It takes more than a garage mechanic to keep the mean machine in fine stead. Let not trial and error by the wayside ‘expert’ ruin your ‘Bullet’ for you. Spin the spanner yourself and take off in the man’s world, recommends RAVI DEKA .

We should form a Bullet Club in the city” voiced a friend with a long history of involvement in school, college and club politics.

“Yeah !!” sneered another “and you know who would be joining? Every time there is a robbery around the cops would be busting us.”

Whether warranted or not, a considerable number of riders of the thumbing single are distinctly of ill repute. And even though the motorcycle’s quirkiness, the series of false neutrals and lack of sprint has kept terrorist usage at minimum, its numerous scowling and scar faced riders still attract the social inquisitor’s eyes.

What was interesting about this deliberation of Enfield rider’s morals and forming MCs was that I was the only Bullet owner in the crowd. A couple were occasional users while the bulk rode Vespas and Hondas. Yet, at one point nearly all of them possessed an Enfield Bullet and it wasn’t police harassment or public opinion that made them change their transport, but maintenance related problems and expenses.

Most pathetic was my neighbour, a tall well built former State level sportsman who after years of ridding a Bullet changed overnight to a 100cc Honda. “Very expensive to maintain” he was heard muttering for several months, averting his eyes from anyone who gawked at his sudden demoting transformation.

Well unlike me who did all the maintenance and replacements work by myself, my friends like most motorcyclists of the country, relied upon the street corner garages of Lakshman, Ramu Bhaiya or Ustaad. A weekly ritual involving a day spent contemplating life with the purported bike maestro, while he or more likely his chotu assistant pounds in the replacement part.  The predictable outcome is that the motorcycle never runs perfectly and recurring visits to the mechanic, are taken as predestined.

On the other hand, the few garages in town with a reputation to preserve, usually achieve their objective by ensuring that no customer would ever forget their charges. Likewise, the company authorised workshops are hardly ever visited once the warranty period is over, unless of course a third party pays the bills. Initially of the opinion that it was only the  dealers of my hometown who were so tainted, an extended tour across the country way back in 96, proved that they were just an affiliate of a countrywide tradition. The manager of the Enfield dealership in Bhatinda, Punjab, was a nice earnest person, but his mechanics were the brazen opposite. My companion’s gearbox was locking gears and though we asked for a complete strip down they stubbornly refused, preferring to toy with the gear selector pin. The bike limped to Bikaneer where the cogs locked up once and for all.

The dealer in Panaji was so concerned with the same bike that when my friend wanted to change his primary chain, he changed the engine sprocket and the clutch housing as well, along with a new set of clutch pressure and friction plates, when all that was needed was a new chain tensioner. Exercising my eyes at the beaches of Anjuna, I heard of the day’s development only much latter and had to deal with a very unfriendly works manager who couldn’t stand an Indian demanding explanations about a foreigner’s bike.

So far taking care of my own machine, it was only in Cochin where I got a taste of what others have been enduring for years. I deposited my bike with the city’s Enfield dealer for a wash and asked them to replace one leaking fork oil seal and to try to diagnose a faint but persistent engine rumble. My bike was waiting for me all shiny and clean at the designated time along with a bill of Rs.160. I again cross-checked with the foreman “ Oil seal changed ? Could you diagnose the strange sound ??” “Oil seal changed, yenjin na prablema, Ser.”

Luckily I checked the fork and found the seams of the bottom nut still coated with a thin layer of grime, meaning it wasn’t even touched. The foreman vanished and the manager started an apparently well rehearsed flurry of apologies. I changed the seal the next day myself and approximately 500 km onwards my crank seized because of a defective roller bearing. The cause of the rumble at last revealed itself.

Unqualified and self taught mechanics on one hand, and unscrupulous dealers on the other, Enfield and for that matter owners of every other make of two-wheelers in the country are hardly in an enviable position.

And yet, the answer to the predicament might be lying in our own hands, as I remember once reading an article in “Classic Bike” magazine, which mentioned how bikers from the dawn of the century were usually well versed in engines on account of being too broke to pay the mechanics!! The trend continued and even today bikers world-wide, unless ridding fibreglass enclosed fuel injected Japanese rockets, are usually more apt with nuts and bolts then their four wheeled brethren. Though again I have my doubts about how true it is for India, where usually both sections can compete in ignorance about their vehicle’s innards. Pushing a bike to the mechanic, because of a fouled plug or a flooded carb is as darn a common sight today as it was a decade back, with hardly anybody interested in acquiring any mechanical prowess.

An acquaintance once sought counsel about which bike to purchase for his college going son. “Buy him an old junk, give him a small amount for spares and let him learn to repair it himself,” was my advice. Apparently finding the thought ludicrous, the father grimaced and asked “do you want him to become a mechanic, besides when will he study if he spends his time repairing the bike?” and walked away. Definitely an insulting proposition for the parent of an engineering student with emigrating aspirations!

Well, the advice was based upon my own experience. As a teenager I inherited a mechanically hexed Rajdoot, with nary a penny for gas or mechanics. To make it worse, it was the time when Jap bikes first appeared and all young chaps were either zipping around or crashing into buses on them. A Earl forked, black, three speed Rajdoot is certainly no sex symbol catalyst and considering that mine hardly ran, was as disastrous a steed as Sancho Panza’s ass (the long eared variety). Thus, taking a clue from Grease II (Michele Pfieffer came into my life much later) where the bike less hero, procures  a two wheeled heap and rebuilds it himself, I too started fiddling with the Rajdoot. And after many, many frustrating and goofy missteps, I could finally get it run to run problemlessly and to go..fast.

Sure, the years spent twisting spanners and sporting greasy fingers while mastering the art of motorcycle maintenance, instead of improving my academic record didn’t prepare me for a slice of the American Pie. Instead it empowered me with the confidence to face most mechanical ordeals without losing my cool (a slight exaggeration), ride the vehicle of my choice without having to pay crazy repairing bills and to be able to simply swing my leg over a saddle and ride off into the mountains sans any apprehension, sparing the possibility of rains. Guess I scored after all.

The writer can be contacted at ed@moto-life.com

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