I'd make a lousy spy. I had left a trail of bookmarks and open tabs on the web browser of the laptop that I share with my wife that she would have had to have been so blinded by her love for looking at expensive clothes/shoes/handbags/stuff not to have noticed that something was afoot.
However, her suspicions could only have been aroused and not confirmed as I had a cunning plan to keep her in the dark about my new mistress. Luckily I manage a block of lock up garages a mile down the road from our home, one of which just so happened to have a Transalp-sized space in it.
So now I had somewhere to stash my quarry, it was time to get bodging! First off, I remove the side panels and find that either a bolt was missing or that either the locating lugs have broken or the rubber grommets that they fit into have perished or disappeared. I also remove the plastic sump guard and the fairing panels that fit round the radiators. It is at this point I realise how blind I was when I went to view the bike; not only are the decals on each panel different, they are quite noticeably of a different hue. Muppet! Like most men I am very good at taking things apart, it's the putting it all back together where I fall down. It was therefore essential that I prepare myself properly. It was time to go shopping.
Top of my list was reading material. I've been practising reading for quite a few years now and, although I don't want to sound too cocky, I'm pretty good at it. As long as I understand the words. Which, when it comes to anything technical, means I'm at the Spot the Dog level. Ebay is my new best friend and so I ask it very politely about Haynes Manuals for the basics and something specific to my machine. Emboldened by my success, I then look up my other new friend, Amazon, and ask it for an idiot's guide to electrical systems. Having read a few reviews, I plump for Motorcycle Electrical Systems: Troubleshooting and Repair by Tracey Martin, as I thought -blatant sexist comment alert- if a girl can understand it then I might have half a chance. Turns out Tracey is American and has got a beard.
While I wait for the books to arrive, I also order a stainless steel bolt kit and buy a new battery and a multimeter from the local hardware store. When I receive the bolt kit, I put it into a divider tray according to width and length and pat myself on the back for being so organised.
With the new battery sitting in my infant son's car seat, I head to the lock-up, convinced that I would stick this sucker on and the Transalp would roar into life. Once attached, I turn the ignition on to find absolutely nothing, no idiot lights, nada. I get out my multimeter which reads 4.3 volts, somewhat short of the 12 required to even turn the engine over. Hmm. I then get out my trusty jump leads and the bike fires up no problem, take a lead off and it dies. Time to consult Tracey. In the meantime, I decide to take the battery out and put it on a trickle charge in the garage at home.
Once the sun has set and my son is fast asleep, it's time to hit the Transalp forum (www.xrv.org.uk) to seek some advice. It's a sign of my growing age that I am constantly amazed by what the Internet has to offer (besides pornography) and how it has completely changed the world we live in. For a start, I can write a blog and potentially connect with squillions of people across the globe. But in the context of my quest to be a largely self-sufficient DIY mechanic, there are two things that -so far- have been revolutionary. The first is YouTube. Hearing how something is done is one thing and for people with those kind of brains it's enough, but when it comes to practical, manual tasks, then I need to see it to have any chance of success. Secondly, I would be nowhere without the humble owners' forum. I love the fact that you can ask the most rudimentary questions, ones that you would be too embarrassed to ask face-to-face for fear of looking like a numpty, and there are folk with years of experience and a softness in their keystrokes, who guide the legions of newbies through their trials and tribulations. I aspire to be one of these people. I have visited many owners' forums for many different bikes and, without exception, you will soon quickly get to know who the gurus are. Phrases like "I'm not sure myself but <insert username here> will be along soon to give you a definitive answer." Gentlemen (and perhaps ladies), we salute you. So I put my quandary to the unseen masses and soon receive responses, all of which are helpful and informative. A very useful tip was to head to http://www.electrosport.com/media/pdf/fault-finding-diagram.pdf and follow their flow chart to see if there were any problems with your starting system.
The next day I awake with a spring in my step, safe in the knowledge that the battery had been charged overnight and that all would be well. You would've thought I'd know better by now. When I took the reading at the battery terminals, it's still less than 6 volts! It is then that I notice that there doesn't seem to be any fluid inside the battery and I realise that I've been sold a dry battery. Off to the hardware store for a replacement. I now know that it's called electrolyte and is needed to be able to hold the positively charged ions, hence my dead duck.
The next day I head to the garage and basically do everything everyone tells me. I undo all the connector blocks I can find and clean them with contact spray. I check the main fuse which is all good and then trace the positive terminal from the battery to the starter solenoid and see that things are looking a bit manky, so I give everything a good scrub then reassemble. By this point I have tempered my confidence after a few false starts so am not expecting much when I turn the ignition key. But, would you Adam n Eve it, there are three little beacons of hope shining up from the dashboard. Cautiously I apply the choke and leave my thumb hovering over the starter button. I'm reminded of my grandfather, who used to smoke roll-ups made in a rolling machine. He would put the paper and tobacco in, roll it up and then ask me to lick the paper. To make sure it stuck and the roll-up didn't disintegrate into his lap, I had to say the magic word "Kushniputs". This was definitely an occasion for Kushniputs. And it worked! The engine fires into life and soon is going a bit mental at 4000rpm so I back the choke off and let the motor settle for a minute before. This is all going swimmingly, I think to myself. Famous last words. The engine starts to splutter and misfire. Nooooo! (My moment of triumph was so short-lived I must have looked like the Man Utd players who thought they'd won this year's Premiership only for Man City to score with the last kick of their game and steal the title away.) I hear the death rattle and all goes quiet. I then start my problem-solving routine. Scratch my head, stroke my chin, issue a torrent of expletives. The swearing does its job and my spleen is sufficiently vented for me to resume. I turn the ignition key off and on, check the kill switch and try the starter again. The engine's turning over but not firing. It's then that I remember that this is a bike with a carburettor and that means there is a fuel tap and sure enough it's in the 'Off' position. Once rectified, the motor starts without protest and I reach for the multimeter to check the voltage at the battery terminals. It reads around 18 volts and having consulted the fault-finding flowchart, I know that my regulator/rectifier is buggered.
This means more expense, but in my own simple mind I am elated to have got this far.
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