Thursday, 25 April 2013
HOLY SWISS CHEESE BATMAN, WE'VE BEEN DRILLED . . . . ROSCOE'S TALENTS FOR CIRCLE WORK HAS YIELDED A PRETTY TIDY RESULT ON THE OUTPUT PULLEY COVER . . . . HAVING TO DRILL BETWEEN THE STRENGTHENING RIBS ON THE INSIDE OF THE THING DIDN'T ALLOW FOR A TRADITIONAL, PRETTY PATTERN . . . . THANKFULLY, I AIN'T A REAL PRETTY PATTERN KINDA DUDE . . . . SYMMETRY THROUGH ASYMMETRY, LOVE IT . . . . SO WILL THE LOCAL WALLOPERS.
I promised the local plod on one memorable roadside encounter with them nearly a year ago that I'd get the cover back on asap as they were so concerned about my well being in regards to potentially losing a leg courtesy of the exposed pulley being so capable of winding my lower limb into the rapidly spinning belt thereby tearing it off at the hip and leaving me to hop home with copious amounts of primarily arterial blood besmirching my new $500.00 selvedge biker denim, my period correct Dead Wings, not to mention the reality of fucking up the state government road itself, all because they care about me . . . . I hate rushing into shit half cocked so naturally I waited an appropriate period of time before doing a fucking thing about it, that 'thing' entailed springing into apathy and leaving it with Roscoe for six months or so as I pretty much forgot about the whole thing, which is the generally accepted modus operandi in these situations, until I was reminded of its absence once more by an unrelated orificer of the law a couple of months ago . . . . obviously I leapt into a buzz of further procrastination as life and things I really give a rat's arse about continued to get in the way of actually getting Roscoe to do the required re-engineering and myself to then nail it back on the Purple Penis. I mean, some shit simply can't be rushed, Rome wasn't built in a day apparently . . . . anyhoo, I dropped in on Roscoe during lunch today, he uncovered the cover, wiped away the dust and the cobwebs, and, in a fit of crazy, whirling dervish-like action, I proceeded to get the long absent cover re-installed in its rightful position. Now I can ride, safe in the knowledge that my leg is safe from flesh and sinew shredding dismemberment, and all thanks to the love of the local fuzz . . . . bless their cotton socks.