One of my previous Guzzi California's was equally ill
At Goos Bos I bought a Yamaha Diversion 600 for six hundred euros because I needed transport anyway. Motor Guzzi Calis have side stands made for the US police. You kick the stick forward with your left leg and it 'falls into the lock'. While such an 'officer' then smoothly gets off his twin without any worries, he immediately has his hands free to wield his service weapon from the moment of standstill. Don't joke or make unexpected moves at that point! American agents are not like Dirty Harry with his "Make my day punk!" But they are usually very clear followers of the clear line.
My habit over the course of Cali's was therefore: Stand still, kick Jiffy, drop Guzzi to the left. Then such a thing is so stable that you can climb on the buddy to use it as a lookout.
"Stop, kick, drop"
That approach taught me that I was directly under my little Diversion. The 'sounded' at the Guzzi means the jiffy is off. The sound with the Yamaha means that the jiffiy has folded back into its starting position.
In the meantime I have purchased a Motor Guzzi V65 C. And I will soon be very happy with that. But not yet. The 'small' Moto Guzzis are not very sought after. That is mainly based on emotional grounds. They are quite small physically and unimpressive. And of course they have a few of those qualities that, as a long-term rider of Italians and Russians, I affectionately describe as 'character'. More critical minds call this poorly executed bad constructions. But if Guzzi had not done anything about the lousy lubrication of the valve train in the Falcon route for more than half a century, I would grumble.
The little one - well, I remember when a 650 cc was a really tough guy - has a side stand too. The Italians must have thought about that. Then they looked at the result and after half a bottle of Chianti they thought: "We are going to do that differently!"
The result is an upright tragically short side stand with an incorrectly chosen hinge point
Putting it on the side stand has become a precision job. And the motorcycle leaning on his jiffy is in such a critical equilibrium situation that the twin already turns over like a sparrow scrambling for snacks with only half an eye on it.
And somewhere you are even with years of experience with 'Italians' with the mouth full of teeth. If you sit down for a moment, you can search and find dozens of Italian silly things like that. Up to the undriveable Lamborhini´s. Friend Jan Keijzer - himself a convinced Italophile - put it like this: “Italians bring something to the market if they BEAUTIFUL find enough. Practical details and such preconditions? The buyer must do something about it or learn to live with it.
Because there is now some time, I hereby give 'My Italy' plus some fringe to the dress
Motorcycle journalists have a perfect life. They travel the world, receive a fantastic welcome, experience everything and they get paid for it.
Our example concerns the introduction of a new product line from an ambitious Italian manufacturer.
So a freelancer M / V is hired. Freelancers M / F are driven people who have transcended the desire for earthly wealth.
DAY 1: A lot of people are standing in front of the Ryanair check-in desk. Someone is standing in line with a complete eight-person bungalow tent. He can not understand that his cargo is not allowed as hand luggage. The freelancer checks in routinely. The gate beeps on the Leatherman.
It goes out of its holder and in hand luggage between the laptop and other electronics.
Passengers arrive via the plane. A flight attendant who speaks English with the accent of a British comedy series rehearses at rapid fire that everyone is free to choose a seat. That puts pressure on the windows. The two other seats in the row of three are filled by a very fat Italian and her tiny husband. A thick Italian feels like a well-fed airbag.
The captain has a heavy Irish accent
The flight attendants turn the safety routines with a dead look in their eyes and then they sell things and pick up dirt. Scratch cards are sold. The landing is fine. It's thirty degrees outside. In the arrivals hall there is a sweaty Italian with a piece of paper on which the company name is written with a pen. Another invitee is already standing next to him. It is a young woman in summer clothes. In the meantime, the driver, who, like all Italians, has a hand-wrapped mobile phone, is in contact with the whole world and the business.
There also appears to be a Greek and some French missing
We get in and drive into traffic. Dozens of lightly dressed girls wave friendly to motorists along a kind of main road. The hotel is located on a desolate industrial estate. In the hotel there is time for a quick shower. Because at eight o'clock the press is invited for dinner. But for now the press consists of a two-person delegation from the Netherlands. Some 38 or more are missing.
At about half past nine almost everyone is there
The factory's spokes manager tells us that the bus can be there any time now. And yes… The bus driver argues with his GPS and it gets lost… Very late the team arrives at the promised restaurant. There are three thunderstorms around our location. The manager says that one of his employees is monitoring the matter via the rain radar. The man looks at his guests with satisfaction and the downpour unexpectedly erupts. Everyone gets wet. At half past one, the still wet but satisfied guests are unloaded in front of the hotel. Despite the late hour, there are still girls who are more than happy to comfort the after-steaming guests. The hard core journal dives into the hotel basement. There is the bar. Time for work meetings and the latest company and trade gossip.
DAY 2: The excursion is scheduled from 9.30:XNUMX AM
At about half past ten the Sales Director arrives in Armani to ask if everyone is ready. He waves out. The audience sees a bus close its doors and drive away. The Sales Director runs outside, starts his black Alfa Romeo and also disappears. A somewhat smaller coach arrives. The thing stops and two Italians who were also seen yesterday get out. In correct English, the press is invited to take a seat on the bus. It's another hour's drive. The business premises look bare-sleek from the outside.
But inside, you can see why Italians have such a reputation for beauty
All setting & design. Top! A camera crew is running. There is a stage with two huge flat screens. Photo models. Macho male Italians. Rank cut ladies! The presentation is completely fine. The press kits are so beautiful that it is almost no longer bothersome that they are only in Italian. First everyone gets a cappuccino or espresso. A real espresso blows away all the fatigue patches of a full week. The journal walks around happily chatting. You can get novice reporters out of it in no time. With the beautiful pen from the press folder, they make notes like crazy in the design notepad that was in the folder. The veterans are interested in the activities. They don't write. They know that all the info, including the photos on the CDs are in the press kit.
Meanwhile, a product director makes a speech about his product. In italian. He allows himself to be carried away by his emotions.
His tsunami of product information comes to a halt. The man looks at the translator who has heard the whole speech with growing bewilderment. The lady is English. So she chooses an approach that no Italian will think of. She summarizes the verbal storm of barely ten minutes in the masterly: “This is a very good and modern product”.
Half of those present do not speak Italian or English
The mood is relaxed. A Spanish journalist is flirting with a beautifully sculpted German photographer. The company's communication man speaks good English and takes the floor. He introduces us to the manager of the competition department. The man is a deadly nervous, spindly southern Italian. He fiddles with his stack of notes. He starts talking. Crashes. Gets bitterly at his lyrics. But the sheets are out of order. He raises his hands to heaven. Grabs his papers and disappears.
There is some consternation in the presentation team… The race manager returns.
He angrily looks into the audience and restarts his story. He speaks very quickly and without stopping. The translator has no chance. When the man gets out of breath, the communications boss tries to serve him. The circuit specialist looks into the hall with deadly hatred in his eyes and rattles on for seven minutes. He concludes his speech with a nod and disappears again.
Then the official presentation is over
You can interact with the sponsored riders. They willingly allow themselves to be photographed. There is a fantastic lunch on the roof of the company. Later it turns out that most of the production is made in China and the Ukraine. The world is a village. An Italian editor has his eyes constantly on the German photographer mentioned earlier. The Germanic one is a whopper. At least six feet 1. Busty. Full in the hips. The Italian rips his eyes off her and says with an inimitable accent to the British editor next to him “Big girls frighten me”.
There are a few journalists who have indicated that they think some 2019 items are very cool. With a conspiratorial gesture, they are taken 'to the back'. There's a whole bunch of giveaways over there.
Then there appear to be three journalists left
They are scheduled for the next day in flight technology. Unfortunately, the organization has forgotten to book an extra hotel night for them. And the people of the factory themselves have absolutely no time for the three survivors. The extra nights are no problem. It is agreed that dining can also be done in the city at the expense of the case. The food is mediocre. The waiter has a five-pointed star tattooed under her right ear. The town itself is just as extinct at 21:30 pm as Maasmechelen at night.
Back at the hotel, everyone argues with the taxi driver
The manager comes out and announces that it is not acceptable to heartily rob tourists at the expense of an Italian company. The taxi driver gets so angry that he kicks a dent in his car. Bedtime.
DAY 3: After getting up, the freelancer looks at the return travel documents. It turns out that a flight to Stuttgart had been planned the night before. Another paper reports that the return trip to Amsterdam was booked at 6.30:XNUMX am two days later. Apparently the third booking was made on the same flight as that of the other Dutch colleague. The survivors are picked up an hour later than agreed.
The driver of the company bus does everything he can to make up for lost time. He lights one cigarette after another. His other arm has grown with his cell phone. With a third arm, he constantly takes sweets from the glove compartment. At the airport it appears that two other seats have been booked under the same name. The Leatherman now appears to be a real problem at customs. The security guard advises 'Jukenne zrow iette away'.
An advantageously designed lady asks "Are you also going to Eindhoven?"
To the 'yes' she says: “Then you just give that thing to me. Because at least three seats were booked for the freelancer, there is some space. Only a plump, pale and sweaty twenties still settle in. She's Italian. Her boyfriend lives in Flanders. She has a fear of flying. The freelancer talks her through the start and asks her if she wants to sit by the window. She puts her carefully manicured hands over her face and shudders: "Never!" The flight is going well. After landing there is a clapping. The Italian beauty thanks for the coaching.
The friendly Catherine is found on the assembly line
She appears not to know the Leatherman phenomenon, but after clarification she is appropriately impressed. and hip rocking away completely natural. No Italian can beat that. Outside is the freelancer's Guzzi. Still 114 kilometers. Dan: At home. Catch up…. Get Chinese. Make the text tomorrow. And invoicing .. Life is a party.
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