On Monday this week I replaced the rear light unit on the Triumph – Steve and Caz did a sterling job patching it up to get me through the last MOT, efforts which I managed to undo a couple of months ago in a split second of numptiness which saw me backing into a low wall. I understand the boffins at Mercedez-Benz tune their doors to a soothing thunk of expensiveness – if they run out of ideas I can recommend the sound of crunching plastic as a suitably wallet-shrinking alternative. £75 quid lighter and 25 minutes older, I now have a rear unit of reassuring solidity and was able to take the bike out for a tentative loop of the A10. The steering felt rather uncertain, which I attributed to lack of familiarity with the rakishly-angled front wheel, when compared to Ruby’s teutonic uprightness.
Further exploration this morning with a tyre pressure gauge revealed that no, the wobbly handling was due to a lack of about 20 psi. I have been asking the tyre to perform handling miracles without taking steps to ensure it was adequately resourced with all the support it needed.
Here endeth the metaphor.