Remember that old cartoon show about the medical crew and their spaceship that were shrunk to microscopic size every episode, to travel through a patient's body, mending things? (Or did I dream that? It sounds too weird, but I think it was called Fantastic Voyage or something).
Well, I feel a bit like that – as if my world has shrunk – or at least, as if I've shrunk within it. My bike used to take me all over the place. No destination was too far for me and the Bomber, but now just about all of my adventures take place within my suburban block in one of Canberra's less salubrious suburbs. Little things have become huge. Sure, I go to work and back every day, courtesy of some lovely people from my workplace, and there's the occasional outing with the Ancient Submariner, who is probably the kindest, most thoughtful man I have ever met. Most of my adventures these days, though, are those little domestic events that are too trivial to think about in the normal scheme of things.
Last weekend it was changing the sheets and hanging out the washing – like, WOW! Has my world shrunk so much that I actually find that “an adventure”? I don't know whether to laugh or cry. I'll probably do both. Right now I'm flatter than the Bomber's battery; flatter than Posh Spice without a push-up bra; flatter than a cat who's wandered onto a main road in peak hour. You get the idea.
Speaking of the Bomber's flat battery... Suzuki must've had a Ducati designer on board when they created the SV650. Fair dinkum. On my other bikes it was a simple matter of turning the key to remove the seat, and voila! There was the battery. Not so on the SV - to get to the battery you have to remove a couple of fairing panels and then unbolt the seat.
So I put on my Can-Do hat and hobbled out to the bike shed. I'm still on the crutches, but have started putting a little weight on the broken foot. It makes life so much easier, which is just as well, because hooking up the battery charger ended up needing about 14 trips back and forth from the shed to the spare room where the tool cupboard lives, to find socket wrenches and hex keys. And the hammer. And the WD-40. That bike has been screwed together so tightly that even my newfound uber-muscles couldn't undo the bolts that hold the seat on. Just as well I had the hammer though – it came in handy to squash the fat juicy redback spider that had taken up residence next to the Bomber.
The Ancient Submariner arrived just as I got the final bolt out and lifted the seat. It was a million degrees in the shed and I was about to drown in a pool of my own perspiration, surrounded by hex keys and squashed spiders. My quad muscles were screaming from crouching at an unnatural angle in my moonboot to get at the bolts, and my wrists ached from fighting with the bolts – yeah, I was looking hot. To AS's credit he didn't run away screaming. In fact, he finished the delicate operation of hooking the charger up to the battery and bolting the seat and one of the fairing panels back on. When the battery has recharged I can handle the last of the fairing panels. I can handle anything!
So – the Bomber's battery is more or less easily fixed. Recharging my own battery is less simple, but I have a looong list of domestic adventures awaiting me today - vacuuming, scrubbing the shower, and my favourite - hobbling out into the garden and getting a bit of nature therapy. Armed with my little spray bottle of poison, those weeds that have taken advantage of my current incapacitation don't stand a chance. Don't mess with Betty!