persevered, I could get it repaired. Being in the middle of the Irish Sea, and being a major port as well as having two big motorcycles races yearly, there are any number of small shops with skilled mechanics able to repair or make almost anything. The year before I had met one such person when I helped out (mostly by pushing the bike to get it started) on a race team in the Southern 100. Angus had impressed me when I saw some of his welding on the bike I was helping out on and, besides, he was the only welder I knew so who else was I going to turn to?
I called to see if he was available and was told he could help me but had to be at the grandstands by four because he was helping one of the racers.
Having no transport except the bike, I hastily threw everything back together, pushed the bike to the end of the driveway, and bumped started it on the downhill. I found Angus’ shop in an old industrial building near Bradden Bridge. I briefly explained the problem to him and he told me to use any tools I needed and he went back to what he was doing while I leaned the bike against an old wooden work bench that looked very Industrial Revolution and start taking the side cover off again. I soon had the offending parts in my hand and Angus took them into his inner sanctum and made them whole again. He suggested I take the hub with the broken bolts over to a machine shop nearby. I did and they not only retapped the holes, they had the correct shoulder bolts, and they gave me enough red LocTite for the job. An hour and a half after I arrived I had repaired parts in my hand.
Now all I had to do was reassemble it.
On Angus’ anvil I hammered flat the washer causing all the screeching and soon had the whole starter sprag clutch back together. Experience has taught me to test my work as I go so, before putting everything back together, I hooked up the battery and tried the starter.
It wouldn’t budge.
I looked closely at the repair manual and realized I had installed two washers in the wrong sequence. No problem. I would just pull it apart again, (having done it twice in the last four hours it was easy) swap the washers and, as they say in Old Blighty, “Bob’s your uncle.”
As I pulled the sprag assembly apart the bottom ball and spring fell out. Not just out, but out and into the oil drain and down into the crankcase.
Talk about your “Oh, Shit!” moments.
I thought about just picking up the ball-peen hammer I’d just used to flatten out the washer and hitting myself between the eyes.
But I’m a trained mechanic. I slunk into the next room and told Angus what has happened and asked if he has a magnet I could use. Of course he did and I am soon fishing around in the crankcase. Almost immediately I found the ball bearing but no such luck with the spring. It’s probably made of some grade of stainless steel that’s not magnetic. About this time Angus comes in and says he has to get to the grandstand and am I about finished?
I explained about the spring and I would need probably another hour if I could get a spring. Angus, with the trust and hospitality the Isle of Man is famous for said, “Well, I’ll just leave you here and you just put the padlock on the door when you finish.”
Then I surprised him. I said, “Have you got a ball-point pen?”
He gave me a long look. He said, “You’re not going to do that, are you?”
I said, “What else can I do?”
He pulled a pen out of his pocket and watched as I took it apart, clipped off both ends of the spring, and stretched it out to the length of the other two springs.
He shook his head and said, “I’ve got to go. Good luck” and went on his way.
An hour later I locked up the shop and was on my way.
The starter has worked perfectly with the ball point pen spring ever since. I’ve had the bike shipped to Mexico and I’m looking forward to taking it apart to see if that spring is still in the crankcase. Where else could it be?
The next day, CJ arrived and, after meeting Isobel and George, I was ready to take her to dinner. Remember, this is the first time she’s ever ridden a motorcycle, traffic is on the left here, and the weather can be off-putting.
Well, I took her on what I think is the best motorcycle road in the world. We left Ballakallowe Farms, above Port Erin, and went up the mountain to the crossroads at the top, then down through Dalby and Glen May on a narrow, twisty road with no guardrails, hugging the mountainside. We went to the Creek Pub in Peel, right on the harbor with all the sailboats moored across the street. We had Manx Queenies, the delicious local scallops, in a Mornay sauce and a bottle Chardonnay.
On the way back to Port Erin the sun was setting like a huge red ball with the reflection reaching almost to the beach below, as we puttered along the winding mountain road; or at least, that’s how I remember it.
I also remember thinking, “I’ve got the hook set. All I gotta do is reel her in”
Didn’t realize she was reeling too.
CJ and I have returned to the Island almost every year since then. We were married there in 2004. I didn’t realize it at the time but I had found my partner with a passion for that special place.