'] I used to carry a spare clutch and brake lever and a lump hammer for the footpegs.
NOW you've done it!
I never carried as much as a screwdriver!
Here's a tale from a few years back - concentrate!
A Junkie’s Tale
Yesterday, the clutch cable snapped as I was on my way to work. I was only about five miles away, but the morning log jam meant that my only option was to pull over and call out the breakdown boys. Certainly, one of the many virtues of being an old fart is that I can afford a level of comprehensive insurance that lies beyond the ken of today’s “kiddie-bikers” - and that means anyone under forty, these days:
eatya hearts out, suckers!
After an hour’s wait, during which I spent almost every second perving happily after the nubile female students staggering, hang-over-driven, to Salford University, the RAC recovery van arrived and driver Dave and I swapped yarns until we dropped the bike off at the shop and, eventually, me at my home. Then, I had to organise myself for work the following day.
This involved an alien dress ritual; buses; trains; walking; waiting; and the kind of internal longing that only comes when you know you won’t be riding your bike; not because you’ve done anything wrong: no crashes; no mistakes because you hadn’t fitted something properly; no driving bans. It’s just wear and tear. A cable snapped so, of course, that meant the December weather would take a turn, not just for the better, but for the
fookin’ brilliant. What a bastard: blue skies and above-average temperatures two weeks ahead of Christmas! That, indeed, will be the Global Warming, then.
At work, I’m distracted, “only half there”, as the saying goes. There are a million different cables in the bike world, so the shop can’t possibly stock them all. Amazingly, they don’t stock any for an old Gixxer 750, but they’ve promised to call me as soon as they locate one and I’ll hear from them as soon as it’s fitted. Using the available evidence, I’d already resigned myself to being without the bike for perhaps three or even four days at least which, translated succinctly, means I felt totally pissed off.
At about two-fifteen I got a call; “You brought your bike in for a clutch cable yesterday”, and my heart sinks into my boots. I know what’s coming next. “How are you getting on with it?” I ask, doing my best to sound as if I’ve got more important things to think about: no need to let him know that I’m close to breaking point, is there? I know what he’s going to say and I’m braced for it. “Oh,” he says, “
it’s all done - are you picking it up today?”
I’m in Manchester and he’s in Bolton. There’s no way I can get there before half-five and I refuse to accept any possibility of release from my torment: “What time do you close?” I ask. There’s no pause before he answers; he’s obviously very busy and he wants to get off the phone. He’s polite, but his tone is slightly clipped as he responds: “Six o’clock, mate.” Everything goes bright, like I’ve just done something really good, and I know that everyone loves me -
even I love me!“No problem” I say, and I know that
he knows I’m grinning like an idiot.
I call my boss and explain that if I don’t get the bike back today, I’ll have to take tomorrow morning off. It’s the truth - I live out on the moors - only five miles from Bolton town centre, but that’s two buses and almost two hours for me to get to where I need to be. Next, I call my missus and she agrees to everything and anything because she knows: she always knows.
I catch the train and she meets me at the station to take me home for my gear. I’m normally a non-communicative car passenger but now I’m like a kid, gabbling away in my excitement - I can feel it now, and I’m smiling.
I’m going for my bike!
I get home, get out of my civvies and we’re on our way. I control my maddening, internalised impatience by watching the clock in the car and telling myself: “It’s five fifteen and we’re ten minutes away. Be calm!” But I’m
not calm, and I tell her how stupid I feel because I’m so excited about going to get my bike - and she just looks at me and smiles a bit and says “No, it’s not stupid”, and I know she’s serious. She means it. She knows.
For the tenth time I check: helmet; gloves; earplugs; debit card; key.
“Where’s my fookin’ key?” Frantically I search every pocket; the floor; in my crash helmet; in my gloves. I look everywhere, becoming more frantic with every failure - before remembering: “It’s in the shop - with the bike - you left the key with the bike.
Tosser!
We get there and I’ve got the door open before we come safely to a full stop. Struggling to get out of the car I’m held back for a nano second, prevented by some mysterious force from exiting the vehicle. She’s looking at me, slightly sideways, and I turn it into a joke. Hugely embarrassed, but not really caring, I unbuckle my seat belt and give her a sickly grin; “Better safe than sorry, eh?” I gurgle, head down and fumbling for my fallen gloves to avoid meeting her amused glance before staggering into the shop like a junkie going for his fix.
Please. Please.
PLEASE!
Just gimme ma fookin’ bike back!
'] Your track offs all look like sensible low-sides.
...No... ...You've not seen 'em
all!! 
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Mine went through little ends like they were made of chocolate. Sadly I started as Falloffalot and continued in that manner through the late 50's, 60's and into the early 70's before I got a bit of sense. I used to carry a spare clutch and brake lever and a lump hammer for the footpegs. Your track offs all look like sensible low-sides. 
