SV-Wolf's Bike Blog

[Johnj]

Red-eye gravy is a thin sauce often seen in the cuisine of the Southern United States and associated with the country ham of that region. Other names for this sauce include poor man's gravy, bird-eye gravy and red ham gravy. The gravy is made from the drippings of pan-fried country ham that has been mixed with water or black coffee. The same drippings, when mixed with flour, make the flavoring for a white gravy. Red-eye gravy is often served over ham, cornbread, grits, or biscuits.

[sv-wolf]

Wow, sorry to hear about the problems with the 'Tona. Is there a chance you can take it back to the dealer as a lemon and just exchange the whole bike...maybe for, say a TR3 drophead coupe? Seriously...affix teeth to jugular, pit-bull style, and don't let go until they make the bike right.

Cheers noodle

It had occured to me - about demanding a new bike, that is. I'm mulling over what tack I will take on this one. The dealer I trust. Triumph - not. Judging by past form, Triumph have a pit bull mentality when it comes to parting with cash. So, the liklihood is that it would be a long fight with uncertain prospects of success. And to be quite honest, Di's death and the manner of it knocked the stuffing right out of me: I haven't really recovered yet, and I've not been up for much of a fight for a long while. Right at the moment the idea seems like far too much effort!

On the other hand it also occurs to me that it might be what I need to help me get refocussed.

We'll see. I'll wait till I know what response I get once the dealer has looked at the bike. If they hit one of my buttons, things might change. I'm a stubborn git, if nothing else. Perhaps now's the time to buy a new blender and keep it on standby.


But hells bells, noodle, what would I do with a car, even one of... those... whatever they are. (I don't know one from t'other.) I have as much interest in cars as I do the sex lives of pineapples. (Well actually, probably less - now that I think about it.)

[sv-wolf]

Red-eye gravy is a thin sauce often seen in the cuisine of the Southern United States and associated with the country ham of that region. Other names for this sauce include poor man's gravy, bird-eye gravy and red ham gravy. The gravy is made from the drippings of pan-fried country ham that has been mixed with water or black coffee. The same drippings, when mixed with flour, make the flavoring for a white gravy. Red-eye gravy is often served over ham, cornbread, grits, or biscuits.

So, it's a kind of thin, emulsified fat with caffeine added.

And you guys got a rise out of black pudding!!!!!

OK, I'll be polite here. Sounds... interesting!

[jstark47]

For a ring to go on a new bike is rare. For it to go twice within six months or so tells me that there is some kind of underlying problem. If the dealer can't find that, I'm stuffed. It's got me worried because the bike comes out of warranty later this year and in Triumph are well known for trying to wriggle out of even very reasonable claims.

Triumph used the 955 triple on all sorts of bikes: older Speed Triples, Tigers, Sprints, and Daytonas. I ride with a Triumph owners club, know plenty of folks with these motors, and have never heard of any trouble. Small consolation this is to you, of course. It's just puzzling why you're having such bad luck with it.

[sv-wolf]

For a ring to go on a new bike is rare. For it to go twice within six months or so tells me that there is some kind of underlying problem. If the dealer can't find that, I'm stuffed. It's got me worried because the bike comes out of warranty later this year and in Triumph are well known for trying to wriggle out of even very reasonable claims.

Triumph used the 955 triple on all sorts of bikes: older Speed Triples, Tigers, Sprints, and Daytonas. I ride with a Triumph owners club, know plenty of folks with these motors, and have never heard of any trouble. Small consolation this is to you, of course. It's just puzzling why you're having such bad luck with it.

Thanks JS. That reinforces what I've already heard from a local group of Triumph enthusiasts, and from Triumph engineers themselves.

[blues2cruise]

I'll start saving.

Let's see....

Breakfast....
Porridge
Fresh fruit
Juice
Tea with milk (milk poured into the cup first of course)

Lunch...probably out somewhere...because we will be sightseeing.

Afternoon tea....whatever is traditional....especially if there is fresh scones, Devon cream and jam. (no chocolate though)

Supper(dinner?) Sixes?
Halibut and chips
Souvlaki (chicken preferably)
lasagna and salad
Vegatable stir fry over rice

How's that for a start?

[roscowgo]

Heya SV. sorry to hear bout the 'tona.

Really is unreasonable for a new bike to act that way.

Kinda makes me wanna stay away from the triumph line. Even if they do make me drool like sally struthers at the wonka chocolate factory.

[sv-wolf]

When I got home from work on Friday evening last week I found two voicemail messages waiting for me. The first was from my stepson to say that because of some serious parental duties towards his young daughter and her gathering of little pink fairies, he wouldn't be able to meet with me in London on Saturday after all. The second was from a friend to say that she had been stricken by a lurgi, taken to her bed and would be cancelling Sunday - including the party I’d been planning to go to. Suddenly, my extremely full weekend began to look pitifully empty. That left Ron and Keith. I knew they were planning a run down to a vintage bike show in Brighton on Sunday, so when Ron rang later that evening, I said I’d like to join them. It seemed, just then, that a trip down to the south coast would fill the void nicely.

I'm not sure why these two had decided on this journey. Normally, they avoid motorway riding like they do casual brain surgery, but travelling down the A1(M) and then half way round the M25 is just about the only reasonable way to get to Brighton from here - unless, of course, you are willing to spend hours picking your way through the Essex underbrush and risking encounters with the natives.

The weekends flash by far too fast. Before I knew it, it was 8.15 on Sunday morning and I was setting out from home on my way to hook up with Ron. I’d decided to risk riding the Daytona to see what happened. The experiment lasted all of five minutes. Half way up Highbury Hill, just a quarter of a mile from home, the engine started to rumble loudly. I got off, revved it a little and watched the air behind the big yellow beast fill with clouds of blue smoke. Well, OK: that was one issue settled, at least. I nursed her back home, parked her in the back garden and turned to the SV. When I pressed the starter on the SV, she responded with a now familiar parping sound which told me the battery was as flat as a rabbit on the M1. I hadn't ridden the SV for nearly four weeks, so I wasn’t surprised.

Ron and Keith were planning on being back from Brighton by mid-afternoon to watch the racing on the TV so were determined to start early. Ron had made it clear that he would be leaving his home in Welwyn-Garden-City at 8.40 sharp - come what may!

So that was that.

I swapped the SV's battery for one I had on charge, went back into the house and made myself a consolingly large breakfast. For the next three-quarters of an hour I settled down with a book on British involvement in Iraq. But I didn't absorb much of it: I was killing time. The Stevenage club rideout would be meeting at 10 o'clock outside 'Bike Stop' in the Old Town, so I still had a ride if I wanted one.

I'm glad the Daytona chose to give notice now rather than later. Seeing the smoke flying out of the exhaust clarified for me what I needed to do. I’d get her ‘rescued’ to the dealers on my insurance (yet again!) let them look at her and if they were unable to discover the underlying problem, I’d ask Triumph for a replacement machine or at least an engine. If they demurred… Well, I had the SV. I’d just argue the case as long as I could. Under British law, I can't now formally ‘reject’ the Daytona: I've had it too long, and have indicated my willingness to keep it by having work done on it. But I can ask Triumph if they will give me a good-will replacement on the grounds that my little baby has a flaw in her heart.

Burning oil twice in six months is no more than a symptom. I can only imagine that there is an engineering fault underlying it. If that’s the case, then it’s going to make the bike pretty unsaleable in any honest deal. And, anyway, I don't want to go through this performance every six months from now on - even if Triumph do agree to repair it for free beyond the warranty period. Hell! I feel glum!

On the way over to Stevenage to meet the club, the SV's engine grumbled and hiccupped and lurched. After a month’s enforced idleness, she had every right to behave badly. No doubt, she’d been bored by her long period of inactivity and the fuel in her was probably beginning to go off too. She didn’t take long to recover her spirits, though, and by the time I passed the motorway roundabout on the outskirts of Stevenage she was rumbling along as usual and sounding like she was up for anything. (It’s great the way she rumbles now, but it’s sad that she doesn't roar any more.)

On the ride over to the bike meet, I kept thinking that surely someone would have an inspiration and come up with somewhere different to go. Our winter rides tend to be short and local, so that by early March each year we have done all the good routes several times over. By now the conversation at the meet is predictable.
“Nah, don’t fancy that, done that, let’s go somewhere else”
“Where?”
“Dunno. Wotcher reckon?”
“How ‘bout the Comfort Caff.”
“Nah. Not again!”

Last Sunday, to break the deadlock, I’d offered to take the rideout on one of my own favourite routes. It’s a lovely ride, through some attractive villages and on some good biking roads. It was unknown to most of the others, but for me, it’s a ride I’ve been doing on bikes and bicycles for the last thirty years. It’s a back route, one of several I know, which zig-zags across country up to Cambridge and then up the A505 to the Comfort Café.

The ride went very well – for the first ten minutes, until I saw everyone behind me rolling to a stop in a lay-by. This turned out to be a signal that I’d lost two bikes already. (Well, that didn’t take long, did it?) I’d apparently left them behind in Stevenage. Back at the meet, I had counted five of us, not realising that two guys chatting to another group of bikers were intending to come too. I’d never seen them before. So when I saw four bikes lined up behind me I set off. That was the last we saw of the other two till we got to the café. They'd followed a more direct route and missed us entirely.

To compound matters another new guy riding with us decided to get accusing and aggressive about it. Great! So now I had an overstimulated ego to deal with. After we set off again, he rode right up my rear and sounded his horn at me every time someone got stopped at the lights or at a junction as though I were incapable of responding to this myself. He didn’t leave off till we were about half way to the café, by which time he was really beginning to get on my t1t. Other than that it was a good ride.

There were five of us again this morning: Geoff on his Hyabusa, Dave and Theresa on their elderly Triumph Trophy, Mark on a KTM courtesy bike (loaned to him by a dealer while his SuperDuke was being serviced), Ian on his Duc - and me on the SV. Squeaky wasn’t well, so didn’t turn up. Mark's KTM courtesy bike was brand spanking new: he'd agreed to be careful and run it in properly. That was trusting of the dealer I thought. I wondered how well he knew Mark? I wondered too, how a racing Ducati and a running-in KTM loan bike would manage to pace each other.

After a lot of heart searching we decided we’d go yet again to Harrold Odell Park - via Bedford this time (not the most attractive of routes but it’s good enough and it makes a change). The decision (if that’s how you can describe it) was made on the usual basis that no-one could think of anything better. Dave led on the Trophy. He’s been leading the group for years. So, whenever he comes on a run everyone assumes that he’s the man. The more he protests, the more everyone assumes that this is Dave’s ride – including Dave, I suspect.

Perhaps one of the good things about going over old, familiar ground is that you can concentrate on the ride and not get side-tracked by the scenery. There are some bikers, of course, for whom scenery is a wholly unnecessary by-product of road-building - a backdrop that comes into being as a result of laying down a hot strip of tarmac. There are even a few for whom it fails to exist at all – real petrol-heads. I met several of them in India.

Normally, I like to have a good look at what I’m riding through, but on a bike that’s not always possible. When the land is attractive, it usually comes down to a simple decision: slow down to take things in, or go for it and come back this way another time.It depends on my mood and how much I’m getting out of my riding.

I was riding well, so was able to forget about everything else and just concentrate on enjoying the bike. Dave set a good pace but it remained a relaxed and easygoing ride – no bike heroics. Mark behaved responsibly on his brand new KTM – most of the time. Ian was extremely restrained on the Ducati and stayed with the bunch almost all the way to the park, only letting rip in the last ten miles or so when (he claimed) the engine temperature started to soar and he had to let the bike have its way – best excuse for a blast I’ve heard in ages!

Whichever way you go to the Harrold Odell there are two sections where you can let the bike fly: one at the beginning, one near the end. The one near the end consists of largely deserted country roads. It’s all throttle and brake work, and makes for some fast, snappy riding. The one at the beginning follows twisty A roads. Apart from my short daily commute, most of my recent riding has been on the back twisties. They keep you focussed and hone your riding skills, but sometimes it’s good just to ride a nice curvy A road where you can let go and open things up – in your heart and mind as well as in the bike. It’s good too not to have to worry about gravel and mud and what might be round the next corner.

Later that evening there were a few stray bikers in the local pub, enough to turn the tap-room conversation away from the usual topics and onto the subjects of off-roading and 1960s rock music. I was all ears when it came to the off-roading, because I need to sharpen my skills before I go out to India again in September. There will be a lot more dirt and gravel up in the Himalayas than there was last year down in the south of the country. There will be a couple of river crossings too – if all goes to plan!

September is the avalanche season up in the mountains and last minute re-routing is common on these treks as news filters through of roads closed by sudden rockfalls. Occasionally the bikes have to be hauled over boulders, and bridges can sometimes go down. Mmmmm! I get a little flutter of excitement in my chest just thinking about it. I can't wait. I'd do anything right now to get out into the big wide world and break up the monotony of my working routine. But I do need to get in some off roading practice before I go. I’ve had almost no experience of this kind of riding.

There is an off-roading school based at St Albans I've recently discovered - just 20 miles south of my home. It does day-long ‘tours’ for what seems like a very reasonable £150 a throw. And for that price you get the use of a Fantic Motor Cabballero enduro bike for the day. Everything I've read about this bike has set my mouth watering.

I've watched the company's promotional videos and I reckon a day or two out riding with them would give me exactly what I need to boost my confidence for India. The tour, to be sure, is just an easy-going jaunt around the Home Counties - a land of neat, rolling hillsides, coaxed into gentle submission centuries ago. Drowsy Hertfordshire pastures are a far cry from Himalayan precipices. But they’re a start.

The same company also do more advanced off-road tours in Southern Spain. One of them is in the region around Granada in Andalucia. Now, this is one of my all-time favourite places on this ol' ball of dirt. An off-roading week among its arid southern hills sounds almost as exciting as the Himalayan trip itself, and has the added advantage of the Spanish sun. I’d book up now if I had any moolah left. But after all the cash I’ve paid out for the bikes and the Himalayan holiday in the last few months I'm having to be uncharacteristically sensible over the issue of money. Still... I can dream.

The conversation at the bar was getting more technical and beginning to lose me, so it was easy to let my thoughts drift to the Sierra Nevada and the gorgeous villages of the Alpujarras. Before I knew it, I was lost in a long, sad reverie, recalling happy times with Di under the Andalucian sun.

And then it happened. A stranger listening in on our conversation suddenly prodded me out of my daydream by asking me if I was a ‘commie’. Oh dodo, here we go again! It was a very in-yer-face kind of question and it took me aback because I couldn’t imagine what I had said to give him that idea. Was the word branded on my forehead? Did he know me from somewhere else? I decided that the safest response would be a straightforward denial, followed by a return to talking about bikes or Eric Burden and the Animals

The truth is, I never know how to answer this question. In a historical sense ‘yes’ is a perfectly accurate answer. But saying it does nothing more than reinforce an ignorant prejudice, and conveys nothing about how I or others like me think. Most people who ask the question don’t care what you believe: they are just up for a hate-argument. Some are interested, but have a very cloudy idea of what they are talking about. And to be fair, why should they? No-one ever understood this area of thought by reading a newspaper or going to school. Academic courses on the subject fill student’s heads with a lot of commentary but few facts. (Never believe that academics are not as full of crap as everyone else.)

It goes like this: if I say, ‘yes’, someone will either try to recruit my support for some god-awful Trotskyist or Soviet-style political ideology, or he will look at me as though I had just stepped in a very large pile of horse dodo. Political discussion at this level is generally a waste of breath. For guys like this it’s tribal. Political language is nothing more to them than a set of identity symbols - “I’ll tell you what, mate: I’m a ‘This’ and you’re a ‘THAT’.” To start any kind of conversation on these terms is to enter the whirlwind, where shreds of ego and fear go flying about in all directions.

I kid myself that I’m no longer hooked into that kind mindset. Sometimes that feels true. But only sometimes! At others it’s obvious that I’m prone to the same tribal atavism that I despise in others. But getting into that stuff is just destructive. It reinforces insecurities and fixed emotional responses that are far better left alone. Down there in the honey pit of the unconscious there is a world caught somewhere between a nightmare and a paradise. The human mind is a vast evolutionary treasure house that is fascinating to explore but definitely nowhere to go when you are in the the middle of a political conversation. Finding a little self restraint and self awareness in these circumstances is well worth the effort.

Judging by the look on this guy’s face it was clear that I’d just stepped into the doo-doo again. I was pretty sure I knew what he was thinking and I knew also that it had nothing to do with me. So in denying his assumptions I wasn't denying anything real. Even so, this is still a difficult one for me to handle after all these years.

"No" I said. "No, I’m not. I’m a democrat and a socialist and I get pissed off at people making those kind of assumptions..."

Oh, oh! That’s not what I had intended to say. Now where did that come from? It had spewed out uncontrollably on a wave of annoyance and irritation. I stood, feeling slightly shocked at my own reaction, and then waited to see what would happen next.

“What do you ride?” he said. “Are you the guy who owns the Daytona? I saw it parked outside my house last week. Nice bike.”

“Erm...”

He laughed.

The world is full of wind-up merchants.

[sv-wolf]

Heya SV. sorry to hear bout the 'tona.

Really is unreasonable for a new bike to act that way.

Kinda makes me wanna stay away from the triumph line. Even if they do make me drool like sally struthers at the wonka chocolate factory.

Cheers rosco

But I wouldn't like for my experiences to put you off a Triumph if you were really minded to go for one. They're great bikes. I know at least two dozen people who own them and who have never had a moment's trouble with them. I think I've just been very unlucky with mine. Triumph build to very fine tolerances, generally, but it doesn't matter who the manufacturer is, every so often something goes wrong and they turn out a lemon.

[dr_bar]

Heya SV. sorry to hear bout the 'tona.

Really is unreasonable for a new bike to act that way.

Kinda makes me wanna stay away from the triumph line. Even if they do make me drool like sally struthers at the wonka chocolate factory.

Cheers rosco

But I wouldn't like for my experiences to put you off a Triumph if you were really minded to go for one. They're great bikes. I know at least two dozen people who own them and who have never had a moment's trouble with them. I think I've just been very unlucky with mine. Triumph build to very fine tolerances, generally, but it doesn't matter who the manufacturer is, every so often something goes wrong and they turn out a lemon.

Probably built on a Monday or a Friday...