Stop for roadside assistance

Stop for a fellow motorcyclist who needs roadside assistance. Who still does that? We classic drivers still do that! Because it's always nice to meet new people. And if you can help someone, well ... why not? Where we used to unpack a tool roll and make parts with improvised possibilities, such as a piston from a beer can or a connecting rod from a piece of oak, life is now simple. If there is no gas, we can help.

If the stranded motorcyclist has forgotten his - or her - cell phone, then too. Otherwise it is nowadays something electronic and then we cannot help.

Oh yeah; we can also repair a tubeless tire on the road. The average motorcyclist now has a GSM and a Mobility Guarantee. But what should we now do with averages? The man who stood next to an almost completely dismantled motorcycle on the Straatweg was clearly not your average car. Just as little as his engine was average.

The biker himself seemed - except for the two layers Colts hanging on the hips - to step out of 'The Good, the Bad and the Ugly'. His motorcycle seemed to be made up of parts of all Japanese bicycles from between 1980 to 1990 or thereabouts. Dangling wiring everywhere. It all looked very serious. Just like a horse with a belly shot.

But it turned out to be better than expected. Our Italo cowboy clone said in a mildly friendly tone that he was on his way to a talk about a new job. But he had had a tailwind and was therefore half an hour early. He used that time to continue pulling extra wiring on his amazing two-wheeler. “It has an 1170 Wiseco kit on it. With a supercharger, ”he happily pointed to the engine block and head where a gigantic carburettor hung so much nicer than a fuel injection could be.

For someone who stood fifteen minutes before a job interview, our fellow motorcyclist turned out to be very calm. “And where did he have to be? And how much time he needed to get his creation back together and turning? "Ah. That was simple. He pointed to the office building on the other side of the road. “I just have to cross. And when I'm done there, I'll cross over and finish it here. "

I once delved into my own job application past and realized that I had never dealt with my affairs in this way Zen. The long-held career hunter sorted some things together in his backpack, reported that he was just going across. "And don't take any photos!"

I decided to wait, lit a cigar and looked further at the technical gathering in front of me. In fact, all the things that were done looked just thought out and professional. Only that wiring I could not do anything. I recognized an ignition switch. When I converted it, all kinds of lights went on. Strange…

Halfway through my second cigar, the Clint Eastwood copycat came out again. I immediately got Ennio Moriciones harmonica tune in my head. The returned key man gave me a high five and said with satisfaction “It's all right. I have the job. ”Talking, he put the tank back in its place and connected the quick connectors of the fuel line. The side cover was hung in. The buddy went on it. Helmet up. Put on gloves. Contact.

A push on the button. The Yamahosuki Special started with a crying compressor. After a few quiet strokes to the gas, the thing with the crumbling exhaust sound of a block with very hot camshafts was surprisingly nice and quiet at no-load. The driver roared: "thanks for stopping!" Gave gas. Daverde away. What kind of job that young had now got? What kind of company was there in the neutral-looking building? No idea. But stop for apparently stranded motorcyclists? I will continue to do that.