Liora Malts is a motorcycling, adventure loving newbie. Fresh into our complex, jargon filled, oil stained world, she has embarked on a journey of discovery and learning. With absolutely no mechanical knowledge, we gave her the task of completing the first oil change on her bike, using her intelligence and her bike’s manual to get the job done. Turns out it’s not that easy…

T

hey say, “Never let your spouse teach you how to drive”. They also say “mess with the bull, you get the horns”. I do not know who “they” are, but I do believe that “they” intended for these morsels of wisdom to go hand in hand. Unfortunately, unlike the bull, who though easily angered still requires a nudge in the right direction, I, apparently, do not. In the bull’s case, the assault is headed by a fool seemingly eager for a beating and a crowd secretly hoping for disaster. In my case, the charge (crash course) is led by the ever patient boyfriend, and a charming handful of drunkards, ever willing to giggle in the corner at my failing attempts. This, is how I underwent my very first solo oil change – not with the finesse of a well-rehearsed synchronised swimming routine, but to the screams of protest from helpless onlookers, as I dive into a pool entirely devoid of water.

Act I: The Qualifiers

The assignment is clear: complete an oil change on my CRF250L, without any assistance outside of the manual. That makes me both the coach, and the judging panel. In any other scenario, that would be deemed neither sound nor ethical, and yet I set out to acquire all that I need to perform. After establishing that “The Manual” is not a comprehensive tomb containing the collective knowledge of my predecessors, I settle on Google as my guide (which, basically is). Now I need parts. I am informed by the boyfriend that all I need can be found in our well-equipped garage. Unlike myself, he has led many a team to victory in years passed. Now, I need to gather an audience to witness my projected triumph. Once the rafters are filled, I provide the eager observers with gin, lawn chairs, and full creative freedom with their recording devices. All pieces are in place, my team has been secured, the time is nigh.

“The assignment is clear: complete an oil change on my CRF250L without any assistance”

Act II: The Performance

I walk out onto the platform, with my winning team in tow. My swim cap is on, the skin tight bathing suit is uncomfortably riding up between my cheeks; confirming that I look the part, and the audience is impatient for the routine to ensue. The bike is there, google is there, various tools and parts are there, and, most importantly, I am there, with my ripped jeans and my gin and tonic. I bring up the first service manual instructions I find on google. Gracefully and full of confidence, I prepare to dive into the abyss only to realise that the pool is in the other direction.

There is a skid plate, which is in the way of the task at hand. I did not anticipate this. Not a problem, I will simply remove the skid plate. Now if only to figure out how to remove the screws – or are they bolts? No matter, a rose by any other name, right? Right. “To remove a screw, one requires a corkscrew”, I announce; thus the name. I am sensing that the audience’s faith in my team is beginning to falter, as I hear giggles emitting from the cheap seats. Corkscrew, screwdriver, it’s an honest mistake. Once I figure out which hexagon is the right size to fit in the opening of the.. bolt? Screw? The “thingy” holding my skid plate in place, I attach it to a metal object which I am fairly certain is neither a corkscrew nor a screwdriver. Finally, someone screams “it’s a ratchet” and I say “of course it is”, passing off the doggy paddling fool in the shallow end for Michael Phelps.

Staring at the thingy in my peripheral, and the ratchet in my forefront, I take a swig of gin and proceed to mutter to myself “righty tighty, lefty loosey”. I place the ratchet down, and make an L and inverted L with both of my respective and highly capable hands. At this, the audience completely loses its composure and I start to realise that my Olympic team is more akin to a toddlers first swim class – enthusiastically tutored by the toddlers in question. This is also the point at which the lifeguard takes notice of the ambivalent flailing in his pool, and starts to question the legitimacy of this entry. Which country did they say they were representing, anyway? The boyfriend has begun the meddling.

I take yet another swig of gin.

The skid plate is off, and I am moving on to the oil change itself; determined to complete the mission without any interruption, as per my instructions. “I need to set up the drain pan” I announce, as the boyfriend runs over to fix my positioning. “I need to remove the drain bolt”, I say. “Don’t strip the bolt!!!” he exclaims in response. Really, it’s very difficult to perform a synchronized swimming routine whilst being pommeled by various flotation devices. The oil has been drained, I have removed the oil fill cap, the oil filter, and am now trying to identify the function of a rather perplexing piece of equipment. Is it, some kind of a stencil? The lifeguard is now inflating the lifeboat, clearly concerned with how carelessly I throw aside the gasket.

Someone refills my goblet of gin.

As I start to pour in the oil (without any idea as to how much I should be pouring) the lifeguard is now effectively trying to remove me from the pool, obviously fearing that I may drown in the liquid. I think not. This is about the point at which the team loses a bit of focus from their routine, starts fishing out the aforementioned flotation devices, and aggressively launching them back in the direction of the well-intentioned lifeguard. “Just let me do it!”, “I can figure this out, myself!”, “I bet I’m doing better than YOU did on YOUR first try!” I proudly bark back at him. The oil has been poured, and I am now evaluating how different my old oil filter is from the new one that I intend to install.

I realise the only real similarity is that they are both filters (turns out, one of my swimmers is actually a basketball player). I make a judgement call, throw Lebron out of the pool, and decide to reinstall the old filter. The crowd goes wild, and the life guard bows his head in the corner, trying to decide if the penalty is worth the impending onslaught. After watching me struggle with my back brakes for roughly 15 minutes while I try to reinstall the oil filter cover (after having inserted the old oil filter on top of the stencil, backwards), the boyfriend has had enough. He dives into the pool and starts fishing the swimmers out of the water, as they vigorously splash at him while trying to remain synchronised with their manoeuvres. I viciously fight against his attempts, screaming things like “I’m almost done! I am so close! Do you even know what you’re doing?! Someone give me my goddamn gin!”, to no avail. The team has been detained. All hopes of winning gold have been crushed. I walk away in tears, sputtering various annoyances regarding the “rigged” event. I realise that my first solo oil change will have to be followed up with an assisted one. And it’s all his fault, the bastard; constantly trying to help me and that.

And it’s all his fault, the bastard; constantly trying to help me and that.

Act III: Reevaluating

Did that feel a little hectic? Good, because it certainly was. It is the following morning. The crowd is gone, and I am left all by myself to ponder what had gone wrong the previous evening. With horror, I discover my fatal mistake: I had gathered a team, and booked their performance, without choreographing a routine or scheduling a single rehearsal. I hardly even auditioned the swimmers. I basically skipped an entire act. The boyfriend and I agree that the next piece of maintenance I attempt, I map out well ahead of time, and ensure that I have all the needed materials and knowledge. Next time, I will be ready to ask the appropriate questions, and promise to be a little more open to receiving some answers. It never hurts to be prepared. With that said, it also helps to be prepared for a good laugh. Never take yourself too seriously; no one is born with a built in instruction manual. We must learn, and I find that failing sometimes holds the potential for the most entertaining of moments; especially where gin is involved (although I admit the quantities may need some adjusting for future projects).

Takeaways:

● You will get dirty. Oil is very hard to clean. Do NOT wear anything you can’t stand to lose. Oh, and buy disposable plastic gloves, so as to preserve the feminine appeal of your well manicured hands.

● The beauty of a ratchet – it turns both ways (meaning both right, and the other right – occasionally even left.)

● Get organised! Compile a list of things you will need (be a little more specific than “oil filter”), and make them easily accessible.

● Decide on what you want to drink, estimate an appropriate quantity, and then cut that in half. Proceed to drink responsibly.

● A motorcycle is a very expensive piece of equipment. Try your best not to depreciate the value of your toy.

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