Cats and
vinyl
Hello. The general brief from Ed Woose for this gig is to discuss good riding,
booze, bikes, roads, food, workshop tales, music, books, women, men and stuff
like that. I think he also expects me to be funny on occasion – no guarantees
on that one as there's far too much competition from Gassit Inc.
Just for starters, I thought we'd discuss cats.
While there are a couple of good cat and motorcycle stories, my current favourite
is shamelessly stolen from a chap called Jim. He's a Pom living on the west
coast of the USA and is part of an international Hinckley Triumph owner discussion
group found on the internet. If you're net-literate and want to join in, you'll
find the digest at http://mom.isc-br.com:80/~patl/triumph/index.html. It's one
of a number of web addresses you'll discover on this page as time flies by.
Back to the car chase. Jim is a cat-lover, which means he ended up renting a
room from a nice old girl who owned a big house full of cats.
One of the moggies took ill, and eventually died despite the ministrations of
a favoured vet. Terribly sad, and the old girl asked Jim to collect the remains.
What the OG didn't fully appreciate was the difficulty of transporting the now
frozen, and plastic-wrapped, remains of the deceased furball by motorcycle.
Jim duly rode the 40 miles to the vet, secured the stiff and encased cat to
the pillion seat with the aid of an ocky strap, and cruised home via the nearest
freeway. Apparently the sight of four, very static, little paws poking out one
side of a Triumph's pillion perch was too much for a fellow freeway inhabitant,
who called the cops.
It's not hard to picture the scene from there: "Pull over sonny, get off
the motorsickle, drop the key, leave the feline, and spread 'em." Officer
Harry was not one to truck any weak explanations, or accept any half-arsed solutions
to the visual pollution. No, Jim could not dump the cat by the freeway, for
collection by car at a later date. No, the officer would not quietly drop the
body in his cruiser's boot and subsequently toss it in the nearest dumpmaster.
Could the officer suggest an alternative? To quote: "I don't give a shit,
but you ain't riding off with that dead cat there." Hmmm. Stuffing the
evidence down the jacket was beyond the pale, which left an obvious alternative
– hiding it under the bike's seat!
The sub-seat space of any bike is not moggie-friendly. Somehow the sounds of
cracking bones, and assorted squishy bits under compression, spring to mind.
Jeez, I hope you're not reading this on a full stomach...
The real tragedy struck when our hero got home. His remarkable feat was rewarded
with a stubborn refusal of the seat to re-open despite the enthusiastic use
of the key and assorted blunt instruments. Those in the news group were rewarded
with daily updates of the conundrum, with accompanying pleas for advice or assistance.
Was there a way of undoing a reluctant, cat-filled, seat? The situation wasn't
covered by the owner manual, so it was down to the combined genius of the international
chat group. Plenty of suggestions were offered, the most practical of which
included the use of a large can of petrol and a match. Some of the less savoury
involved large friends bouncing on the seat to hurry along the decomposition
process.
Two week's-worth of hair-raising updates on the internet later, Jim was finally
able to report that nature had taken its course (don't ask) enabling the separation
of feline and bike. After liberal use of a hotwash, the latter is reported to
be usable. Though it still pongs...
Which reminds me of the circa 1985 Harley FXRT, a 'light' tourer by Hogley standards
and, at the time, one of the best handling packages in the range. It sold like
deep-fried cauliflower on a stick. Sad really, as it was a good 'un.
Why I'm reminded of it is that during my full-time sentence at AMCN I came across
an immaculate example on its way to a rally. It carried the unusual load of
two immaculately-dressed young gentlemen, towing a custom-built (colour-matched,
of course) trailer containing a Siamese cat.
The entourage pulled up for fuel, ignored the gawping throng, calmly attached
the flea-bag to a lead and took it for a walk around town. Not something you
see every day in a timber cutting town more used to banjos than violins.
While I've got your attention, feel free to contribute anecdotes, info, advice
et al on any of the subjects mentioned. You can write via the address at the
front of the mag, or try the direct approach on the ether at allmoto@vicnet.net.au.
On to the next journey...
Guy Allen
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