Nought-on Commando

You’ll read about it elsewhere, and there are people better placed than I to elaborate on the life of a great motorcycle character, but the famous Peter “Mr” Smith died the other day.

As I said, I’ll leave it to others that knew Peter better than I to talk about it, but you need to know that bit for the rest of this story to make much sense.

You see, MT warriors Spannerman and Guy Allen, were staunch friends of Smith, they shared many a good time and gallons of hard liquor over the years.

So, after getting over the initial shock of reading in an email from Spannerman that Peter had left us, (how good is email when something like this occurs?), I telephoned he of the Golden Wrench. Spanner mentioned that he and Guy were having lunch that day at one of our ‘eat-great Vietnamese-food-until-you-can’t-move-for-50-cents’ haunts. It seemed right that I gather with them, and even righter that I ride the Norton uptown. I’m 60km from Melburg here and a 120km round trip would be fun. And Smith would have thought that the Norton was the right choice. Okay, that’s the set-up. Doesn’t sound like Mount Everest without oxygen, does it?

Hand me that bottle of plot-thickener would you?

Now, anyone that knows anything remotely Nortonesque, knows that they wet sump if left standing longer than it takes to roll a fag. I’m used to it. If it is pronounced, I simply drain the sump, put the oil back in the oil tank and proceed. If it’s not too bad, I start the bike, wait for the fire brigade, make them all a coffee on arrival and explain the falseness of their alarm. Yes, it gets a little smokey. Like Cheech and Chong smokey in fact.

All this is standard fare with a Commando. But there’s more. For some strange reason (that’s a phrase one hears regularly in tales of the Nortonly persuasion), the right pot can get all reluctantish at start-up after a lay-up. It’s definitely a little rich on the pilot. Usually, I ignore it, keep it going on one for about 300 metres (yes, I know), the plug cleans up and it fires, and all is well.

Not this time.

I rode around a kilometre on one, recognised now ridiculous that was and returned home. When the thing hasn’t cleared like this in the past, I’ve put a new plug in, set off and once again, all is tickety-boo in provincial Nortonia.

Only this time, I didn’t have a newie in the shed. I did, however, have the one from last time it did this, a plug it seriously hated, and no matter how much I cleaned it that last time, a plug that simply would not satisfy the combusto-needery of the bike. This is where I came over all cloak-and-dagger. I put that old plug in a newish looking plug box that I had there and quietly wandered back out to the bike. With a forced nonchalance, I opened the ‘new’ plug box in full view of the broody bike, and wound the ahem, ‘new’ plug in.

Kick one. Nyet. ‘Of course not’, I thought to myself.

Kick two, fire in the hole and a steady, happy idle achieved. Subterfuge completed, it wasn’t long before I was happily crunching on my second honey quail.

Yes, I lied to my bike, took it for a fool. But it was a white lie, don’t you think? Another theory proven – when it comes to marriage and Britbike ownership, the truth really is overrated.

Oh, and see ya Pete. One of the greats gone. I’ll raise a glass.