‘All is sweetness and light’
Days of wine and roses are finally on the calendar as the motorcycle formerly known as ‘the bloody Shovel’ behaves itself (largely)
AND SO, IT SEEMS, the sun has finally set on the dear old Shovelhead’s previously blighted life. The blow-ups (two), the clutch collapse, the electrical meltdown, the trail of discarded cycle parts as everything from exhausts to mudguards cried enough and either failed catastrophically or jumped off entirely. Impossible as it sounds, the Harley-davidson FXR is now a paragon of dependability. Time was when it would be pushing it to expect it to complete even a modest journey without recourse to a flatbed truck. If anyone cares to recall, I used up an entire annual allocation of recovery call-outs (the RAC gives you seven before they start charging you) in six months during the darkest days of the Shovel’s misbehaviour. Those days are gone. To the Lincolnshire Wolds then in the autumn twilight, the bloody nippy autumn twilight. After the formality of a Chippy Wood snap, a very poignant and evocative snap it should be said, it’s up the flat, straight, A16 from Peterborough to Boston. The easy lope of the 80 cubes (1340cc) in top (fifth) makes despatching truck convoys a doddle, and only the meagre wattage of the headlight restricts progress when we hit the twistier bits northeast of the old port town. Rebonding with a previously troublesome bike is a slow process. Like an unruly dog, it takes a prolonged period of impeccable behaviour before you can start to relax in its company, before you truly believe the bad old days are behind. Tonight, and we fervently hope, for the remainder of earthly days, all is sweetness and light. We’ve left the fens and their beguiling scent of eau de root vegetables and manure far behind. Mist wafts over the gently rolling wolds as we haul into Spilsby after 53 miles, the lure of a pint of Batemans XB growing ever stronger. The Shovel alights five miles later at Gunby (and 58 miles would have been a big ask in olden times). It’s still got all its bits, not the merest smear of oil besmirches its pristine surfaces. The Shovel cools in the crisp evening air as we stroll off for several pints of XB. But stone me it’s cold up here. Next morning the Milwaukee masterpiece clearly feels it too. A light frost coats its upper extremities and I wipe dew off the seat. Fuel on, choke on, a few twists of the throttle to work the Keihin’s accelerator pump, ignition on, thumb the… eurch, eurch, eurch, euuuuuuuuu… Really? Yes, really. Clearly, the deprivations of the night proved too much for the old Yuasa, its cranking power fatally compromised by the temperature drop. A second gear push and bump (thanks Mick and Hugo) and we’re in business. As I warm the device up Hugo gently points to an exhaust mounting bolt midway from removing itself from its hole. I love my troublehead.