I just got off the phone to the motorcycle mechanic, whose had my bike since it broke down the other week from lack of oil, and I’ve got to tell you those guys are crafty.
My car mechanic is great, AP Motors on Keele street Collingwood. Phil comes from a long line of ancestors who’ve run the shop, he’s always straight up about what’s possible and what’s a waste of money, and he often ignores me when I walk past his shop which keeps me keen in a ‘treat them mean’ kind of a way.
But Phil doesn’t know bikes. Not many mechanics do. The ones that do specialize in bikes are very aware of their rockstar automotive niche, and they’re not afraid to exploit it.
My latest mechanical misadventure has been interesting as the motorcycle guys I’ve been dealing with aren’t sure how much I know about bikes – and how much they can get away with.
Truth is, I know next to nothing, but I have hung around other motorcyclists enough to regurgitate some vaguely informed sounding statements every now and then, which has really thrown them off.
When I initially walked in the store I made sure to hide any trace of iPod or sunglasses, but it’s always been hard to do anything about my lack of manly physique and my bogan accent is ‘mildly put on’ at best.
There was two guys sitting at a desk down the back and the first thing they did was ignore me for about five minutes, like some kind of test. I’m not sure what a manly man would do in this situation, probably yell out something blokey and obscene in a gruff voice, but whatever it is I clearly didn’t do it because their disdain was glaring from word go.
It was pretty clear they had me pegged as a skinny white guy with no idea, and on a scale of motorcycle manliness I’m sure they would have rated me a 2 out of 10 (1 out of 10 being a girl).
One of them reluctantly rose from their titty porn strewn desk and flopped himself into the receptionist chair. Let’s call him John, not for any privacy reasons, just because I can’t remember.
‘What bike is it?’ he asked.
‘A CT110. The tow truck guy’s bringing it round the back.’
I deliberately avoided the words ‘Honda’ or ‘Postie bike’ as they’ve become mainstream as of late, and I believe that if I could have read John’s mind at this point his rating of me would have shimmied up from a 2 to a 3.
For me to ride such a utility type bike I was either some sort of extreme bush guy or an idiot with no savings, and considering I used the manly name I was probably the former.
‘What happened?’ he asked.
‘I forgot to put oil in it and it died.’
Back down to 2.
Both John and the guy still sitting at the titty porn clucked in unison, they knew they’d caught themselves a fat one. Titty porn guy was so confident that he jumped in with some honesty/cold hard facts talk.
‘If I were you I’d start calling round the wreckers now for a new engine. That thing will be seized up and no good to anyone.’
‘How much do you think an engine would cost from the wreckers?’ I asked.
‘Dunno. Bout $600 – $800? They’re hard to get as CT110′s rarely break. Unless you forget to put oil in them.’
‘But the whole bike only cost me $1250!’
‘Yep. We’ll do our best.’
I walked out of there feeling pretty down. I wasn’t sure how bad the engine damage would be, and I knew that they were setting me up with the initial $800 quote so that anything they charged later on that was less than that would feel like a bargain. I was powerless and everyone knew it.
Less than an hour later John called my mobile. I happened to be shopping in a perfume store at the time (searching for the perfect gift for my stepmum) and was in the process of sniffing some delightful scents, but I didn’t tell him that. Instead, I summoned my deepest occer voice from within the Gucci aisle.
‘Good news Jason, you’re a very luck man. The bike didn’t seize up, it just needs a service.’
Wow, things were looking up.
‘But…the clutch is pretty worn out. We’ll need to replace that. All up it should come to about $220, plus parts.’
Bang. The happy train had left the station and was heading express to Money Town. While $220 was manageable he made a point of not giving me a price on parts, and I knew for a fact that motorcycle dealerships make most of their money from parts.
But then I hit him with a game shifting blindsider, and he could barely hide his surprise.
‘Do you use genuine Honda parts? Because I don’t want any Chinese copy parts in there.’
SHAZAM. 4 out of 10, that’s right, I know about copy parts. That was a TWO point markup in the manly stakes.
‘We do use Chinese parts, but I can get a quote on some genuine parts.’
I’m lucky as I can get hold of such parts myself, and when I told him so he knew the terrain was getting rocky.
A page had been ripped out of John’s conning playbook, and I was sitting on 5 out of 10 man points with only $220 worth of labour to worry about. Things were looking up.
Stay tuned for the next installment of the saga, and for the love of god leave a comment.
