Absolutely pitiful. I haven’t been able to keep a bike road worthy from the time I set foot back on American soil until now. Two months ago, after a few months of tireless effort to get the chassis on road, the Yamaha let go a loud “PINK!” and every ounce of oil in the sump spewed from the top end breathers all over the rear section of my just completed exhaust. I am saving that problem for winter.
On to the retired racer. The T120 that tickles (no carburetor pun intended) the imagination. From track back to tarmac just in time for the leaves to change and a swap meet to occur. The front end is bent, most likely from continuous wrecking on a dirt track. It also needs real lights, but the life within is glaring and most vivid at 5000 plus RPMs. It came to me tuned to race with only the carbs in real need of attention. Now it loves the pavement and I enjoy the company.
This picture was taken after I woke up with frost on my sleeping bag. The shine is condensation melting as the valley of Bucks pocket creeps upwards in temperature. My camping mate, JT is trying to pay the local authorities for the campsite but they avoid taking our money for some unknown reason. It wasn't much. Maybe he has to do paperwork work for every registered vehicle. Maybe he would rather us remain invisible. Fine by us, but we also didn't want him to chase us out of the gate waving his arms, us having misinterpreted his message. Also, we didn’t want the next riders to get hassled as a result of our actions. The county rag headlines would read, “enraged motorcycle vagrants defy justice, breaking down the barriers of beautiful Buck’s Pocket, the state treasure.”
The ranger: “Oh, you’re the one on the Triumph! I used to ride a Norton in 1976. Got pulled over going 140. Took a turn at the same speed and was afaid the damn thing wouldn’t stop. Did I used to drink? Ha. Tom, did I used to drink?! Thats no good anymore. Can’t do that anymore.”