The Mechanic and his Wife

The Mechanic and his Wife

 

I thought Nev was staring at me but it was his glass eye he had not had time to tell me about, yet. For a guy in his 60s he wore his shorts too high. Well above the belly button. So I was the one leaning forward to push the motorcycle into his workshop because I was pretty sure he could not afford underpants and there would be little left to the imagination.

 

I had bought an old Ducati. The early 1970 models did not have valve springs because engineers kept breaking them. Instead, my bike was desmodromic with reciprocating cams to time the spark plugs. Nev knew all about them, but a modern dynometer would have caniptions, if we plugged it in. The first day I arrived at the workshop in Townsville, he was at the dump. The receptionist at West End motorcycles was his wife, a big lady, to be polite. She glowered at me from behind a desk buried in paper. The rattle box air conditioner lived up to its name and I spoke loudly over the din.

“I am waiting to see Nev” I said

“No you’re not” she growled like a mama bear protecting her cub.

“I think I will get a take away coffee and come back later”

She watched me leave.

 

Glancing back, I wondered if the workshop would stay up much longer. It must have been there 40 years, built as some sort of speculators dream on the older industrial estate. Around Townsville that meant next to a swamp. The outside of the shed was zinc alum cladding, weathered powdery grey with a foot of brown rust along the base where the flood waters had sat. The main workshop had no ceiling and the exposed rafters and trusses were draped with old motorbike exhausts, tyres and other awkward bits too valuable to throw away. The walls were the same unclad zinc alum inside with pinpricks of light piercing the gloom where the older screws had rusted out. The floor crunched underfoot with layers of caked grease and sand stuck to the cracked concrete. If there were windows, they were blackened with petrol fumes.

 

Nev came back from the dump and I rolled the Desmo onto his concrete driveway. He stood with a faraway look in his eye, I did not know it was glass.

“ I rang about the duke” I opened

He had this kind of grin like the whole world is falling apart, but he knew how to fix it.

“Yep” he smiled back.

“Park it beside the Velo”

Velocette started making motorcycles in 1904 and just talking about them is like listening to a gospel. To park beside one, is to stand on hallowed ground.

I rolled in and popped the centre stand down, I felt like I had arrived in heaven.

Nev had moved on. He had a Moto Guzzi with electrical wiring hanging out.

“Flat battery” he explained. But he pronounced it “baddery”. I knew what he meant.

“Can I get a roadworthy on this” I asked

“Yep” he smiled

“Should I book it in?” knowing I had already phoned to do that.

“All good” he said indicating the steel work bench standing waist high against the wall.

It was about two metres long and had a white chalk line down the centre. A Yamaha two stroke had its internals disgorged on the left hand side. Underneath, the chalk read “Today”

On the right hand side the chalk writing proclaimed “Tomorrow”, it had a carburettor lying in 100 parts.

“It might be a while” he laughed.

I glanced back at the office hoping his wife was out of earshot.

“There are 20 classics here, do you fix them by yourself?”

“Well” he started “Pass me that screw driver will you?”

I found several and figured the Phillips head would do the job.

“No I meant the flat head” he said standing up and stretched to full height. His old blue singlet with no sleeves might be called a “wife beater” but, if anyone was beating anyone, I was pretty sure the roles were reversed. He was taller than me, maybe 6 foot and his skinny legs made up most of that. His black steel cap boots had seen better days and did not have the benefit of socks. A pair of nobbley knees separated his ankles from the frayed hem of his grey shorts. He had inserted the tip of the screw driver under the hem on his left leg, the shaft was gradually disappearing as Nev gripped the handle. First he turned the handle clockwise and then anticlockwise, his face had an expression somewhere between ecstasy and nirvana. Finally he returned to the moment and tossed the screwdriver into an open toolbox.

“If you get an itch you gotta scratch” he commented

“I only fix bikes to make money to race on weekends and the motocross championships are coming up”.

Then he explained that two eyes were useful judging braking distance and for the first time let me know he only had one.

“Oh” I said

“ Brakes are overrated” he muttered

I got the feeling he only had one speed and that did not include stopping.

His skinny frame was 60kg wringing wet and I wondered how he could move inside the full leathers, body armour, helmet, gloves and neck brace. It was incongruous to imagine him strapped to a roaring, wheel standing, gut wrenching motorcycle. It was a sight that I conjured in my mind for the next few weeks until I had time to drop by and check the steel workbench for the schedule; today or tomorrow.

 

Much to my relief the duke was out of the workshop and parked beside a new model Indian, gleaming maroon in the torpor of the mid morning tropics.

“Nice bike” I greeted Nev.

It had all the fancy bits hanging off it, chromed engine casing, leather stitched seat, tassled panniers and on board speakers that could play “Born to be Wild” over the boom of the dual exhaust.

“Belongs to the iceman” Nev grunted disapprovingly.

I blinked back not comprehending as he fixed me with his good eye.

“100 grand for this bike, he only pays cash, I don’t ask where he gets it from”

I started to understand that some of his customers had a shady background that included drugs.

“Shut up Nev” the wife/receptionist bellowed from inside her accounting cave.

“We’re safe” he reassured me.

“Just fixed the aircon and there is no way she is coming out here”

 

I miss my conversations with Nev. There were other bikes and other experiences. His wife warmed to me after a few more visits and we started to share stories. Their love for each other was tangible and she proudly announced,

“Me hips are buggered so I can’t ride with Nev but he still takes me crabbing when the tides are right.”

 

I hope he won every motorcross race he ever entered and I feel like I caved into the pressures of time that day as I hurried him along.

 

“Roadworthy certificate?” I prompted

“Right here” Nev dragged out the government form, a single page check list. The arrangement was he ticked every box and signed the bottom and I would pay him. If he followed the letter of the law, I would end up with an unregistered motorcycle. If he did not follow the letter of the law “closely” the government would take his licence away and we couldn’t do it next time.  There is a grey area between the letter of the law and being close to it. We were about to get into that grey area.

 

The form was unsigned and 3 boxes were not ticked, I held my breath.

Nev held a cracked plastic biro, while one eye roamed from the page, to the bike and back to me.

“No chain guard” he noted “but I fitted the bicycle guard off the missus bike”

He held the biro to his lips to silence me and ticked the first box.

“No indicators” he raised an eyebrow.

This is a test to check if I was a rookie. Just like fitting a radiator cap to a VW, there is no radiator. Early Ducatis had no indicators.

“Raise your right hand” he said

I tentatively put it up and he ticked the second box.

“Raise your left hand” and he ticked the last box and signed the form.

“Your indicators are working” he mused.

“Take this to “her indoors” and give her the cash”

I scanned the form to check all the boxes were ticked before turning to say thank you.

But Nev had moved on and was manhandling the rear wheel off the Indian, it was as heavy as him. Engrossed in the task and smiling as he marveled at the new components, pausing to shake his head at the extravagance. All the while dreaming of the next motocross start.