Today, since it was raining, I decided to change the angle of the highway pegs on the Vstrom. I got out the appropriate tools, a deep socket 3/8 inch with a ratchet wrench. I backed the Strom into the center of the garage and got out my trusty stool to sit on. The pegs are held on with two u bolts and the nuts are hard to reach. No big problem. I set down heavily on the stool, reached in with the ratchet and socket and started to loosen the first nut. Now up to that time I thought everything went well. After loosening just one of the four nuts, I found that my wrist was hurting so bad that I couldn't get the leverage to keep going. That, and my eyes weren't focusing on the job. I was too close or too far away to use my newly corrected super vision (no more cataracts). I sat there, bitching to myself, and then tried to get up. After only one try, I managed to straighten my knees enough to stand.
I found a new solution. I'll call Mark and let him to do the job for me. This crap of getting old is just that, CRAP!
So much for bitchin' *I'm still around and I can still ride, just not as comfortably as I used to.
My thoughts turned back to the "Good ole Days" I thought about that and decided that I would close this negative narrative with maybe a positive one. One that goes back to 1949 when I was much younger. ................ Here it Is
The Good Ole Days
I pointed the Matchless down the alley. It was the end of another ‘plonking’ and the ‘sweet smell of summer’ day.. I stopped the Flying M in front of Mr. Clarks old ramshackle garage, I leaned the bike on its sidestand making sure it wouldn’t roll forward as the sidestand was spring loaded and the slightest twitch would let the spring pull the stand up with the resulting bike on its side you dumb sh** exclamation.
I opened one side of the double doors, got back on the bike, rode it inside, and with one last satisfied whiff of the newly cleaned gunk enhanced engine, I reluctantly pulled the compression release to quiet the Matchless for the day. It was a very pleasant ride but at the end of the day, I felt perhaps a little more pleasantness would be very helpful.. Hastily, I closed the door of the garage and set off down the alley. It was a short walk to the neighborhood tavern.
A few minutes later I opened the door of “Tods Place” and walked in.. Tods Place had the old fashioned sights and smells of taverns of that 1940’s era. The smell of stale beer mixed with the somewhat musty odor of an old basement. No air conditioning just dim lights, and quiet conversation, no juke box playing, no loud talk. It was a relaxing place to enjoy one or more cool ones.
I sat down on one of the stools at the bar. The bar was solid walnut, marred by dents caused by thousands of beer glasses banging down as their owners made a point during their conversations.
The floor trembled as Jerry Helmsing, a really big guy and the owner, came ambling over to take my order. It might’ve been Tods Place but Jerry was the owner. Tods Place was sorta like ‘Duffy’s Tavern’ in that Duffy never was there…..You know “Duffy’s Tavern, This is Archie, Duffy ain’t here” I never found out why it was called Tods Place.
I gave Jerry my usual order; A Carlings Black Label and a braunschweiger on rye with extra mustard. In no time Jerry brought me the sandwich and an ice cold Carlings. Mabel would’ve been proud! Jerry wiped his hands on his tent size apron, we talked a little about riding, and then he went on to other customers.
I could feel myself relaxing even more as I wrapped myself around that simple but good sandwich and drank the Black Label. Ordering another beer, I almost was lulled to sleep by the totally relaxed and siesta like ‘easy does it’ quietness of “Tods Place’
Time to go, I paid the tab, got up and walked the short block to Mom and Dads house with the full intention of doing this again. Ride first, Tods Place second!
And so I did. Fond memories of days long gone.
Wayne, solo1
