I learnt the other day the importance of putting oil in your motorcycle.
I’d tried to check the oil levels a few times, and either the lid was shut too tight or I couldn’t work out how oil was supposed to go in there, I don’t know. It was one of those ‘getting closer to the top of the list’ type jobs.
On that fateful day I was riding to a meeting in the middle of the Melbourne CBD, as I love opportunities to not pay for parking. See THAT ‘the man’? Yeah I’ll park right here. Change? No sorry, I don’t have any. I don’t NEED any. FUCK YOU.
I was hammering down Flinders Street (50kph feels like hammering on a postie bike) when all of a sudden it started shuddering its way to a slow death. After kung fu-ing the crap out of my kickstart for ten minutes, the unique ‘things are going really wrong in here‘ smell started wafting out of the oil tank and everything became clear.
‘That’s a bit disappointing’ or words to that effect entered my head and even left my mouth once or twice, as I found myself on the sidewalk beside a dead bike – wearing a jacket/boots/gloves in 30 degree heat.
This is the exact time that my phone completely shit itself, and flat out refused to make calls.
Up until now I’d been working hard not to get excited or perform any acts of physical exertion as I was wearing a business shirt under my jacket, but that all went out the window as I frantically searched every shitty supermarket in the CBD for motor oil.
Public service announcement: No supermarket in the CBD carries motor oil. FUCK YOU supermarkets in the CBD. Every store has all sorts of genital lube, beef jerky and overpriced/overripe fruit dangling from the counter, but ask if they stock motor oil and get ready for the ‘this guy is a weirdo‘ looks.
Public service announcement number two: If you run your motorcycle dry out of oil, putting more oil in it won’t make it start. It doesn’t matter how far you trekked across Melbourne to get that overpriced ‘this is meant for lawnmowers but you can give it a try’ oil, it’s too late.
Public service announcement number three: Every pay phone smells like wee, and they have no problem taking all your money and then hanging up as soon as someone answers.
For 70 ‘I do cash for cheap, but you no get receipt’ dollars you can get a bloke to bring his truck out and drive you up the road to a mechanic, who will then attempt to ride you for ever cent you’re worth. The two guys behind the counter were so rehearsed that they were actually clucking their tongues in time in ‘genuine concern’ for my bike and the hideously expensive damage they were predicting it had suffered.
If the crazy cash and stress didn’t help me learn my lesson about the importance of putting oil in your bike, two hours stuck in the CBD wearing cheese grater style motorcycle boots certainly did.
Have you ever broken down? What did you do?
