This range of blood pressure raising feelings can only be caused by the Great British MOT (pronounced 'Em-Oh-Tee' for those not in the know). This holiest of certificates is presented to the worthy vehicle owner after a series of inspections have taken place. Once presented, the vehicle owner is entitled to one year's motoring (provided you get road tax and insurance to accompany the MOT). Given that I have been riding for more years than I care to remember, why the anxiety, why the excitement?
It is well documented that I am a hapless biker, not at all versed in the arcane dark arts of mechanical wizardry. I am more than a little slack with documentation and have a penchant for customisation with the most delicate of hand tools, the hand grinder and hacksaw. Forget the fact I have been known to run the same oil for several thousand miles over 18 months and let us forget the indiscretion of breaking a fuel tap by hammering a screwdriver into the fuel cap filler with the tank still attached to the bike. Let us go back 12 months to my last motty.
Tester " You passed.".
Me "really?",
Tester "yup, get yourself a new front tyre though mate.".
Me " Ha I'll get my grinder to it instead."
Tester looking shocked and horrified "What?!"
Me "Nothing, Thanks"
The minute I got home I got the grinder out and set about the indicators, those of you lucky enough to have met one of my bikes, will be well aware of the typical state of decay the studs and nuts find themselves in. Hand tools are not an option on my nuts (ahem). Once I had finished with the indicators I set about the rear end. I never did like the rear mud guard (fender) and with the help of a large knife I took apart the wiring. So far, so good. I actually managed to get the bike together and it ran okay, for 20 minutes until the electrics died stranding me and the missus in the middle of Cheshire. One recovery later and I set about the wiring with some faith healing (quick prod here, some WD40 there). This time the bike only lasted 5 minutes before dying.
At this point I had no choice. I let out a cry of help online reminiscent of a magical horn in a fantasy film. No sooner had I posted my plight than the 100% Biker forum members came back with pages of replies. Finally, after 4 pages of abuse (good humoured I might add), Grav the custard loving midget from Wigan offered to "come down my end" and sort me out. I have to say, that after my magical horn analogy I'm sure you the reader was expecting some epic response of labour and skills. To be honest this diminutive rescuer had plenty to offer and he squeezed a 1 hour journey each way and a couple of hours tinkering in all between lunch and dinner. It turns out that on the Dragstar, Yamaha have located a doofer (technical term for anything that I don't understand) on the underside of the engine. This doofer is some sort of switch that cuts off the electrics if not earthed. Cleverly the doofer is recessed and catches all the spray and crap off the road and perishes. The solution was to relocate one earth wire and hey presto, one permanently lit neutral light later a working bike!
So here we are in July 2009. My MOT is due, I have a reunion rally in August and the bike has been sat unloved for several months (for reasons too long winded for this article). I set about re-attaching the indicators. No problem. I got myself a legal sized number plate and made a bracket. No problem (kind of ). I then read the test conditions and realised I needed a number plate light. No problem. I even made another bracket for it. I charged the battery and set off down a private road to test the old girl. As I hurtled down the farm track I listened to the familiar roar of the engine and more roar and yet more roar… I'd blown the sodding exhaust. The MOT Gods were mocking me. Curse cheap metal stock exhausts.
At this point I could have flown into a fury or I could have fallen to my knees and wept as the MOT Gods laughed at my misfortune. I did neither, I headed home to sulk and contemplate my options. Now as luck would have it, my missus works for the NHS and she had got word of a fella who welds for living, not only that he attends race meets and for a tenner a throw spot welds bits back on bikes. She sourced his number and I gave Kev a call. I dropped the exhaust in on the Tuesday and I was collecting it on the Friday. I met Kev with some trepidation, given the speed at which he had affected the repair and the quality of the workmanship I was expecting to pay a fortune for his services, £25 later I was sorted with a working exhaust. Now I'm just waiting for my mate Andy to turn up with a tap and die set to try and salvage the engine stud I accidentally chiselled to death trying to get a nut off the down pipes. If all goes well I will be roadworthy next week and I expect I'll be going through the same dilemma next year!
