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.
transport of delight 