Generation Gaps

As the story goes, my grandfather Percy bought the motorcycle without my grandmother's knowledge or permission. It would have been in the 1920s or early 1930s and, although vehicles were generally slower, the roads were a dangerous place for motorcycles.

Percy would store his motorcycle at a friends place around the corner. He would swing by and pick it up on the way to work and ride it from Pape and Danforth over to the west-end service station where he worked.

Now Percy and I didn't get alot of quality grandfather/grandson time together. We also didn't have much in common. That was until I bought my first Triumph when I was 16. I still remember the first time he saw my 1966 Thunderbird. He said he used to have one just like it. I guess the style of a Triumph didn't change all that much over the generations.

Thinking back, I really have no idea how I managed to keep my bike running in those early days. I recall that my mother was comforted by the fact that I spent far more time repairing it than I did riding it.

One sunny summer day, I was in my regular spot in the driveway working away on the bike. Motorcycle parts surrounded me. I clearly remember feeling a mixture of frustration and dread as I tried to put the bike's gearbox back together. I was beginning to feel like I would never be able to reassemble it and I was seriously thinking about giving up. I remember being at it for some time.

I forget why I took it apart now, although I remember the bike occassionally having quite a crunch when I went from second gear down to first. I was probably checking how badly I'd worn the gears down.

The same day, my grandfather had come up for a visit. I looked up to find my mother placing a lawn chair down beside where I was working. "Here" she said to Percy, offering him the chair. "Spend some time with your grandson".

I looked up at him. He appeared to have been kicked out of the kitchen, probably for being too disruptive as my mother prepared dinner. From the look on his face, I could tell that this new-found time together was new to both of us.

"What are you working on?" he asked as his took his seat. "Gearbox" I answered, returning to my work.

"Those can be tricky. Having trouble?", he asked. I nodded quietly.

"Hand me those parts, will you?" he requested. .I handed him the gearshafts and loose gears. He pressed his knees together and quickly assembled the gear cluster in his lap.

"Hand me your running shoe laces" he instructed. I removed my shoes, took the laces out and handed them over.

He gingerly wrapped the cluster with the laces. One time around was enough to hold the tricky bits together. I was amazed. He handed me back the cluster, gently held together by my shoe laces.

"Now slide it into place and, when you're ready, pull the long end of the lace and remove it from the cluster" he said. I did as instructed and the entire assembly remained firmly and quite properly in place.

With his little trick, the work was completed in 5 minutes. I had been at it for an hour or so.

My grandfather was pleased at being of service. Thirty years on, I still remember those 5 minutes in my mom's driveway.

My own son sent me a text this week letting me know that he'd like me to get a small motorcycle so he could get his licence and learn to ride. I was horrified, easily brushing away the hypocracy that I owned one at his age. I still do. The difference I think is that he asked. I didn't.

Better to beg forgiveness than ask permission, I always say. In the end, it must have made me think back to that day with my grandfather.

I'll keep you posted where this lands. But my son and I have music, guitars, fishing and several other common interests. I'm thinking I have no need of motorcycles to assist in bridging this generation gap.