Some people get cranky as they age. The crankier they get, the more they are prone to blow a gasket.
Vespas are anti-aging machines. Nothing makes me feel more alive, or younger in spirit, than going for a ride. Any ride. As long as I can ride, I'll be able to resist blowing gaskets.
Speaking of riding, this riding season has been off to a painfully slow and fitful start. Full of great promise with a nice new brawny bike, but the law of averages dictates time in the pits adding my safety gear. The stuff I feel naked without. Horns, lights, power outlets...
And then there's the freaking weather. When the bike can be ridden, in between modifications, the weather turns nasty.
So when last Thursday rolled around, and the front end of the bike was buttoned back up, and the back-end work had not begun, and the weatherman was only vaguely threatening rain, I dared a commute.
Ahhhhhh! That old blissful feeling.
I took the slow lakeshore route. It had been five months since I last took these now-familiar roads. I felt like I was re-connecting with old dear friends. It was a great commute.
For the evening commute, I couldn't resist the expressway. I just love the way the 300 eats up the Mountain street on-ramp to the 720 westbound. Sweeping effortlessly into the left hand lane, hitting the ramp down to the straight flat stretch of the
Turcotte Yards and then cruising in the fast lane for once, avoiding the horrible ruts in the right lane before the Ville St-Pierre underpass... pure joy.
When the joyride came to an end at the St-Charles exit, it was nice to sit in the saddle waiting for the green light.
I was happy and the Vespa seemed much more virile, more motorcycle-like. Purring like a tiger. Downright
growly.
On quiet Beaconsfield boulevard, I began to suspect that the bike was
too growly.
Once in the garage, I hit the engine cut-off, switched off the ignition, took off my helmet, and plucked out my earplugs. I had a sneaking suspicion.
I reached down, flicked the ignition back on, snapped off the kill switch, and hit the starter.
Damn!!! The unmistakably irritating, worrisome sound of an exhaust gasket well on its way to blowing. The source of the formerly pleasant growl. At least it wasn't
totally blown.
I knew I had to get to my trusty Vespa dealer:
Alex Berthiaume & Fils. Their tiny shop is on De La Roche street, about one-and-a-half blocks north of Lafontaine Park, on the Plateau. It's about a one hour ride from the house if you take surface streets.
Could a Vespa GTS 300 i.e. Super limp that far with a failing exhaust gasket? That's a question I couldn't answer. I called the dealer's service department.
"
If it was my Vespa, I'd put it on a flatbed truck to get it here" came the un-reassuring suggestion.
I wanted a second opinion; one I could bet my new bike on.
Modern Vespa to the rescue.
In no time at all, some of the most knowledgeable Vespa experts in the world chimed in, including resident curmudgeon and all-knowing Vespa guru Jim Crowther, and Ken Wilson. Ken blew an exhaust gasket on the 2012 Cannonball. Jim did some motel parking lot magic and jury-rigged the existing exhaust gasket for him. At last word that fix was still holding,
five thousand miles later.
Ken is
inspirational. Check out some of Ken's exploits on right side of the page. The cross-Egypt challenge last year? That was Ken.
Bolstered by the advice from MVers,
I rode to the dealer with as light a hand on the throttle as I could manage. I didn't put my earplugs in so I could listen for changes in the sound of the exhaust.
Towards the end I could tell that the failure was more pronounced but likely still not 100%.
I finally pulled into the alley behind the dealership where the service department is located. It was 8:45 a.m. and I was third in line for service.
I met Phil who was also waiting for the shop to open at 10:00 a.m. (no appointments on Saturdays - so first come first served).
Moments later, this maniac comes literally roaring into the alley on a silver GTS 300. He was flying! And when I say flying, I mean FLYING! The source of the roar was an after-market muffler that sounded three times worse than mine. The crazy rider blew past us, slammed on the rear brake, and skidded into a parking spot pretty much like that stunt rider in the opening credits to the French movie Taxi.
He pulled off his helmet, beamed a huge smile, and I then recognized the 'crazy maniac' as the dealership's affable sales manager, Paul.
He recognized me, walked over, admired my new bike, told me how much I am going to love it, and asked me what it was in for. When I told him, he said "Ya, me too, it blew yesterday, no big deal" with the same huge grin, before disappearing through the back door to the shop.
Needless to say I felt like a ninny for having coddled my GTS on the ride in.
As the minutes ticked on, and the definitely unseasonable morning chill had Phil and I striving to extract heat from the April sun, more and more riders pulled up for Saturday morning moto service.
The scooter contingent, myself included, were almost all well-heeled, silver-haired gentlemen... all except Phil. Not that Phil is not a perfect gentlemen, but he's way too young to have grey hair. 'Geezers on two wheels!' I thought to myself. And here I thought I was setting a trend. Turns out I may be more a camp-follower than a trend-setter!
As for the
motorcycle set who were waiting for service, well let's just say that they kept to themselves. You needed at least one serious tattoo and an earring to fit in there. Demerit points for a full-face helmet and armored gear.
When the guys opened the service bay at 10:00 a.m. sharp, they wasted no time taking the first three bikes, mine included.
An hour and a half later (just enough time to grab breakfast at a nice cosy neighborhood diner with Phil), and $80 less in my wallet (which I thought was reasonable and was happy to pay), I was on my way with my bike.
It sure was nice to have my tiger back to purring rather than growling.
Even the 2C weather, dark threatening clouds, a stiff, full-on, gusty wind blowing eastward, and a snow squall on the return ride, couldn't dampen my enthusiasm.
Spending Saturday morning at a moto dealership, having breakfast with a fellow Vespa addict, getting my Vespa 300 back good as new, makes a blown gasket nearly worthwhile.