Over the Mountains and Into the Sea - 1969 and then Some - page 49

“The fuck, man. I don't know.”
So he slowed down and got down to English, kind of. “You moto. Is que ?”
“It's a BSA. 650cc. Seis cent cinquante centimeteur cubique .”
“Ah. Seicento cinquanta centimetri cubici! Sei feefty!” !”
“ Oui . I mean, si. ”
He plucked his CB radio from a sun visor cradle and barked a few words, waited and went
into overdrive, so fast I couldn't catch a syllable. He stopped to ask, “You moto. Issa Treeo-
mph ?”
“No. It's a BSA.”
“Ah.” And back to the CB. “Bay assa ey . . .” Spaghetti, fettuccini, bon giorno, cinquante, no
parlo, Alfredo, salami, pastrami, risotto, minestrone. Who knew what he said? Then he said,
“ Molto bene. Gratzi. Si. Prego. ”
He grinned and nodded, with certainty, I thought. So we penetrated Rome. Traffic
thickened and streets narrowed. Huge roundabouts with many lanes felt like a challenge and
a threat. Who would ever go to the inside lane with maximum travel of three-quarters of a
lap? Crazy. Yet a tiny car on the inside lane ahead seemed intent on ramming a scooter, as
the scooter wanted farther in and the car wanted out. The scooter stopped abruptly and the
driver got off, forcing the tiny car to also stop, and that driver got out too. They went toe-to-
toe, yelling and flailing even as they turned and got back in and remounted and went their
separate ways, to the inside and outside of the roundabout. The tiny car driver flicked the tip
of his thumb of a top front tooth. The scooter driver let go of his handlebars to grasp the top
of this left elbow with his right hand and thrust his left hand upward. “ Bah fangoo! ” He nearly
hit another car, causing him to refocus his accusation and bitter claim on that driver, and so
they went, round and round.
Most amazing was that the other lanes of roundabout traffic flowed around the squabblers
while rounding the roundabout.
We turned onto a narrow street with an inch to spare on one side and barely a scrape on
the other and stopped at a narrower alley we would never fit into. Not to worry, the moto
mechanic was only a short way down, and he came out with the usual entourage of kids.
Once unloaded and parked inside, my motorcycle went through some brief tests, primar-
ily of putting it into gear and rolling it. Metal fragments clattered inside, followed by wincing,
cringing and head shaking all around. It looked like a set-up but sounded like the real deal,
a blown engine. The mechanic conveyed the likely damage: maybe it would not be total on
the bottom end and so it might not need pistons, cylinders and maybe a new main bear-
ing. Maybe the damage would be only on top—heads, tappets, lifters and valves. He wouldn't
know until tomorrow, because it was already late in the day. But he would tear it down first
thing and then call London for parts and get them ordered. With luck, I could be out of there
in a day, or maybe three days.