The Test Run
It was one of those sweltering days in early September when the Triumph was ready for its first test run. John asked me at least three times, "Are you excited?" I was trying to play it cool. It seemed that everytime it seemed I could see light at the end of the tunnel, it was abruptly sealed off. Nearly every part I put on the motorcycle was done twice. (First time because I did it while "figuring it out", second time because John showed me the correct way). I would say there are certainly a few things on this motorcycle I can now do in my sleep (installing the chain, making gaskets, putting in the points, lacing wheels just to name a few) but I'm still no mechanic.
As I expected, the trial run wasn't as smooth as you see in the magazines or at the movies. We rolled the Triumph into the driveway, and John gave a good kick on the starter lever. Nothing. Again and again he kicked. I was getting tired just watching him. He sprayed some starter fluid into the carburetor, then, for about 30 seconds, I heard it run. Right now, I can't exactly recall the sound it made, but it reminded me of a Dracula movie and how the lid creaked on the coffin when he woke up. John started looking around the bike for the obvious -- tightening things here, loosening things there. That's when he found the condenser was grounding out. With that fixed, he kicked again. Nothing. That's when I learned about something else which might be needed to start an old motorcycle -- a truck.
This time, we removed the primary cover and adjusted the clutch plates. We also cleaned the bowl of the carburetor and he made some adjustments to the rockers. After spraying a little more starter fluid, it started.
We stopped at the local general store for fuel. While walking through the parking lot, John said to me, "When we get her home, she's all yours." More concealed idiot grins on my part, trying to play it cool. Wouldn't ya know. When John kicked the starter, the lever broke. Right there at the gas pumps. At least we were close to home and the local mailman gave us a ride in the back of his pickup. We went back for the War Pony, who now stood forlornly next to the dust-covered ice machine. A couple of old timers were looking it over, "I used to have an Indian years ago . . ." said one. The other nodded. Both lost in their memories. The Triumph now sits again over its cardboard-covered area of the garage floor. This time, it's awaiting the UPS delivery of a kicker lever from Cincinnati . . .and the beginning of a new adventure. Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10
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The
War Pony had silently laid in the weeds for several years. I had pretty
well decided it wanted to be left there. The old phrases like "stop
kicking a dead horse," or "let sleeping dogs lie," would
occasionally run through my mind.
John
has this carrying thing he welded together which fits on the bumper of
his truck. The front wheel of the motorcycles goes in the groove, the
handlebars are tied down with straps to the bumper. He took out the spark
plugs, put the transmission into fourth gear and we took the War Pony
for a drive to the county line and back. I could hear this wheezing sound
coming from the cylinders during the drive. It still failed to fire, so
home we went again.
John
took it once around the house for good measure, then I climbed onto the
rear fender for a ride down the road and back. I gotta tell ya, it sounded
good. It looked good. The wind was in my hair -- the whole nine yards.
It was trying not to grin like an idiot.