Leave you’re old pads in. Get a gert bif feck-off srewdriver in between them and force the pistons right back. That should do it. If not then take the top cap off the resevoir and do it agin. That’ll do it
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And… that’s what I did. The pistons? Oh yeah right back. The rest of the fluid from mos of the system? On the bat cave floor. Bugger. So a frantic phone call later I was booked in with the Morley Mechanic. Like a drunken Stormtrooper aim we kept missing each other. One ride missed I pootled on up to the lair of the Master Mechanic, a place where v-twin monsters hibernate to prowl the roads when salt will not damage their chrome armour.
Amongst the organised chests of tools obscure and familiar the stand was prepared.The King was hoist into it’s plastic jaws to await it’s salvation and the Mechanic set to work. Engrish Hayes instructions interpreted, ignored and bettered my brakes were air free to stop my chunk once more.
Coasting back home, the cold late spring wind knifed through the too thin jersey. Overly soft suspension unlocked beneath me, jumping speed humps for giggles, I swore for just one moment that I was 16 again. The summer of 97 ahead of me, a downhill bike to play with and the teenage feeling of joy and innocence.
Fat Lad
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