So it was a beautiful sunny afternoon to wake up into, bleary eyed and regretting that 5th, 6th and 9th drink. But, as cotton-mouthed as I was, I was a man on a mission. A mission to get a tiny little engine running.

So I drained out the petrol tank, and what did I see? That’s right: sweet, sweet, milky confirmation.

The opaque wonderfulness of water contaminated petrol. Water and petrol don’t get along at all well, you know. It’s not so much a love/hate relationship, as a hate/hate one. (Ask me about love/hate relationships some time, and heartache! XD )

Anyway, I rebuilt the carburetor again, walked up the street to my friendly neighbourhood servo, and got a can full of beautiful freshfaced, clear-eyed petrol. All happy and excited to be out and about, and looking forward to being set on fire.

Short story told only moderately too verbosely: I’m fucking awesome, man.

The engine fired to life after 4 or 5 kicks, and I immediately took it for a blat. (Only to discover, of course, that the front brakes are as soggy as a biscuit, thankfully the rear brakes are still firm like a policeman.)

Am I happy? Yeah, I’m happy as Larry. I enjoy doing mechanical work, and enjoy it even more when it actually works.

The bike isn’t looking too hot, I guess that’s what uncovered storage will do to you. The seat is looking weathered, and there’s a lot of surface rust around the place.

I’m considering painting it up, but not sure if I can be bothered. If I can be shitted doing it right, it could look cool, if I can’t I’ll just give it an evil looking matte-black ‘survival bike’ paint job with a rattle can. (50cc scoots can’t really look evil – they can’t keep a straight face, you see. They scowl, but then giggle and giggle and giggle. It’s because of all the oil they smoke, nothing seems serious anymore. Silly little things.)