I woke up this morning quite unhappy that my Sunday was to vanish before my eyes in one big luncheon with my father’s friends and their families. My father suggested that it was time I started taking Billo out more often. Suddenly, the day seemed better. After an almost statutory warning by my father that he knew zilch about bullets and that he was only going to be riding pillion as a moral support, my father and I set out on a very enjoyable ride in the mild drizzle, to Eagleton Resorts. The traffic being least bothersome on Sunday mornings was a good thing. I was riding in second gear till we crossed Kengeri.
Once we hit the highway, I noticed that as I accelerated a little more, the vibrations were so strong that my hands began to hurt. I tried third gear and was pleasantly surprised to see that I had more control and felt more comfortable at this gear than at second gear. It was then that the concept of gears that Lionel had so patiently explained to me, hit home.
One hears so often of assholes who cut their way across in front of you, if they spot that it is a girl riding a bike. One doesn’t hear so often of otherwise unruly BTS bus drivers who slow down to let you pass or cars that don’t honk even when you know you are going so slow that if you had been the car driver, you would have honked your way to the front.
On safely reaching Eagleton resorts without Billo coming to a halt anywhere en-route, I patted myself on the back and proceeded to treat myself to the lunch buffet while trying my best, with a full mouth, to politely answer the questions put forward by my father’s friends about my new job, how I’m liking my work, the bullet, et al.
Rain played spoilsport and we couldn’t return immediately after lunch. Once it lessened to a drizzle, my father and I decided to head back before the evening traffic choked the road home. With my new found confidence in changing gears and my increased comfort levels in using my feet to brake instead of my hands, I was predominantly going in third gear. And suddenly, while I was about to overtake an annoyingly slow bus, Billo stalled.
I pushed Billo to the side of the road and started trying to get to neutral. The neutral light simply refused to blink in spite of the bike being able to move front and back. The start button wouldn’t work. Several attempts at kick starting didn’t work either. My father saw an approaching bullet and waved for it to stop. The guy on the bullet confessed to being new to bullets and just having bought his black thunderbird. After several attempts at trying to start Billo, he called a friend of his and passed the phone to me. His friend suggested that I remove the spark plug and check for a current.
Call me dumb for riding out on the highway without knowing where exactly the spark plug is. There was a silence on the other end of the line when I explained that I didn’t exactly know how to do what he was asking me to do. The phone was passed back to the guy. He then bent down and tried to remove the metal cap off what I was told was the spark plug. It was hot and he asked if I had any tools. Thanks to Mr. Kalyan at the showroom (the first thing he showed me was where the tools are kept), I knew that I had tools and handed them to the guy. He removed the metal cap, blew into it and replaced it. And voila! the neutral light blinked back to life and I kick started the bike. The guy’s friend then explained to me over phone that water had probably seeped into the spark plug and that I should get the metal cap replaced with a rubber cap the next time I visit my mechanic so that it is protected from water seeping in. It was nice that he did not sound condescending in the least and was sweet enough to explain to me, understanding that I was totally at sea.
KA 11 H 4484, thank God you came by at the nick of time! And thank you for stopping to help! My father was suggesting that we push the bike to the nearest mechanic, who is 3 kms away.
So, today I learnt what a spark plug is, where it is and how to change it if need be. I dare say that is a Sunday well spent.
dishkaun 