We all know one of these They are the knights in shining smocks; the kings of that off-limit realm, in modern times called the service bay or shop. To the less knowledgeable, they are held in awe much as the wizard Merlin of old was. They are all-knowing, and their wisdom far exceeds that of the ordinary motorcyclist. Their word is close to that of the Supreme Being Himself. As they lay down their laws, the thunder rumbles and lightning flashes.
They dwell in the regions of grease and oil, solvent and gasket glue, smoke and exhaust. These regions are mostly off limits to strangers—strangers, usually meaning those of us that do not wield a smudgy torque wrench, with daring bravado. So we wait in the designated area, pacing back and forth like an expectant father. And why not, our baby, our Queen of the Road is stuck in the dank regions. She is being mercilously poked and prodded by smudgy fingers still carrying grease from the wheel bearing change of some rat bike.
In terror of the worst to come we stroll through the showroom of the new impersonal model year motorcycles, none of which make our blood run like our own machine Slowlv the trembling turns to calm, and we tell ourselves it cannot be all that bad.
Just about now one of the chosen few emerges stealthily from his domain, and utters those immortal words.
"Hey,Jer, who owns the one with the melt-dovvn in the cylinders?"
Right behind him comes another one of his own.
"Hey, Jer, I got an on board, and that dang computer's gone crazy. Every time I pull a plug it fires me a new jolt."
Jerry being a good mediator between the lowly customer and the chosen ones, just smiles, nods and says Okay, I'll take care of it'. Jerry's smile can stop the heart. Especially when he looks directly at you right after the last conversation.
"Excuse me, Mr. Motorcycle' he says, now you are sure it's your pistons that have melted down You know that the statements about the onboard computer don't apply to your machine The only silicone chips on your bike are in the tires from following some ore truck.
''Ah' Yeah! Me?" You manage to stammer. Jerry is great, he loves your agony, so he says, "It's about your bike." Then he waits.
"Yeah."
"Well it's all ready to go, she's in fine condition. Pay the cashier, have a good day."
Why we put our faith and trust in these people is a highly discussed issue. Maybe it is because we feel that they are more qualified to diagnose and repair a problem. I will grant you that they should be; if
not from technical learning, at least from everyday hands on practical experience.
But anyone that can read and is half logical should be able to repair their own motorcycle. Availability of tools or time may have bearing on your situation. Or you may just be allergic to dirty hands and cold cement floors. So be it. Go to your friendly shop mechanic. He has to make a li\ing also. But learn a little from your shop experience, so that the next time you will at least have an inkling of what you are in for.
There are as great a variety of mechanics as there are people. Some are friendly and enjoy discussing the problem with you. They may even recommend a quickcure remedy that won't cost an arm and a leg—or give practical hints on how to keep the problem from recurring.
Then there are the mechanics that would not tell you the time of day. These types believe the t everything they know is a national secret, on?` to he passed down to one of their own. They believe that the industry would come crashhlg down if just anyone knew the difference behveen a screwdriver and pliers. These same mechanics repair and replace parts with wild abandon. For it's not newyou know, certainly it is no good. These same characters never but never make a mistake. Not one that is their fault by any means.
Don't get me wrong, I don't dislike mechanics—I used to be one—and I believe that they are a very essential part of a motorized, mechanized cycle world. I do not believe that they are God, nor are they infallible, as so many would have you believe. Opinions of mechanics are probably as many as there are motorcycles.
One problem I had was diagnosed by five different workers in the trade. You guessed it, I got five totally different diagnoses—not two of which came to the same conclusion. As it turned out, due to finances, I did nothing and to this day the ' bike still runs fine. I will probably never l know who was right or wrong. Even though I respect all their opinions, I ended up doing it my way, so only I can
be held responsible for my actions.
I am a great questioner; I always like to know how, why, or for what reason something happens. When it comes to my motorcycle, I am even more curious. Some mechanics have told me simply, "It's the way you ride." "How's that," I ask, "too fast, too slow, too hard, too what?"
"No, just the way you ride.;'
After 30 years of riding, I hope I have some idea on how to ride. But I won't give any tips. Besides, there are enough Fully qualified egotistical experts already out there giving you these hints. Anyway, mine are secrets. . '- -
And on top of that the young-budding, no-beer-gut, twinkling-in the-eye, sparkling-devilish-smile, Nike shoe-clad bikers of today's future machines—won't understand anyhow.
These''pretty' people, non-scruffy down to their silk tennis court shorts, are the ones that need the mechanics. Plainly because they believe the hype that their machines are indestructible, thus allowing them to believe that their motorcycles never require maintenance. This leads into riding the bag off it, until something` major brings the mechanic into the picture. At this point the young budding biker starts to age, and with age comes wisdom.
His first shop experience should let him realize he will be an easy mark until he loses that young biker image.
As the sun sets over the darkened rooms of hung compression gauges, locked tool boxes, halrassembled motorcycles and empty oil tanks, we leave our heroes as twilight falls, lifting a cool one, discussing the latest in high-tech lubricants; heading for home, riding free, loving the night breeze. Just like you and me.
Ride Free, Your Roadmate, Mountainman
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