Walking up out of Orgiva, in the Spanish Sierra Nevada, to my friend’s house on the edge of town, there seemed to be a constant stream of motorcycles, in groups of three or four, and it was easy to see that they were all enjoying the (mostly) fine tarmac, the incredible scenery, and life in general.
Motorcycling –“vitamin M” – was lacking in my system. I reflected on the Armstrong MT 500 in my workshop, rarely used for the past two years, and realised I needed something else. More or less the opposite of what I had.
A posting on the Armstrong website offered my MT for anything Boxer, I thought I might only get something in boxes. Hell- I just wanted to get started!
One response, a vicar in Plymouth. Can you get much further from Yorkshire? Having no idea of models, ’78 R100RS meant nothing, now I know it’s exactly the one I’d choose, (though more with my heart than my head, mpg-wise).
We did the deal with Emails and pics, I trailered the MT down, it started, and sang to the vicar, who was duly smitten.
The BM had an electrical infirmity which flattened the (tiny) battery, so any appraisal on mechanical grounds was likely to be limited. I’d like to hope that intuition, or even experience was involved, that somehow you can tell a sound motorcycle by just looking through half-closed eyes, but I think we both know better.
I wasn’t going home without it, and that was it.
As it turned out, it’s quite a healthy cycle, one pot uses a lot of oil, so there’s still work to be done, and it took a couple of weeks to sort out some details for the MOT test, but the way it has come back to life, after it’s long hibernation, has really impressed me.
I swear I could feel the old thing remembering what to do, and getting it’s enthusiasm back. And through the initial testing, and iffy journeys (always up to the top of the nearest hill, just in case!) there was a definite feeling that this was the sort of cycle that takes a pride in getting you home.
I read Snowbum on the subject of splines, and realised that there was work to do, and having read on this site that the gear-change decibel-count may drop, I can hardly wait to tear the old thing apart, and get the lube in there. I need to do the same to my own vertebrae, but though I come apart very easily, I’m a lot harder to put back together.
Recently, a bunch of Harleys arrived in the workshop yard, and
emerging into the sunlight I took in the scene. A large guy got off a
monster hog, and to his friends’ delight, told me that if I gave him a fiver, I could wash it for him. I told him I was too young and thin
to ride a Harley, and I’m convinced that the fact that I was standing beside a proper motorcycle, saved me from immediate dental rearrangement. I think this Bavarian and I are going to get along.
