Anyone who's ever owned a Brit bike has been the butt of cruel jokes and jibes. Only a couple of my riding buddies tried to tame the beasts, preferring HondYamaKawaZuki clones that didn't need maintenance. We happy few referred to them disdainfully as UJMs -- Universal Japanese Machines. But even Harley riders poked fun at us, although we didn't hesitate to tell them how silly was their addiction to their idiosyncratic, farm implement-derived machinery.

    It was oil leaks that generally brought the largest guffaws. They'd say that four-stroke Triumphs operated on the total oil-loss principle, just like a two-stroke. Or claim the Royal Enfield was better known as the Royal Oilfield. And so on. It'd be disheartening until we took them out on the twisties and proved their flexi-flyers couldn't stand the gaff in the corners. Then they'd claim that it was only because they were skidding on the oil slicks we left behind.

    See? We couldn't win the argument, even when we won the races. We'd just go home and practise the black arts involved in points and timing and valve clearances and all those other minor tweaks so beloved of back yard mechanics. And dream about the day we'd get a chance for revenge....

    In 1980, my marriage had broken up in a messy fashion, and I was living with two other guys, also both hardcore riders. One had a flat-out screamer of a liquid-cooled RD350 Yamaha, and the other a meticulously maintained, spotless 1,000-cc Honda Gold Wing. I had my beloved ratty 750 Triumph Bonneville.

    The Gold Wing was a monster of a bike with a horizontally opposed four-cyclinder engine, full fairing, shaft drive, fibreglass panniers, AM-FM radio and even, for God's sake, an eight-track tape player. Rob, a mechanic whose marriage was also on the rocks, claimed it'd go pretty good, pushed along by that 82-hp engine; Winn, a never-married stoner who reintroduced me to the joys of hash brownies, promptly started calling Rob's ride a "Lead Thing". Rob took exception. Words were exchanged about the relative technical merits of both machines, but they were so mellowed out on the brownies nothing came of it. Relegated to the low-tech sidelines, I said nothing.

    Next day, Rob called me from the shop where he was the head mechanic. He was still chafing from the guff Winn had given him the night before and hurt that anyone would think his 650-pound-plus behemoth was anything but lovely. Look, he said, you're pretty neutral on this, since you ride a Limey bike. Why not take a morning off from filling the oil reservoir and go for a ride on my Gold Wing? See what it's like riding a fine piece of Japanese engineering.

    I hemmed and hawed a little bit, since touring bikes weren't my thing, but finally said OK. Hmmmm. What to take for that tape player. Might as well have a distraction while doing something I just know I'm going to be deeply ashamed of when I think about it later. Bob Seger had recently released one of the seminal albums of his career -- Against the Wind. A cornucopia of great songs -- Fire Lake, Her Strut, Fire Down Below, You'll Accompany Me. We played that album on cassette and vinyl and even eight-track. Over and over again. It became kind of a talisman for us. Or something. I grabbed the eight-track tape and headed over to the shop to pick up the bike.

    Rob fussed around for awhile, showing me where all the controls were (Sample: "Listen, it's got a proper left-foot shifter, not like you Brit bike clowns, so don't screw up. OK?")

    I clambered aboard the monster and realized I didn't even have to kick it over: It had an electric starter, just like any other two-wheeled car. Heading out of town, I goosed the throttle a bit, expecting the surging bellow I'd get from the Bonneville's "silencers". Instead, I was treated to a pleasant sort of whirrrrrr from the civilized exhausts. Pitiful, just pitiful.

    Sigh. OK. Open road, dead straight, just the way cruiser riders like it. The Gold Wing, it has to be said, was smooth and tractable. The fairing cut the noise to a minimum, and I was right in the groove, doing 80 or 90 and bellowing the lyrics to Fire Lake as I rode along. I mean, love it or hate it, the Gold Wing was still a motorcycle.  

    Suddenly I felt something warm running down my left leg. What the fu...

    I rolled off the throttle and coasted over to the shoulder. Either something was seriously wrong with the Gold Wing or I'd had an unfortunate and wholly unexpected excursion into the world of poor bladder control.

    I shut the Gold Wing down climbed off for a quick inspection. It was oil. Good old 10W-40 all over me, even inside my boot. All over the fairing. All over the once-immaculate engine. All over the road. Oil in a puddle underneath ... oil still slowly pulsing slowly out of the ruptured line....

    Somewhere, the ancient gods of Birmingham and Coventry raised their hoary heads ... and smiled.

    I left the bike parked on the side of the road and squelched to a nearby farmhouse, where the missus took one look at my slovenly self and told me I could use the phone in the barn as long as I didn't contaminate the pigs.

    Ring. Ring. Ring.

    "Service, Rob speaking."
    
    "Uh ... Rob? It's me. You know that example of Japanese precision engineering you love so much?

    "It's got an oil leak...."