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"tales from the crypt".


DIY Scottoiler


As we pull into the small French country garage to refuel,

I notice a puddle of oil under the Harley. Bummer!

Looks like my gearbox seal has blown, big time, then, joy and happiness… ish! ! Realise its engine oil.

Having recently converted my bike to chain drive, the heavily overloaded Harley drive chain has sawn through the oil tank drainpipe.

Off with the side panel and a receptacle is quickly found to save the

fast disappearing 'motion lotion'.

The garage owner can't speak a word of English but we can both communicate in gibberish, useful in any part of the world! The damaged length of pipe is cut off and my travelling pal TK goes off to look for a piece of wood to the right diameter to plug the leaking oil pipe. He comes back with a piece of dead wood and it fits.

Not to be out done, the Frenchman jumps into a nearby hedge with a penknife and comes back with a far superior piece of new branch to do the same job.

The man is so enthusiastic he nearly amputates his own thumb cutting off the required plug of wood. I stand by with an oily rag to stem the flow of blood as well as oil, but he completes his task with the same amount of useful digits on his hands.

Some 20/50 oil is found in the back of "Le Garage" and in no time I am back on the road. In fact it took longer to clean up my back tyre and the garage forecourt.

For the rest of the holiday a steady drip of oil oozes out of the wood plug and

lubricates my drive chain.

I now have my own home made automatic chain oiler! He He !!!


Written by 

      Bruce Dougan


Despatch Rider- 60 years on …


The army taught him how to fight,

They taught him how to ride,

He gave his life for freedom,

And this is how he died.


He did not hit a car or truck,

A rock or patch of oil,

But now his body's turned to dust,

And scattered in the soil.


The rider, long gone, in a grave,

With others laid to rest,

The only metal in his heart,

A bullet in his chest.


His army bike is somewhere now,

And that old "45",

It yet pounds the dusty road,

The bike is still alive.


So, raise your glasses gentlemen,

The reason why he died,

Allows us, sixty years from then,

To still go out and ride.


And when you raise a friendly glove,

To other passing hands,

Thank him; it's not an outstretched arm,

And on it nazi bands…


The good men do lives after them,

The years pass with regret,

We party, ride and live our lives,

But let us not forget.


The men who rode those army bikes,

White star on olive green,

They still ride with us today,

… Their ghost in our machine!


Written by 

      Bruce Dougan


PS- gotta share this one with you! Parked between two cars and having recently retimed my 250c Ariel Arrow, I flick the kick start and she burbles into life,

I engage gear, give it some welly, dump the clutch… and go straight back into the nearside headlamp of the car parked behind me!

The engine timing had spun the motor backwards!!


Written by 

      Bruce Dougan

             With permission from the Harleyquin Mag.


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