Until they invent human cloning or time travel it will always be better to ride bikes than waste time cleaning them. And an off-road bike should have a certain amount of dirt on it. But an honest appraisal on Tuesday suggested Ruby had gone far beyond “adds character” and even past “it’s not dirt, it’s patina” to the point at which the sponge and chamois could be delayed no longer 😦
Cleaning bikes is an elegant demonstration of matter transference. I start off with a dirty motorcycle, two buckets of hot water, a set of cloths and brushes and a clean body. Over the course of half an hour the dirt leaves the bike, bypasses the cloths and attaches itself directly to me. This is OK, because it’s easier to get me into the shower than Ruby. But I feel somehow it must be possible to have the dirt stop at that middle point…
Ruby (and the Triumph before her) also likes to demand blood sacrifice in exchange for giving up that carefully-developed protective layer of dirt. So I am gouged from trying to get my hand behind the swingarm, bruised from wrestling the mules off (the road crud had welded the left-hand mule to the frame) and have torn most of the nails off my left hand.
Cynthia Payne used to get her garden dug for her by elderly fetishists in return for a glimpse of her well-turned ankle. This seems a helpful model to apply to a new context…. 😉