Yes, that would be me.
I was sending the following to some friends -- of the Guzzi and not sort, including those who wonder why people ride! -- and decided to post it here, too.
I think I have emoted before to present company or similar souls that I am not very good at what I love so much, i.e., mechanical work on my motorcycles. There are worse things, e.g., being very good at something one loathes.
Be that as it may, and despite the self-deprecation that follows, I also know that I have learned lots over the past 15 or so years and 200,000 or so miles with my four Moto Guzzis, three of which are still in my stable. [Note: I sometimes use the word “harem” to describe that bevy of Italian maidens, but “Some People” in the household give me “The Look,” thus my more careful usage of the term. ;-)]
Those same people — none of whom own vintage British motorcycles as they are similarly afflicted — might also say that one has to learn quite a bit while owning Guzzis … or have dealers and towing service phone numbers on speed-dial. Or realize early on that the marque is not for you. Perhaps.
But Guzzisti shrug all of that off as "character.” Unsurprisingly, there are many Italian words for that, and while carattere is closest in spelling, I think I prefer personaggio, peculiarità, animo, or possibly individuo eccentrico affascinante. Yes, Guzzis are a disease, and I have, quite happily, an incurable case.
I also suppose that despite my self-assessment and evidence of my garage clumsiness, I attempt what many might not and succeed much of the time.
But, enough disclaimers and quibbling. Back to my lament.
So, back in December, I think, I put my (beloved, but I already said that) 2007 Moto Guzzi on the lift in the Moto Grappa (my similarly beloved shop to house and fiddle with my Guzzis). It came off the lift today, 3 April. How could that be?
Well, I sometimes see the 8-year-old boy I was taking apart a clock. Later, that same fellow, now 17, did the same with a Yamaha Trail 80 motorcycle. The clock never ran again; the motorcycle did great. Thankfully, the Yamaha was a two-stroke, so it had very few moving parts and, unlike the clock (and a Moto Guzzi or two since!), none were left over when I was done.
With the Norge, I started with the idea of a routine service (fluid & filter changes, tighten fasteners, etc.), adjust the valves, and a few “check on” items, e.g., a red light and error code for the oil-pressure sensor, along with a strange low-pitch whistle that seemed to emanate from under the fuel tank.
Well, no stranger to “mission creep,” it still snuck up on me.
When I was finished three-plus months later, I had done the R&R oil, etc.; adjusted the valves; changed the connection on the oil-pressure sensor; removed, cleaned, adjusted, and replaced the crank-position sensor; R&R’d the two front and one back brake rotor discs and ABS “phonic wheels;” and ditto the pads. I also removed the front forks for a specialist (in Atlanta) to overhaul them, and then reinstalled those here in Virginia.
Moreover, for the “uncognoscenti” who have stumbled this far, that also meant removing all of the “tupperware” that encases a sport-tourer like the Norge. So, essentially, if it was red, it came off, from fairing, to fuel tank, and more.
Simply removing and (worse) reinstalling the air box and its “ snorkels" is a daunting, frustrating, and time-consuming task.
Then one finds that a previous tech — not I, I swear! — managed to connect the transmission-case breather hose to the emissions system!
All of the work also means much cursing in an inspired way, bloodied knuckles, dropped fasteners that laugh as they bounce to hidden spots that will be found months later, if ever, and more.
And great joy.
Today, with always-indulgent Kathi’s help, I rolled it off the lift in readiness for riding for a few days later this month with a retired Navy friend (yes, I consort with the right sort of the enemy!), in Virginia, W.V., Maryland, Pennsylvania, and wherever else the mood strikes us.
Naturally, I started it to hear it sing its grand Italian aria, if only for a few moments.
It sounded stupendous.
And, yes, there was a red light and error code for the oil-pressure sensor, along with that strange low-pitch whistle from under the fuel tank.
Sigh Thus this lament.
But, I still love wrenching, and hope I always will.
Bill
P.S. If interested, here are some pix of that process:
https://bill-and-kathi.smugmug.com/Lament-of-an-Untalented-Wrench/n-HM4b7s/
I was sending the following to some friends -- of the Guzzi and not sort, including those who wonder why people ride! -- and decided to post it here, too.
I think I have emoted before to present company or similar souls that I am not very good at what I love so much, i.e., mechanical work on my motorcycles. There are worse things, e.g., being very good at something one loathes.
Be that as it may, and despite the self-deprecation that follows, I also know that I have learned lots over the past 15 or so years and 200,000 or so miles with my four Moto Guzzis, three of which are still in my stable. [Note: I sometimes use the word “harem” to describe that bevy of Italian maidens, but “Some People” in the household give me “The Look,” thus my more careful usage of the term. ;-)]
Those same people — none of whom own vintage British motorcycles as they are similarly afflicted — might also say that one has to learn quite a bit while owning Guzzis … or have dealers and towing service phone numbers on speed-dial. Or realize early on that the marque is not for you. Perhaps.
But Guzzisti shrug all of that off as "character.” Unsurprisingly, there are many Italian words for that, and while carattere is closest in spelling, I think I prefer personaggio, peculiarità, animo, or possibly individuo eccentrico affascinante. Yes, Guzzis are a disease, and I have, quite happily, an incurable case.
I also suppose that despite my self-assessment and evidence of my garage clumsiness, I attempt what many might not and succeed much of the time.
But, enough disclaimers and quibbling. Back to my lament.
So, back in December, I think, I put my (beloved, but I already said that) 2007 Moto Guzzi on the lift in the Moto Grappa (my similarly beloved shop to house and fiddle with my Guzzis). It came off the lift today, 3 April. How could that be?
Well, I sometimes see the 8-year-old boy I was taking apart a clock. Later, that same fellow, now 17, did the same with a Yamaha Trail 80 motorcycle. The clock never ran again; the motorcycle did great. Thankfully, the Yamaha was a two-stroke, so it had very few moving parts and, unlike the clock (and a Moto Guzzi or two since!), none were left over when I was done.
With the Norge, I started with the idea of a routine service (fluid & filter changes, tighten fasteners, etc.), adjust the valves, and a few “check on” items, e.g., a red light and error code for the oil-pressure sensor, along with a strange low-pitch whistle that seemed to emanate from under the fuel tank.
Well, no stranger to “mission creep,” it still snuck up on me.
When I was finished three-plus months later, I had done the R&R oil, etc.; adjusted the valves; changed the connection on the oil-pressure sensor; removed, cleaned, adjusted, and replaced the crank-position sensor; R&R’d the two front and one back brake rotor discs and ABS “phonic wheels;” and ditto the pads. I also removed the front forks for a specialist (in Atlanta) to overhaul them, and then reinstalled those here in Virginia.
Moreover, for the “uncognoscenti” who have stumbled this far, that also meant removing all of the “tupperware” that encases a sport-tourer like the Norge. So, essentially, if it was red, it came off, from fairing, to fuel tank, and more.
Simply removing and (worse) reinstalling the air box and its “ snorkels" is a daunting, frustrating, and time-consuming task.
Then one finds that a previous tech — not I, I swear! — managed to connect the transmission-case breather hose to the emissions system!
All of the work also means much cursing in an inspired way, bloodied knuckles, dropped fasteners that laugh as they bounce to hidden spots that will be found months later, if ever, and more.
And great joy.
Today, with always-indulgent Kathi’s help, I rolled it off the lift in readiness for riding for a few days later this month with a retired Navy friend (yes, I consort with the right sort of the enemy!), in Virginia, W.V., Maryland, Pennsylvania, and wherever else the mood strikes us.
Naturally, I started it to hear it sing its grand Italian aria, if only for a few moments.
It sounded stupendous.
And, yes, there was a red light and error code for the oil-pressure sensor, along with that strange low-pitch whistle from under the fuel tank.
Sigh Thus this lament.
But, I still love wrenching, and hope I always will.
Bill
P.S. If interested, here are some pix of that process:
https://bill-and-kathi.smugmug.com/Lament-of-an-Untalented-Wrench/n-HM4b7s/
