Motoguzzimackers' Moto Guzzi Diaries

 

No sooner had I sorted out the CARC issues on my Breva, another problem arose. Well, she is thirteen years old now. While refueling the bike I noticed a small oil splatter on the ground. I assumed that it was from a previous vehicle, but when I arrived home, I put the big gal up on the centre stand and slid a sheet of paper under the sump. Yep, there it was the next day…an oil spot.

Groaning around on the floor, I determined that it wasn’t the sump plug — I keep reusing the sump plug washer and was sure that I was about to be punished — but that it was coming from the blow-by-system oil pipe where it attaches to the sump.  And it wasn’t coming from the metal fitting screwed into the sump, but from the textile-covered oil hose where it attaches to the fitting. A new one retailed at about $150. Heck, how much oil goes down this hose, anyway? Maybe I could put up with an intermittent oil drip.

No, I couldn’t. I drained the sump and pulled the fuel tank off, after an argument with the quick-release fuel line, and examined the hose’s route through the engine. Cripes. Then, an epiphany…a brilliant idea that occasionally comes to bods who work on their own bikes. I pulled the starter motor off, after extracting the 30amp fuses, and all was revealed. Five minutes work and the hose was out. It seems that the hose had perished at the join and was oozing oil. The manner in which the bike had been assembled — with the fitting hard up against the back of the engine — had put pressure on the hose at this point, and it had perished at the junction over time.

I headed off to ENZED Wangaratta (the “Hose Doctors”) to see if they could repair it. No probs but they didn’t have the textile-covered hose…could have it on special order. So, I settled for plain hose and 30 minutes later, and $30, it was in my hands along with a couple of hose clamps.

The new hose was quite flexible and fed easily through the engine. Attached this end, attached that end, replaced the starter, replaced the tank, replaced the 30amp fuses, REPLACED the oil — it’s easy to get too enthusiastic — turned the key, watched the needles do their thing, and thumbed the starter.

She started. No errors displayed. No left-over nuts or screws. Oh Magoo, you’ve done it again!

We were in need of a long ride so set off to do the Silo Art Trail in western Victoria.  Initially we followed the Murray River north-west, surprised at the urban sprawls of Yarrawonga and Cobram.  We crossed the river at Barmah into NSW.  I wanted to avoid the shemozzle of Echuca so we came down into Moama and stayed the night at the River Park Motel – highly recommended and close to the flash Moama Bowling Club for tea.

Next morning we crawled through the Echuca crappola and onto the Murray Valley Highway for the run to Kerang.  Two oncoming adventure bikers gave us big arm waves. V-Stroms.  Twenty minutes later it happened again.  Beemers.  We were getting a lot of respect!  Yessirree!  From Kerang we struck inland, away from the river, to Quambatook for lunch.  We diverted to Sea Lake for fuel – it was raining all around except on us.  So, for some time we avoided the showers.  But it couldn’t last and, as we approached Dumosa, it bucketed down.  But I spied a toilet block near the silos into which we zoomed.

Of course, a truckie pulled up and needed to use the facilities, so we wandered over to talk to his dogs.  Then the storm really hit us.  It’s times like this that I wished I’d paid more attention to what Jane Bunn had said instead of just paying attention to Jane Bunn.

Our destination for the night was the Woomelang Hotel which I’d read some positive reviews from motorcyclists on Facebook.  It is slowly being restored by Graham and Lisa.  The room was comfortable and seafood basket tasty.  The hotel is closed on Monday and Tuesdays but open for travellers, mainly tourists visiting Lake Tyrell and the silos.  Ours were the only vehicles on the street.

It is, as was Quambatook, just one of the many dying towns in north-western Victoria — empty shops, derelict and abandoned businesses, houses and sheds.  The mechanization of the large grain farms and the use of contractors for sowing and harvesting has expelled the jobs and youth from the towns.  Occasionally, a few people move in, attracted by the very cheap houses.  But they, of course, don’t have any money to spend or invest.  A whole way of life has gone and is evidenced in the forlorn deterioration of the towns.

Just up the road is Lascelles, the site of the first silo on our route.  The silos on the art trail have all been decommissioned.

Then on to Patchewollock where we had a very good coffee at the local store.  The chick who made our coffee lives on a nearby farm and rattled off the crops that she and her husband grew – some I’d never heard of.  Patchie was preparing for its music festival the following weekend and caravans were already rolling into town.  Thousands attend.

An issue now arising was fuel.  My Moto Guzzi EV 1100 and Jane’s Ducati GT1000 required 98 RON petrol.  We’d take 95 RON if we had to.  But these towns had only 91 RON and diesel.  Some town tourist signs had a fuel icon but the servos had closed down.  Some towns were names on the map.  Some had automated service stations — but only 91 and diesel.  We were covering quite big distances so we took on-board a couple of litres each of 91 to tide us over until Warracknabeal.  Out here, fuel up early and fuel up often.

Down the trail to Roseberry.  The rain had been replaced by wind.  A high pressure system was sitting in the Bight, directing strong easterlies over us as we motored south, and pushing us all over the road.

Through fields of grain, we sped on to Brim.

Finally at Warracknabeal we filled up with 98 and had lunch.  Then down the trail, battling the wind, to Sheep Hills where we ran into two other Guzzi club members, Tony and Karen.  Small world.  They were doing the trail in the reverse order to us and had been in continual rain since leaving Gippsland.  These were the most striking murals, to my mind, due to the colour.

The final silo of the run was Rupanyup.

Time was moving on and we were a bit worn out from the wind battering.  We headed off to Horsham for the night.  As usual, Horsham seemed booked out but the tourist bureau found us a room at the Horsham Mid-City Court, which was a stone’s throw from the city centre, and we had a very pleasant meal at the White Hart Hotel.

We left the silo trail for a run across Australia Felix to Edenhope, then into South Australia to Penola and Beachport.  We were now traversing richly pastured country where sheep, cattle, lakes and stands of eucalypts gave the area an iconic Australian feel.  Unlike the towns we’d seen in the Wimmera and Mallee, Edenhope felt prosperous.  It is where the first international cricket team was formed — all Aborigines — and they toured England in 1868.

We wound our way through very pleasant scenery, crossed the border into South Australia, and entered the Coonawarra wine region.  Miles of the most meticulously pruned vineyards and interesting wineries welcomed us into Penola.  A drink and a wuz, then another hour put us on the coast at Beachport where the Beachport Caravan Park upgraded us to a unit on the beachfront.

We had an excellent chowder and roast potato and bolognese for tea at the Water Front Cafe at THE Jetty, sitting in the evening sunshine with a beer and prosecco, overlooking the jetty and the bay.

After a rest day, we headed back to Victoria.  Battered by strong winds, we took the main highway from Mt Gambier through Mumbanner — “the town that they forgot to build” — which has 60km/hr speed signs but no buildings!  Heywood for a coffee, an historic timber town,  then back roads to Woolsthorpe and Mortlake, the one-time home of Clarke’s pies.  Stayed at Macs Hotel which has been refurbished and is very comfortable.  Very nice curry for dinner.

The forecast had the high pressure cell moving away — it had hung around for a while — and dragging in wet weather behind it.  Time to head for home.  Took one of our favourite roads, the Streatham to Beaufort (officially the Eurambeen-Streatham Road).  After a false start, this opens up into a curvy romp across central Victoria, with wide-open views across to the Grampians, no roadside vegetation and smooth surface.  Fields of yellow canola stretched for miles.

Beaufort for a coffee and a leak and then through the goldfields and hills of the Great Dividing Range.  We knew this area well from a previous lifetime.  But the smegging wind was still with us!  Roast lamb and gravy bun in Dunolly.  Where to for the night?  Moama of course!  The roads from Serpentine to Mitiamo then Echuca have to be the straightest roads I’ve ever ridden in Victoria.  Into the rabbit warren of Echuca, where the sprawling housing estates are engulfing the hay paddocks, to cross the bridge into Moama in NSW.  Stayed at the Meninya Palms Motel — the wind keeping me awake half the night.

Choofed off via Barmah, back-tracking our route of a week before, continually being blown about.  Had a Caesar salad  and coffee at Watts in Bundalong Cafe — very pleasant — the owner, a trumpy rider, recognised our bikes.

After seven days and 2000km, we rolled into Bright to an enthusiastic welcome from Paddy and Mick.  It doesn’t matter if it’s been a week or an hour, they’re always glad to see us back home.

With 46,000 kays on the clock, the EV’s tyres have come up for renewal, with the rear tyre showing the cross-bars.  The front was OK, although some scalloping was evident –  a problem I’ve encountered before with Bridgestone BT45s on my Metal Stone and Jane’s Breva 750.

But I like them, so I ordered another set from Alpine Motorcycles in Myrtleford.  I didn’t know how old the tyres were so I replaced both.

Firstly, I had to remove the wheels.  The rear needs to be jacked up so that the rear wheel clears the mudguard; it has to lift quite a lot but I had a scissor jack with two supports which could lift at the swingarm.  Then it was lowered so that the front could be jacked up a tad, too, to pull the front wheel out.

I took it slowly and methodically so that I didn’t knock the bike over.

Before I replaced the wheels, I gave the girl a bit of a spruce up, getting into places I normally couldn’t:  checked up under her skirts at the rear of the gearbox and swingarm.  I gave the rims a polish with a metal polish.  There’s some flaking chrome which is a known “feature” of these EV tubeless rims.

All set for another run.

I went for a two-hour fang on the Breva 1100. About 10kms from home I detected a whistling sound through my ear plugs. Visor? Nope. Windscreen? Nope. I played with the throttle and clutch – the sound seemed to change with revs. To me it sounded like the whistling some car fan-belts make at idle.

By the time I reached home, it was loud enough to draw the Chief outside to see what it was. Maybe it was the alternator belt.

I popped the bike on the centre-stand and started her up. Nothing. I revved her. Nothing. Well, couldn’t be the belt, I reasoned. I clicked her into first and as I eased out the clutch lever, the sound started up. Leaning over the bike I reckoned that it came from the CARC.

There wasn’t any oil on the rear rim and it didn’t move when I gave it the 6 o’clock—12 o’clock wobble test. Maybe it’s the brake caliper. I removed the caliper and lay it on the floor. Nope, the sound was still there as I eased in the clutch. The next morning, I went through it all again but there wasn’t a sound from the cold bike. I took it for a short run and it was normal until the bike reached operating temperature…then it started again. I pulled the alternator cover off but the belt looked fine.

I removed the CARC and posted it up to Peter Roper at Moto Moda in Bungendore. He was dubious when I spoke to him. He looked it over and bolted it onto his Stelvio and gave it some curry over the weekend. A clean bill of health! He posted it back.

But the noise was still there when I rode it!  I didn’t want to ride the bike anywhere, so I’ve freighted the whole bike up to Bungendore with Road Hog Transport for Moto Moda to check it out.

There’ll be a bit of a delay because Pete’s touring the USA.  Fortunately, I also have the EV.

To be continued…

Recently I read that the bushranger, Dan Morgan, was buried in the Wangaratta Cemetery, and that several memorials were around commemorating his reign of terror over southern NSW and northern Victoria.  Seemed like a good reason for a run on the Guzzi.

Involved in petty crime from an early age, Morgan – whose real name is uncertain – was eventually arrested for robbery at Castlemaine during the gold rush.  He was initially imprisoned aboard the hulk the “President”, in cells below the water line before being transferred to the ‘Success’ to work on the Williamstown breakwater.  The conditions on these vessels were nothing short of barbaric, even by the standards of the times, so rehabilitation seems to have failed.

Released in 1860, he failed to report to the Ovens police.  He commenced a series of violent robberies and murders between Whitfield and Benalla in the south, to Henty and Culcairn in the north, and Tumbarumba in the east.  He was probably insane and given to murderous rages.  He was known to torture his prisoners, but it was his beastly act, on the terrified wife of a suspected police informant, that frightened the surrounding population. She was forced to sit upon the flames of the kitchen stove, and it was only when she was well alight that he doused her with water.  There was a desperate shoot out with police in 1863 where Morgan only escaped by shooting his own mate, German Bill, as a distraction.

I thought I’d do a loop, so I fired up the Breva 1100 and wound my way through the hills, past Yackandandah, to Albury.  Hopped onto the freeway for a short run, then on to the Olympic Way to Culcairn – hardly any traffic.  I nearly had a heart-attack here as an oncoming semi suddenly snaked across the road ahead of me.  I thought he’d blown a tyre or lost his load.  A few seconds later I saw a dog in the middle of the semi’s lane.  That was skilful driving by the truckie – and fortunate for the dog that the traffic was light.

In June 1864 Dan Morgan called at the Round Hill Station, just east of Culcairn, and rounded up all the station hands and their wives.  Here, he shot several people, including station hand John McLean who died.

A few days later, he killed Sergeant David Maginnity near Tumbarumba.  In September he killed Sergeant Smyth near Henty.

After a series of major robberies and shootings,  the New South Wales government introduced the Felons Apprehension Act in 1865, which made Morgan an outlaw with a £1000 price on his head.

I turned west and tracked out via Walla Walla, past Morgan’s Lookout, reputedly one of his hide-outs with a 180 degree view (on the hill to the right of the sign).  The roads out here were in good condition, some lovely sweepers, so I may have to ditch my Victorian-prejudices about our northern cousins.

Eventually Morgan crossed the Murray River in April 1865.  Within two days he had held up and robbed three properties, burned down haystacks and out buildings, and held up coaches on the Benalla Road.  On April 8, Morgan held up his last property, Peechelba Station, near Wangaratta (pronounced peechle-bar, not peech-elba).  One of the maids slipped out and gave the alarm.  The station was surrounded and Morgan was shot by John Windlaw, one of the station hands.

I rode through Peechelba but couldn’t find any reference to Morgan.  He died later and was beheaded, and doctors shaved his head and removed the skin from his face to make a death mask for phrenological analysis.  Great days!  He was buried at Wangaratta Cemetery.

What sort of person would add flowers to his grave?

When test riding my Breva 1100, Peter was unhappy with the clutch action when starting off from stationary.  There had been a recall of these early Brevas to insert a kit of washers to soak up the stress on the gearbox.  Apparently mine had missed out.  Pete needed to do some research, and a week later he rang to say he had the recall kit.  So I hit the road, again in cold conditions.

The gearbox had to come out and Mike said it was just easier to remove the whole engine.

A few hours of work and the gearbox was on the bench.  Peter and Michael split the box, it was placed in the press, and five minutes later the kit was installed.  The box was then reassembled, after some fiddling with the pawl mechanism.

In the meantime the new oil pressure sensor was installed, and the re-welded Hepco-Becker crash guards.  The clutch was in perfect condition.  Michael reassembled the bike.

A test run revealed a problem.  The idle revs were about 2400 instead of 1100 and further inspection showed that the headlight and battery charging was intermittent.  After some investigation, a 30 amp fuse blew.  Upon replacing the fuse, the bike ran like new!

Pete surmised that this had been a long-standing problem – a fuse with a fine, hairline crack – which had been causing me starting and battery issues for some years.  Disassembling the bike had brought it to the fore.  (Someone else on the Gussitech forum had had similar symptoms and it was caused by a dirty 30 amp fuse holder).

I didn’t mind spending the time and money on my 11 year-old Guzzi.  There’s no other bike on the market to replace it – it’s a big, comfortable, capable tourer – and none of the current Moto Guzzi offerings interest me.  I’ve spent nothing on her except for consumables, so she’s been a cheap bike to own.

All set for another decade.