My attitude towards riding is slowly evolving. For many years since 2005, after my third road mishap, I had been telling myself that riding a motorcycle is like a ticking time bomb, which can at anytime detonate rather tragically. That was the day I gave up riding, having walked away from that collision with naught more than soft tissue injury, musing that I had spent from 1988 till 2005 riding and having fun. It was time to stop, for I could not guarantee that I would walk away from a fourth accident. I had to ensure I stayed alive for the sake of the family.
Over the years, this form of auto-suggestion had taken on a life force of its own and from being such a diehard rider, I stopped turning my head to gaze longingly at passing superbikes, often thinking that the poor riders had no idea how much longer they had to stay alive. Yes, I had even become a touch mean spirited, with a hint of mild bitterness that I had rationalised the fun and love for biking out of my soul.
But then, at Brenda's wisdom and behest, when the walls of my world were closing in on me with my suspension from flying duties, we bought a bike. I trembled with my heart racing when I tried out the bike at the shop, terrified at how much I had lost over twenty one years out of the saddle. Eventually, the more I rode, with Brenda as pillion of course, the more my abilities returned, somewhat sub consciously.
Oddly though, I wasn't yet comfortable on the little Vulcan S. From brand new, I had not felt the rear brake engage the rear brake disc. I couldn't figure out why it was so. I spoke to my mechanics about bleeding the rear brake line, but they were dead against it, cautioning me about possibly locking up the rear wheel and swinging the bike out of control. And so, I continued riding for nearly two years now, applying, but never feeling, the rear brake. Of course my u-turns were horrendous, but I kept riding nonplussed over the situation.
Finally, last week, unable to bear my frustration any longer, I brought up the matter with the boss of the shop, and enquired if he could do something about it. He told me to bring it in so he could look at it. And so I did.
In the interest of abbreviation, after the discussions with the boss and various supplementary dealings, the youngest (and latest to join the shop) mechanic tested the bike and reported that the rear brake was fine. Not completely satisfied, I attempted to ask him if he could adjust the brake pedal slightly upward. He stared at the rear brake pedal for a minute, and then got his tools to it and started to adjust. I was delighted to see the brake pedal rotate upward, and told him when to stop. I took the bike for a spin around the block and for the first time ever, I could feel the brake pads engage the disc. The bite wasn't immediate but then again, they pads hadn't bedded to the disc at ten thousand kilometres. However, I could feel the nibble of the brake pads against the brake disc. Of that I was positive.
Now, I felt that the bike was complete; that it was a fully functional organism, so to speak. Now, I felt that we stand a chance of growing together. That she was finally mine. I mean, ours.
A lesson, relearned: it is often the case with motorcycles, that what appears to be an immense problem, often yields to the simplest solutions.
