Northern Italy

Sorry for the lack of updates, plenty of photos added at the end of this. To sum up the blank space; amazing roads, crazy semi-clad sports bike pilots, Han getting bitten to shreds by local wildlife, perfect sun, less than perfect bike, expensive camping and language barriers. There you go, you may as well have been there.

We take up the story on the shoulder of Italy.

There's nothing quite like waking up under a foreign sun and stretching that first morning stretch in unfamiliar rays, secure in the knowledge you have a hangover and there is nothing to do that day except find another angle to bask and another way to ensure a fresh hangover for the next sunrise. I write this on the grass beside our tent, soundtracked by the tiny mammal noises of a sleepy Han and the flip-flopping of snakey hipped senoritas sashaying to and from the showers. Hot showers cost more, so their walk there is a lazy half asleep shuffle but the walk back is a goosepimpled skip. It says 'Douche frio' on the door, and they don't lie. If I felt a little fusty before turning the faucet, thirty seconds under that arctic torrent soon woke me up. I swear there was a penguin shivering in the corner of my cubicle. Maybe I just drink too much coffee.

The bike sits patiently by our tent waiting for some much needed attention. The chain hangs slackly from her sockets and her tyres sag sadly. Overnight she has become part of the scenery. Tiny birds sit on her seat and dance on her bars, and a gossamer thread of spiders silk ties her mirror to a tree. I lie on the ground with her, and have become part of that scenery too. Ants crawl on my jacket and the inquisitive birds trip around me, chirping cheery "Bonjournos".

After several more cups of coffee and a couple of Marlboros I finally worked up the enthusiasm to sort the beleagured Honda's issues. First on the list, stick some air in some rubber tubes that roll. Hopefully that will cure the crazy weaving that has been developing for a few days. Sounds easy enough. Until you realise you don't know one end of the pump from the other. The shrink wrap that still contained the five quid Halfords jobby was disposed of with easy panache but my rhythm was interrupted by the discovery of not one, but two, brightly coloured little attachments. Pinky thin and patterned like tiny disco snakes, which one did I have to plug into the pump to fascilitate the whole compressed air thingy? Oh well, trial and error. I took the prettiest one, a red and black nylon ribbed viper, I should have heeded its dangerous colours. I screwed it onto the valve and it hissed angrily and my front tyre wilted. Must be the other one then.

The orange and blue snake went on without fuss. No hissing. Although mainly because there was no air in the front tube. Minutes later, and two gallons of sweat lighter, I had two rock hard tyres. Success number one.

Now to deal with the second problem. Fuel dribbling like old man's piss from the fuel line. Our hose was floppy and cracked, letting a steady trickle of fuel drip onto the engine casing. Fix number one; try taping it up with electrical tape. Still dribbled. Fix number two; try fixing it up with black and nasty. Still dribbled. Fix number three; more b and n. Still dribbled. Then I reached an epiphany, sent straight from the Lord Bodge himself. Cut the daggy bit off and join the tube earlier on a supple bit of rubber. I don't like cutting things, it's so much more permanent than tape and zip ties.

Knife out, cut and shut, hey presto, alakahzam, no more dribble. Another result.

Last task in sight, a hat trick of minor victories within grasp. All I had to do was tension the chain. Six months ago I wouldn't have had the foggiest idea which way to wave a spanner if you'd asked me to tension a chain. That lack of knowledge left me stuck with a chainless Cub in the middle of the Mauritanian Sahara, as I did and undid every bolt on the rear end until I finally worked it out. Now, as an old pro, at the 'old chain tensioning game' I knew exactly what to do.

Down on the knees. 10mm spanner. Half turn on the left hand bolt. Feels a little odd. Half turn on the right hand bolt. Feels fine, carry on. Another half turn on the left hand bolt. Then half the chain tensioner fell off in my hand.

Apparently the best part of two decades of neglect had rotted it practically all the way through. Une petite probleme as they don't say in Italy, but pidgin French was our best Italian. Never mind, we still had one chain tensioner, how many could you need? I tightened the chain then clamped the wheel spindle down as hard as I dared, sprayed the bike with a quick spritz of An Sha Allah, and we were ready to go.

Pulling out of the campsite, I turned back to Han and said, "Doesn't that sound better now the chain is tight?" As we pulled out onto the main road into the death or glory craziness of Italian traffic, the bike bucked like a circus bronko. No power. I waddled out of the madness as kamikazes braked and weaved to avoid the stupid Englisher and parked up beside a cafe. Apparently the wheel spindle couldn't hold on its own. So what, I was wrong. Don't get at me.

The wheel had slipped right forward to the front of its adjustment, leaving the chain dangling free. Fortunately, as usual, there was a guardian angel to rescue me from my ineptitude. A kindly old gent informed us that there was a bike garage just 1km down the road. A sweaty bike pushing kilometre, and one stop for medicinal cigarettes later, and we were at said bike garage. Which didn't open until three, "as it was a Monday." How does that work? Maybe Italy is more foreign than we realised.

That brings me right to here. Sat sunbathing in a service station outside a Yamaha garage in Northern Italy, waiting for the magical hour of three to roll around. Total mileage today: 0.3. Total walked: 1.0. Total predicted mileage: Not much more.

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