Europe 2013: The Runaround

August 9, 2013

The day came early, as my jetlag awoke me at 4 in the morning, but I was able to get back to sleep, and stayed in bed until 8. I finally met Martin for the first time in the light (I had been developing theories in my head that he didn't actually exist, like some character in a play who is referred to but never appears on stage). Terry, the Australian, and Martin and I conferred for a few minutes. Martin had to leave right away for another job (he trims hedges, which is a full-time occupation around here, involving a giant lawnmower on an articulated arm off a huge tractor).

Terry and I chatted a bit longer, and I snapped his picture. He was planning on leaving before the morning was over, bound for a tour around Ireland, following pretty much the same route I'm planning to follow: across to the west coast, and up to the ferry near Belfast. I, meanwhile, was figuring out how to take care of my final bike tasks: taxes, a spare key, and installing the USB power doohickey that's so vital to all my device-nerd plans.

For the tax disc (which is what Ireland uses instead of registration stickers on the license plate itself), I had to find my way to the motor tax office in Cork. I was worried about riding an untaxed bike, but Martin said that on the off chance I was stopped, to just explain that I was on my way to pay, and explain the situation as seemed necessary. I already had my insurance documents (or at least an acceptable print-off of them) and the document that seems to be half way between registration and title in Ireland. For the USB thing, I wanted to get some things I've been calling knife splices, but that's probably not the right name. For the key, obviously a locksmith was in order.

Tax disc first. I found the motor tax office on the map (how does one live without Google maps? Thus far, one finds an internet connection and lives *with* Google maps), and plugged the cross-streets into the GPS so I wouldn't get too lost. I also looked up a car parts store and wrote down the cross-streets. Ireland seems to be curiously lacking in addresses with numbers in them, which really throws the GPS for a loop when you're trying to get to a specific place. Lots of general-delivery type addresses, like "Motor Tax Office, New Business Park, Cork." You just have to know where things are.

In any case, I finally set off after about 17 trips into the trailer to retrieve various bits and pieces, and said goodbye to Terry probably five times before I finally meant it.

This was my first time riding my new bike. I'd previously been restrained by the thought that it wasn't registered properly (side note: I have yet to see a Garda -- police -- car anywhere in Ireland). I'd started it and revved it in the manner of jealous 15-year-olds anywhere the driving age is 16, but no riding yet. I was all suited up and ready to go. Turn key, apply choke, starter, and she lives! The SV650 produces about 3x the power of my Ninja 250 back home, and I was nervous about flubbing my first launch with such a large engine. I did fine (being very gentle with the throttle), and was soon at the end of the dirt driveway and turning left.

Riding on the left side of the road is a bit surreal at first. Unlike driving a car, you don't have that supreme context reminder of sitting in the "passenger seat" with a steering wheel in front of you. You just have your brain, and the occasional car rushing past on the wrong side to keep you in line. I didn't have any problems, but it was still interesting and daunting.

The exhaust note of the bike, according to Martin a few weeks ago, was "loud as hell," (he now describes it variously as "Not too loud," and "I wouldn't want to ride with that racket" and "Oh, a single would be louder"). I found it to be interesting, bassy, with an aggressive snarl, and not objectionably loud, although clearly far louder than stock. Through the earplugs, I was merely aware of the exhaust noise, it wasn't overwhelming. I imagine it's worse when you're behind the bike.

I arrived at the tax office without incident, and got myself in line. Like all DMVs everywhere, there's a surprisingly long queue, and it took 20 minutes to get to an agent. I just handed over the document, and paid the money (88 euros for a year of registration, apparently an unvarying tax on anything motorcycle-shaped). It was quite painless, and I was immediately glad I had my fancy chip-and-pin card, since they clearly didn't take any other kind.

So, taxes sorted out, I headed off to the car parts store. This is where the comedy of GPS errors gets rolling. Apparently, Garmin's mapping division hasn't spent a lot of quality time with their Points of Interest database, and nor has Google. I actually found my first parts store on Google, so I can't blame Garmin quite yet. I drove myself to the location of Premier Car Parts and parked the bike. I looked at where the shop was located on the map, and there was an abandoned building. I walked all the way around the block, just to be sure. Nope, no automotive stores at all.

I asked a guy who was sitting having a smoke if he knew where a car parts store was, and he gave me some uncertain-sounding directions, which I tried to follow. No luck. I spotted a passing delivery driver, and grabbed him. He gave me some similarly vague directions, which I followed (all the while lugging around my big yellow suit, helmet, and tank bag): no luck. At least, I didn't think so -- the directions had consisted almost literally of, "You see the City Hall down there? You just go past the front of it, right, and then follow around [pointing around a left-hand turn] and it'll be on your left there." The nearest left turn after City Hall was also after the fire station and several hundred meters of buildings, but I turned, and didn't see anything. Somewhat bewildered, I called in my trump card, and called Martin. He recommended I go to a place called the Co-op, a DIY store in the same line as Home Depot, I gather. I explained that I was in Cork, and he threw up his hands. He confirmed that I had to use the words "motor factor" to get what I wanted, though.

So, I turned on the GPS, and typed in motor factor to see what I could see. There was one about 1.2 km from where I was standing. I decided on a whim, since it was the opposite direction from my bike, to walk it. Normally, this distance wouldn't be an issue, but normally I'm not lugging around 30 pounds of riding gear.

On the way, I spotted a very striking church, and stopped to take pictures (conveniently also giving my arms a rest). As I was putting the camera away, a tiny old man stopped in her perambulations, and said to me, "It's sinking, you know!" His voice was high and reedy and quiet, so between that and his accent (which I could understand, but only if I caught all the sounds), I had to ask him to repeat himself. He explained that the church was reputed to be sinking, but he didn't go to this church even though he was from the area (apparently meaning this few blocks of Cork City). He went on to explain that the designer of the church committed suicide after it was built, which didn't surprise me too much -- it was a very somber design. We chatted for a few more minutes, and I asked him as we were parting if he knew where the shop I was looking for was located. He pointed in a competely other direction than the one I'd been planning on going, and described in what I was now thinking of as the typical vague Irish way something about a roundabout and a bunch of shops 250-300 yards beyond that. I walked a short while in the direction he indicated, but turned around after five minutes when I still didn't see a roundabout.

I finally found the place I'd entered in to the GPS, and it turned out to be a paint shop. Fortunately, the proprietor (who looked over his glasses at me as he cleaned off paint stir-stick) said, "Try Desmond's" quietly before nodding once and looking back to his paint, after I'd told him what I was looking for. Desmond's turned out to be just around the corner, and to my immense relief, they had exactly what I wanted. I stopped into the market next door and picked up a surprisingly good egg salad sandwich (with actual vegetables in it!) and had it for lunch, perched on a low wall nearby.

On the way back to my bike, of course I noticed the motor factors' shop that was less than a hundred meters from where I'd given up and called Martin (ie, more than 2 km less distance required). I chalked it up to "adventure" and returned to the bike.

As long as I was in town, I figured I'd look for someone to make me a second key. I wanted to have a spare, in case the first one disappeared somehow. I typed in Suzuki to the GPS, and was surprised to see Suzuki Ireland was only a few km away. Awesome! Hopped on the bike and headed out. And into traffic. The drive went something like this:

I'm goin' to get a key cut! [happy smile]

Oh, traffic. [frowny face]

Oh. Come on. Traffic. [grumpy face]

Oh good, more traffic.

Ugh, god, traffic!

...

Aaaand, traffic.

I finally made it to a not-traffic road, and it felt good to cool down. The GPS led me to a weird spot, though: dead-end alley, and the address it pointed to was... someone's house. Fail. So I looked again, and this time found one that looked a bit less generic. Hooray! Oh wait, it wants me to drive the other way through...

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All told, I think I spent over an hour sitting in traffic, inching along. The second place I went was also, as it happens, someone's apartment. Crap. Out came the phone, and Martin recommended a Honda dealership nearby, so I aimed for that. GPS shenanigans again: in order to get to the place, it had me get back on the freeway, rather than going to the access road that actually serves the place. I was starting to feel distinctly ungood thoughts toward the Points of Interest database.

Long story slightly shorter, I did finally find a place to cut me a new key (and they did a cool thing: measured the key, determined the key code, and cut it from the code -- very pleasing, since the old key was pretty worn). It was back in downtown Cork. (Through some traffic.)

I finally returned "home" to Motofeirme triumphant, but tired. I installed my USB gizmo, which worked fine, tucked away my spare key, and was ready to call it a night when I realized I hadn't actually eaten, you know, food. Like, in hours. This was becoming a trend. Martin suggested Dino's in Kinsale, which has a take-out (ie, fried food) counter that's open late. It was 11 pm by the time I got there, and had my first restaurant meal in Europe: fish and chips. You're not really in the British Isles until you're eating fried food.

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Created by Ian Johnston. Questions? Please mail me at reaper at obairlann dot net.