After what felt like the longest two weeks of my life, I got Celeste (aka the Frankenstella, or F___S____ *spit* ) back. We limped home in the torrential freezing downpour that was Thursday night, and I was so happy to park, dismount and run inside my warm apartment that I didn't give much thought to stalling on the hill at Mercer, or at the light in Fremont.
Saturday, however, brought dry roads, bright light, and the sickening realization that Celeste was not by any stretch of the imagination happy with her new carburetor. The longer I rode, the piggier she got, until she sounded like she was running under water, hesitated a full three seconds on the throttle, and then stalled every time I started in first gear. When in neutral, the idle began to race and I'd pretty much resolved myself to riding only the 4 mile round trip to work. No more joy rides, and certainly no way to join the Westenders on the Sunday jaunt around Seattle.
Hoping a spark plug change would help, Ralph and I rode out to U Village to Schucks. They didn't have any of the type I needed in stock. I hadn't planned on going to the automotive store right then, so I left the slip of paper with the type of plug I needed on my desk. Because of this detail, I was treated to holier-than-thou handling by the Counter Man at Schucks, who rolled his eyes and gave me the "Dumb Girl" tone one uses with a wailing toddler. I was ready to get all up in his grill and show him what for -- and I'll take my money elsewhere you smug little prick -- but I didn't want to embarrass Ralph who is much more mild-mannered than I. Instead, I snatched the example spark plug I had supplied from my glove box and marched out.
Returning on Roosevelt, Celeste nearly died twice while wide-open, and I sadly descended 10th, parked my scooter and went inside to lick my wounds and feel sorry for myself.
Two hours later, a raucous rescue team of Westenders pulled into my driveway to joyously begin relief efforts at reviving the Frankenstella. I stood with my hands in my pockets as Doc removed the cowl and a dozen scooterists gathered around to view the innards of my feeble engine.
Doc is an absolute genius. In ten minutes he had bared the carb, checked the jet, adjusted the idle, swapped out the sparkplug, and started her back up. Then we took a test run through Montlake. Celeste surged neck-and-neck with Doc's P200 as we raced up the endless hill in fourth gear and she was chomping at the bit to break 50.
My face started to hurt and I realized that I looked like the Cheshire Kat with the world's biggest smile plastered across my face. We took Aloha by storm, up the back side of Capitol Hill, and when I looked in my rear view, it was just me and Doc. In the glory of digging my newfound chutzpah, we'd left the rest of the Westenders in the dust.
The thing is, when you're not worried about stalling, or slipping the clutch, or figuring out where that weird sound is coming from, there is nothing that compares to a joyride in the open air on a scooter tricked out for drag-racing. It has been a long time since I rode so carefree, and the overwhelming Yeehaw! of it made me high for the rest of the afternoon.
Orin offered to show me how to adjust my clutch and also how to change a tire. I've gotten a flat on that bike, but since I was holding it over a curb to raise the rear up, I didn't get to watch the actual tire changing. One of the Vespa club folks told me I could just lay the bike down in the grass and change it myself if I picked up a nail while on the road alone. It looks like we're going to hold a series of tech labs in my garage where the Elders learn the Newbies how to work on their own bikes. I'm so excited about this -- it's one of the reasons I wanted a two-stroke to being with. I just hadn't had a chance to even crack open the shop manual before the Frankenstella began her rapid decline.
Doc even had great plans for restoring the street damage done to her body. A rubber hammer, some filler, buffing and touch-up paint and she'll be ready for the chrome kit that's been sitting in storage since September. Celeste has taken three tumbles and I've yet to put on the crash bars. But those are going on soon, and Project Bling will be underway. I've got to catch up to Roger Tango's super sweet red Vespa that's All Modded Out with whitewhalls and chrome. There's a pic of the competition here, taken by Orin, alongside his own Vespa. (Plus lots more great shots, like me emoting while Doc fixes my bike.) Hopefully I'll actually get to go on the next ride and use my very own camera. Perhaps for my birthday, on the Westenders Frankenstella Resurrection Ride!
RSS