Frank’s Sporadic Blog, With Fries

I wish, some days, that I had chosen a career in the leisurely arena of motorcycle repair.

Because it seems that persons engaged in the art of motorcycle repair exist on some exalted, serene plane, wherein they are simply above the petty constraints of time or the mundane ties of what lesser mortals call ‘customer service.’

Case in point: Karen’s motorcycle. A couple of weeks ago, it developed an odd knocking sound. We took it immediately to a shop here in Oxford, where the mechanic thought the source might be valve knocking. We left it, and within a couple of hours he called us back and said he’d ruled out valve problems as the source, but since he wasn’t a Suzuki mechanic he suggested we take the bike back to the dealer.

And so it was that set out in the truck for Tupelo and the dealership. The bike rode in the bed, probably in a state of profound embarrassment.

We had the dealer mechanic listen. He drove it. He frowned. He consulted. More frowns, more driving. Finally, it was decided that the problem was related to low oil in the crankcase.

How the oil got low is still something of a mystery to me. The bikes live in the garage, and any leaks would be spotted at once. It wasn’t smoking. The oil had been changed right on schedule.

But, quoth the mechanics, that is the problem.

You don’t need to be a mechanic to know that lack of oil spells trouble. My question is this – how much trouble?

And the answer is…we don’t know.

We left the bike. This was a Wednesday, I think. We were told we would hear something no later than the next Tuesday.

Tuesday came and went. Ditto for Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday…you get the idea.

And now it’s Monday, and still no word.

I’ve called twice. I know exactly how frequent calls asking the status of a repair are regarded in most shops – they roll their eyes and mentally move the vehicle to the bottom of an already-lengthy list. So I’m not going to ask any more than I need to.

But sheesh, this place charges 70 bucks an hour. Seventy. Per hour. I’m willing to pay, so why can’t they be willing to at least invest in a 20 second phone call? Or, better still, stick to the times they themselves give out?

Understand, I’m not griping because it isn’t fixed. I’m griping because as far as I can tell it hasn’t even been looked at, nearly two weeks after we were told we’d know what needed to be done.

I offered to try and fix it myself, if I could find the right service manuals. After all, I did once repair a Craftsman lawn tractor that had defied the efforts of trained Sears mechanics to get it running again. And it was running beautifully when it burst into flames and burned in the back yard.

So I don’t imagine I’ll be rebuilding any motorcycle engines anytime soon.

I do hope they get to her bike soon. Or at least glance at it as they pass. Even that would be nice.

In other homefront news, it’s HOT. Really awfully hot. This is the kind of hot that makes bugs mad. Even the mud is nearly hot enough to boil. Mississippi in the summer is like living in a snake-filled crock pot, set on MISERABLE. I cannot wait for October.

The new novel is coming along very well. I am more than halfway finished with the rough draft, and making steady strides each day. So, with any luck, a new full-length Markhat novel will be heading for the publisher very soon!

And after that, Wistril fans, I’m going to finish the long-slumbering Wistril novel I started many years ago. Hopefully I can get it out before Christmas, so start saving those pennies now.