This was originally posted to the newsgroup rec.motorcycles back in the days before the world wide web existed (at least, before anyone outside arpa cared about it) as 7 or so netnews posts, which were limited in size back then. Sort of the way this version of forum software limits the max size of a post, forcing multiple posts to post the story. Anyway, it was copied from my diary I kept during my 1991 Europe road trip.
Wonderland, Western Europe, France, especially the South of France,
these are all synonomous to me when I think of where I most want
to ride my motorcycle. This is a story about a longtime dream
becoming reality, about attending a rain-soaked GP race in Assen,
Holland, and sport touring in Europe. It is about 24 days in
Europe with my ZX-11, seven days of riding and 3,300 miles of
almost always perfect roads, and the true meaning of Sport Touring
as practiced and observed "over there".
Wonderland held many new and interesting things to do, see, and learn
for me. Things like riding for extended periods of time at 90 mph
and not worrying about massive insurance premium increases. Or
cars that actually (and consistantly) give way to motorcycles. How
novel! There was the day I was forced by a clattering chain to seek
a Kawasaki dealership in Belgium and ended up losing two days of
travel, offset by assistance exceeding the call of duty from the
Belgium highway patrol and a chance to get to know some of the
wonderful people of Belgique. There were days when I cursed the
shallowness of my ability to speak and understand French, more often
than not met with understanding and willingness to overcome the
language barrier. My seven days of riding were equally split between
rain and blazing heat, with one day in the middle that was just
exactly right. I hope I can do this kind of thing again, but if I
cannot, I will always have this experience and its memories. And
I'm not getting any younger, much as I hate to admit it!
But the story really begins twenty-one years ago, when I purchased
my first bike, a used Kawasaki H1. Things sure have changed since then,
haven't they? It picks up again about a year and a half
ago when I purchased a new motorcycle after doing without for far too
long. The process of reassociating with others of similiar persuasion
began anew, and before long I found myself frequenting Alice's Rest-
araunt on Skyline Drive in Woodside, California on warm Sunday mornings
and showing up at strange events like the USGP and Kawasaki Day just to
be around motorcycle people and their motorcycles. During all that
time, I always knew, always dreamed, of riding in Western Europe,
especially France.
In May of 1990, infatuated with my new machine as I was, and totally
in awe that frame technology had come so far, a bloke in London who
works for the the same multinational company I do issued a challenge.
"Why don't you come over for the Bol d'Or in September. We can ride
there, its only 900 km. each way, you'll love it!" What in the world,
I asked, is the Bol d'Or? Well, I soon found out the Bol is "THE" FIM
24 hour endurance road race, and being in the South of France on the
coast in September, quite the place to be. Thus properly challenged,
I saved up just enough money to pay my, and my bike's, way there and
back, when my Jeep blew its head off, literally. Sure, a real biker
would have junked the Jeep and kept on going, but I've never prided
myself in adhering to that particular mystique. In any case, the Bol
went on last year without me. Pity.
Not to be discouraged, I began again to amass nickels and pennies
in a jar marked "Europe '91 or Bust!", and soon (after much and great
sacrifice) I had again saved enough to buy airline tickets and pay
for air shipment of my motorcycle. Why would I ship my bike there, you
ask? A fair question. The best rental deal I could come up with is what
is called a buy/sell deal, where I would sign a contract for the bike,
ride it, and then bring it in and essentially pay the depreciation.
All said and done, the cost to ship my own bike wasn't all that much
more, and I'd rather have my own, anyway. After all, this isn't just
your everyday ZX-11 (though even an "everyday" U.S.-spec. ZX-11 is
radical in Europe), this one has an Ohlins shock, progressive fork
springs, a Muzzy R&D exhaust, stainless steel brake lines, Michelin
HiSport tires (180/55-17 in back, 120/60-17 in front), and about 20
extra ponies to make up for the excessive weight of its rider.
About two months before the trip began, the Jeep tried again to keep
me from running off with another vehicle (I am beginning to think the
Jeep is jealous of the motorcycle!). This time, it was a blown water
pump, which thankfully didn't cost me enough to seriously hinder my
plans. Besides, I had already paid for everything but my food and
lodging while there, and if need be, I was willing to live on ham
sandwiches and water and sleep next to my bike if such dire actions
became necessary. Fortunately, the budget was able to withstand the
Jeep's feeble attempts to cancel the trip, and the trip was on.
As it turns out, I slept beside my moto every chance I got, anyway.
Three months before the trip, I began taking a spoken French class.
I had studied French for two years in college, but 20 years had
washed it all away. Now I wish I had started the classes a year before
the trip, because I found myself armed with a pitifully small
vocabulary, not knowing many of the words and phrases I'd like to.
Now I am back, and I am already continuing those classes, just in
case I have the opportunity for a return trip. While there, I
knew enough to be able to apologize for my poor French, ask directions,
and to introduce myself and carry on a little idle conversation. Not
even enough to get myself too much in trouble, although that is always
a possibility when you are trying to speak a language unfamiliar to
you.
Which brings us to shipping the ZX-11 to London. As you can see from
the photo, the motorcycle was securely bolted into a crate, by the
centerstand no less, since there are no places on the ZX-11 to
attach steel straps without buggering up the bodywork. Shortly after
this photo was taken, the cap went on the crate, and I left my pride
and joy in the hands of the shippers. I'd like to say I was calm
about the whole thing, but trusting my bike even to professionals
doesn't come easy. I am happy to say, it made it to London in good
condition, none the worse for the wear. One of the interesting things
about shipping one's motorcycle across the Atlantic is that the cost
for a crated literbike is based upon the higher
of 1) weight at so much a pound or 2) crate volume (in cubic inches)
divided by a magic number. In the case of the ZX-11, crate volume was
the deciding factor, so I removed the windscreen, and folded the
mirrors in, just to save a few inches, and hence a a few dollars. I'd
have removed the front wheel to lower the height
of the crate even more, if I could have figured out an easy way
to get it back on upon arrival, and back off for the return
shipment. As it was, if I had not been prepared for the bill, I
would have suffered a massive coronary. It still hurt to sign the
check.
Routed with the crate were numerous documents, several of which I
prepared myself with instructions from the shippers. There was a
pro-forma invoice, which essentially said I owned the moto, was taking
it over for a month, and bringing it back to the U.S.A. Attached to
this document were photocopies of everything relevant: driver's license,
registration, title, foreign liability insurance. The shipper took care
of the formal documentation, which told customs this vehicle was only
a temporary import, and therefore not subject to import duties.
A week later, I boarded a flight from California to New York, and then
on to London, with passport, credit card, and foreign insurance card in
hand. Most of my clothes (such as they were) were already stowed in
the RKA soft luggage attached to the bike when it was crated. In the
luggage was one of those flyweight tents, a flyweight sleeping bag, a
flyweight stove, and flyweight dehydrated food. Oh, a small first aid
kit, flashlight, soap, that sort of thing. You get the idea.... I wanted
to do some camping while in France, but everything had to be extremely
light and compact. This wasn't, after all, a Gold Wing! The thing most
on my mind during what seemed like an interminable flight was the
fervent hope my friend would be at Heathrow with petrol and a battery
of the correct type. You see, the tank had no gasoline
in it (regulations), and the battery had been yanked (regulations).
Well, after getting past British passport control and customs, I
found my friend, and received bad news. Yes, my moto was fine, but
HM Customs and Excise (the British version of U.S. Customs) had
decided they wanted to do a physical inspection of the crate. So,
even though it had arrived four days before I had, I still couldn't
pick it up. The big question was would they release it by Thursday,
this being Tuesday, so we could catch our ferry to Calais, and
ride up to Assen, Holland, for the GP. Finally, at midday on Wednesday,
the shipper called and said I could pick it up at 0900 on Thursday.
Not much slack there, but sufficient to meet our schedule. Charlie,
my friend, and I had pizza to celibrate our great "victory"
over Customs, and soon I fell asleep, dead tired. Only to wake up
at 0200, obviously nervous about getting the motorcycle back.
After an hour, I was able to got back to sleep, and the 0700 wakeup
came sooner than I would have liked.
On the way to the warehouse, I began to wonder if the rain would
keep up, and what it would be like on the Continent. It had begun to
rain long before I arrived in London, a series of big downpours
followed by patchy sun and clouds. I was told this was quite unusual
weather for the time of year, and London was quite grey because of
it. At last, we found our way to the warehouse, and my excitement
began to build. Please, please, let the crate be in one piece and
the moto undamaged! Nothing left to do but have a look then.
Sure enough, the crate was sitting in the middle of the warehouse
floor, and looked fine. Closer inspection revealed HM Customs had
opened the wrong end for the inspection. One side was nailed on, the
other held with spring clips for easy removal. Guess which one they
had opened? So, we removed the lag bolts holding the cap on the
pallet, and off it came. Inside, looking just as it had when packed,
albeit a bit dusty, was the moto. We unbolted the blocking which
imobilized it on the pallet, so that it stood only on the centerstand,
put in a battery, poured in some petrol, and held our collective
breath as I pressed the starter button. rrrr..rrrr.rrrr.rrrUUURRAAHHHHH.
Yes! It lives! After putting the windscreen back on, we rolled it
off the pallet and out of the warehouse. A bad, black, beautiful
ZX-11 in London. Yes!
This would have been a real pain if I hadn't had Charlie to help me,
as I would have had to make other arrangements for the battery. The
warehouse people were very helpful, and could have been easily
persuaded to have petrol waiting, but a charged motorcycle battery
is a different matter. But, there I was, with Baby, and I knew we
were all happy, humans and motorcycle.
Which brings us to Friday, 28 June, 1991, the beginning of the ride
of a lifetime. If I had known beforehand what was to happen in the days
that followed, I wonder if I would have made the trip? Or, in
retrospect, if there is anything that could have kept me from it. No
organized tour, this. No van bringing up the rear in case something
breaks. No translators to handle my need to communicate. No route
planning beyond the end points I wanted to arrive at and the dates
I more or less wanted to arrive on. My only fallback in the event the
motorcycle (or, horrors, I) became incapacitated was AAA Recovery
Insurance, which would have gotten me and my moto back to London in
such a situation, though not with any ease, I suspect. The company
of my friend and several other British riders during the first days
of the trip was most appreciated and reassuring. For soon enough,
I would be off alone.
Sport Touring in Wonderland
John Hamilton 1991
Part 2 of ?
28 June 1991
A dull, dreary day in London at Charlie's flat.....
We are up at the crack of dawn, though you can't see the sun and
it looks like rain any moment. No matter, we have a ferry to catch,
and it won't wait for us. I rush to mount the luggage on the moto,
which was parked outside the flat under a cover for the night, and
of course my fingers bungle each attempt to fasten fasteners and clip
clips. At last everything is on, and we zip off on wet streets for
a dash of petrol. By the time we begin to make our way out of London,
it is raining again. The ride to Dover is like the weather - damp,
overcast, and chilly. The Aerostitch suit I am wearing does a
commendable job of keeping me dry, warm, and absolutely comfortable
from the neck down. I begin to regret my choice of helmets, since
the one I have doesn't seem to fit correctly in this weather. A lot
of things go unnoticed in sunny California which become glaring
annoyances in the kind of rough weather I was to encounter during
the rest of my trip.
One thing that strikes me right away is we are riding at 90 mph and
so is the rest of traffic. In fact, I feel much more comfortable at
90 mph here than at 60 mph back in California, even in the rain.
I have this vague feeling that I am surrounded by cars driven by
people who know how to drive. Wishful thinking, no doubt, but it
was an enjoyable feeling nonetheless.
The ride to the ferry is otherwise nondescript, our only purpose is
to make it in time to board the ferry and cross to France. In the
rain, this sort of purposeful riding causes me to daydream a bit,
though not so much as to ever lessen my attention to the road and
traffic around me to dangerously low levels. We simply drone along,
the sounds muffled by the rain and dampness of the air, the face
shield staying un fogged as long as our speed stays up, really just
taking solace in the fact it will soon be over when we get on the
ferry. For my part, I am convinced that even if it is raining in
France, I will like it!
I have a ferry or two within 30 minutes of my house, in San Francisco,
yet, this was the first time I'd ever been on a vehicle ferry, much
less taken a motorcycle on one. All the traditional things riders
try to avoid are involved in getting on and off the ferry: wet
metal strips in the floor plenty wide enough to loose traction on,
slippery wood, too many vehicles, and ferry men who want to put a
tie down strap over your moto, which you are certain will bugger the
cowling. None of it turns out to be a problem, but I suffered all
the possible fears that could have arisen, real or imagined. I
can say in advance, however, that on the trip back, I took the ferry
alone and was quite a cool and experienced customer, having so much
experience in these matters by then.
On the ride over, my gregarious friend Charlie struck up a conver-
sation with a lorry driver from London who drove all over the parts
of France, Belgium, and Holland we would need to cross to get to
Assen for the GP. This was a stroke of luck, and no doubt greatly
simplified our route to Assen. Finally, the ferry arrived at Calais,
and with the other British riders we'd met, off we went to the
French Customs checkpoint. I pulled up last of the group, and
the agent asked me, in French, what nationality I was, to which
I haltingly replied, "Je suis American!" That got me through without
even showing my passport, certainly more because I was holding up
the line trying to get to it than because of my ability to speak
French!
We aren't in France for very long before we arrive at the Belgium
border, and a little up the auto route we stop for petrol. Our lorry
driver gets us quickly onto a mostly empty serious of auto routes,
and we begin a rapid transit North. Traffic on the auto routes moves
in excess of 100 mph without intervention by the authorities. In
fact, we don't see any authorities. I am to find out later if you
need them they are there. Everyone practices lane discipline and
driving courtesy, and we make incredible time, the kind that would
make 600 mile touring days a breeze even on a sport bike. All is
well, and the fact I am in motorcycle paradise begins to sink in.
The grin on my face grows increasingly large, to the point I am
at risk of splitting my face wide open. I had no doubts this was
worth all the trouble and cost I had and would have to bear in order
to accomplish it.
On one particularly long, straight, and desolate stretch of asphalt
I decide to unleash Baby. Even though I have a large tank bag that
forces the air flow to try to remove my head, and saddlebags and
seat bag to boot, the clock indicates 160 mph in the blink of the
eye, with acceleration coming on like an F18 Hornet being launched
from a carrier. The buffeting from the luggage, and the strain
on my neck from the upward air blast off the tank bag force me to
roll off the throttle with the clock showing 170 mph and climbing.
In ground speed (real speed, that is), whatever it actually was,
thats fast enough loaded down. About the time I'd dropped back
to around 120 mph or so, the big FZR in the group comes blasting
past, likewise stretching its legs just this once, honest Mom.
I knew the ZX-11 was awesome, but this was amazing for a moto
loaded like it was to grab speed as voraciously as it did.
It didn't seem like long, though the day had indeed gone by, when
we rolled into Groningen, just a few klicks from Assen, at our
hotel. We were 500 miles from West Ealing, England, and we had
averaged 70 mph for the ENTIRE trip, including the ferry crossing.
I love riding here!
Foreign currency is starting to get to me around this time. I have
Pounds, Francs, Guilder, and Dollars in my wallet. In Belgium,
they wanted Belgium Francs for petrol, so they got Uncle VISA.
Oh, yes..... petrol, gas, whatever. We don't know how good we have
it in the U.S.A. when it comes to cheap energy sources, especially
gasoline. If gas cost us $2.00 a gallon here, the Europeans would
still think us lucky. In fact, other than air fare (man and machine),
petrol turns out to me the single most expensive part of the trip.
The day is gone, its dark, I don't usually do 500 really fast miles
in a day, and sleep comes easy.
29 June 91 - Saturday
Fun In The Mud
Assen's TT track is super! Big grassy runoffs, no armco, and few
places where stacked hay bales are required. Where they are, they've
been individually wrapped in white plastic bags. Probably because
they'd fall apart in the rain. Rain? Oh, yes, and the Dutch more
than once apologized for that, during the course of the day.
Much as the racers must enjoy the track, I think it is not as good
as Laguna Seca for spectators. Of course, I've never been at Laguna
when it had rained so much the whole place turned to mud. Maybe then
I could draw a proper conclusion. The entire track was ringed by
manmade berms on which grass had once grown, but which 140,000
spectators had turned into mud. Every square foot of berm was
occupied by a spectator, no matter which way you looked. These
Europeans really like their motorcycle racing!
In any case, the spectator area all the way around the track has
turned into a mud pit. Don't they have gravel in Holland? On the
brighter side, if it starts to rain again, and rains hard enough,
the mud would come out of my riding suit and off my boots.
The racing is good, though the 125cc and 500cc events are stopped
for showers early in each race. Too bad 125cc doesn't come to
the USGP, it would be quite fun to see. I doubt they'd do well in
the 'screw, though, since it was hard to ever find less than
a dozen of them in each group during the course of the race. Can
you picture twelve screaming 125cc race bikes at the top of the
corkscrew, all trying to get the line at once? Then picture that
repeating maybe four times each lap, since the field is quite
large.
In the 500cc event, Little John (Kocinski) actually stayed mounted
for the entire race! We joked that Roberts had told him if he was
in the top ten before the halfway point he was fired, which slowed
him down enough to stay on the bike. Rainey lost the race within
30 seconds of the finish line, when Schwantz stuffed him on the
last turn and he ran off the track into the grass. Rainey recovered
to take second, and we were told had the final straight to the line
been 100 yards longer, he would have passed Schwantz again and
won anyway.
I saw little of the 250cc race, because a Dutchman almost won it
and the crowd stood the whole time. If we'd have arrived the night
before we could have sat close enough to see. Webster led the
sidecar race until retiring, at which point the smiles disappeared
from my British friends' faces. I forget who did win after all,
but the crowd went crazy for it at the finish.
What I saw next I'd never seen before, much less been a part of.
The crowd virtually stopped each race on the last lap by going
out to the edge of the track and actually onto it. In the sidecar
event, the crowd went fully onto the track and the back markers
had to stop and idle through them. People were taking braking
markers, and anything else they could pull up or out. The race
officials looked on understandingly. I was truly amazed.
They'd shoot us at Laguna Seca for doing that! Well, not really,
but you know what I mean.
One other thing I really disliked about Assen. The hike to the track
from the parking was horrendous, and would have been 15 minutes each
way if there had been no crowd and no mud. As it was, we had both
and it took forever to get in and out.
On the way back to the hotel, we hit a detour. Oh, no! A detour
with signs I have no idea the meaning of! I decide, on faith,
that the arrows in blue are the detour direction, and follow the
first one. Someone had told me previously that when a European
sign gives a direction and no distance, you just keep following
that direction on blind faith, no matter how long, and sooner or
later you will come to another sign. So, I did. And I did. And
I beat my friend back to the hotel, who had not had blind faith,
but had left a full 30 minutes before me. A valuable lesson!
The day was over as far as I was concerned. The events of the last
few days had pretty much overcome me, and I begged out of bar-hopping
and went to my room to pack the luggage and go to sleep.
30 June '91 Sunday
Time to leave the mud after having breakfast. I hoped the film I'd
taken at the GP had at least one good frame on it. I carry everything
out to my moto, disable the alarm, unhook the cable lock, and start
to attach the luggage. My two British cohorts are already on their
motos and seem impatient to leave. I am having a little trouble
suppressing irritation about this, and as a result, leave one of the
saddlebag tie downs undone, which results in more delay. Well, what
can I say, I had to pack for a bit over two more weeks of camping,
so they could just wait.
Just before we leave Groningen, Charlie tells me he is riding directly
back to Calais, which is the first I'd heard of that. We had planned
to ride down into France together and spend a few days riding in the
direction of Biot before Charlie turned around and went home. I was
a bit surprised to hear the change of plans, but what the heck, might
as well strike off on my own now as in three days. The adventure had
me in its grip fully by now, and I had no fear. I was going to show
up on Konrad's doorstep in Biot, France, come hell or high water.
So, off I went down an auto route in central Belgium, flying low and
making time.
Not long after I crossed into Belgium, it began to rain fairly hard
and the wind picked up seriously. The Aero suit kept me dry and warm,
but the rain still felt like nails driving into me through the suit.
I cut speed a little to about 70 mph and it eased up some. The route
I was on was partially lined with trees, as so many of the regional
roads in Western Europe are, and every time I'd come out of a section
shielded by trees into a clearing, the wind would move me a lane or
two left. After a while, I started leaning before the wind got to me,
and there would be a stalemate between a right turn and the wind.
Of course, every so often the wind would just die for a few seconds
and I'd have to correct quickly. First it was fun in the mud, now it
was fun in the windstorm. I could tell this was going to be quite
a trip already.
I made excellent time, anyway, and after a while I progressed South
far enough to get out of most of the wind, so my speed picked up
again into the 90-110 mph range. There were hundreds of motorcycles
on this auto route, all heading South, no doubt having been at the
same place we had. At one point, stopped at a gasoline station right
alongside the 'route, I lingered long enough to nurse a Coke (lunch)
and enjoyed the sights and sounds of motorcycles (mostly rice
rockets, I'll have you know) blasting by in endless procession. It
was as if I was drawn back onto the road, so I hurried the soda and
climbed aboard, leaving the station behind in 3G acceleration,
delighting in the sound and fury of 1052cc of Ninja hurtling
forward to join the swarm.
At the next fuel stop I was approached by several German riders,
all of whom had touring bikes (BMWs, GoldWings mostly). They were
very curious about my ZX-11 and asked many questions. I was a mild
novelty, being from California and having CA plates on my moto.
After a bit, I couldn't linger any longer, and once again joined
the plunge South.
About the time I was due East of Brussels, an annoying sound began
clunking about from the vicinity of the primary sprocket. I stopped
a few times, but could find nothing wrong. Soon, I noticed when I
let off the throttle and coasted, I could feel the clunking, and it
was becoming more pronounced. Just what I needed, a mechanical
problem in a part of the world where I couldn't easily find a
mechanic. Or, so I thought.
Sport Touring in Wonderland
John Hamilton 1991
Part 3 of ?
30 June 1991 (continued)
So, here I am, just on the East outskirts of Brussels, and I can't
figure out why my moto is making clunking noises somewhere around
the primary sprocket, or possibly the chain guide. I've checked and
can see a small amount of wear on the outside of the chain, and
surmise it may be dragging on something. The least problem I have
is a stretched chain, the worst.... well, I can't tell.
I make a quick dash into Brussels, but where I enter seems to be all
residential and small businesses. I find a hospital, and explain in
halting French my moto isn't working right, I need a Kawasaki shop.
I get blank looks. I ask if anyone speaks any English. I am told
curtly, no. Nothing else. My dander comes up, but rather than be
a smartass American, I thank them and leave. Standing by my moto,
I make a decision to plunge due South all the way to Paris, where
I know I can find a Kawasaki dealer (or two, or three, or fifty...)
and at least some English-speakers for the more complex part of
my problem.
Not another thirty minutes down the auto route, the physical part
of the clunking becomes more pronounced, even while under power, and
I cancel my previous decision on the basis that a thrown chain could
really add a twist (and maybe a few tumbles) to my trip. Not wanting
to test the body armor in the Aero, I start thinking feverishly,
searching my mind for some sort of solution which doesn't sound like
it has a disasterous ending. About this time, I see road signs for
a city named Gosselies, and a sign with it for the Gendarmie Regie.
Being a good California boy, and having learned a lesson in road
sign faith already, I decide that if I follow the sign, I will end
up at the Belgian equivalent of the Highway Patrol. Sure enough,
about 3 miles off the 'route is a barrack and motorpool, with very
official looking sign out front. If they can't help me, they surely
know someone who can.
I roll into the parking lot, and enter the main door. Behind a very
thick glass with a speaker grill in it is a man who could be a desk
Sargeant here with no problem. I say in French that my moto isn't
working right, and we grope around for the words to describe what
"la chaine" is doing. Finally, he tells me to wait for 45 minutes
and an officer who speaks English will come in from patrol and help
me. It is about 1500 hours, and I realize I am very near to where
I will be spending the night, one way, or another.
Finally, an officer comes out and asks me in English what is wrong.
I tell him I am afraid to continue without having the moto looked
at. He says there is a Kawasaki dealer in Charleroi, but the
motorcycle policemen will be returning in 15 minutes, and I should
let them look at it first. While we wait, we talk, mostly me answering
questions about what I am doing and so forth. I am certain there
will be a dossier on the "Crazy Californian" before the night is
old. They are nice enough, though, and I appreciate the coffee and
conversation in English. After a bit, several BMW police bikes roll
into the garage, and we proceed out to the parking lot. They are
quite interested in my moto, especially when they figure out I am
from Californie. "Oui, j'habite en Californie, a San Jose." Well,
Cupertino, really, but San Francisco might have been more recognizable
to them. At last, one of them tells the English speaker he thinks
the axle is misaligned, and they do not have the T-bar allen wrenches
necessary to align them. Well, I have a little itty bitty allen
wrench in the make-believe toolkit, so I loosen the clamps and
try to give it a twist. No go. "Have you got an extension for this
allen wrench?" I ask. No. "Have you got any small diameter steel
pipe, then?" No. All the patrol bikes are shaft drive. Just my luck!
Next time I will pack a pair of T-bar allen wrenches, and I don't
care how big they are. Still, when I got home, my very reputable
(I am NOT being sarcastic) dealer expressed extreme disbelief the
axle had rotated in the eccentrics that much.
* Last updated by: privateer on 7/15/2011 @ 11:46 AM *