5.45pm outside Piccadilly HMV. Piece of piss. 20 mins on the bike, no probs. .That was the time and destination I was supposed to meet Kev for an urgent meeting with a fella about a potentially huge gig (more on that as it develops). So I get home about 4.45pm from digital village after picking up my new trakmaster pro preamp, and theres still time for a quick shower before I leave. Weathers been beautiful today, so much so, that I was even contemplating on just jeans and T. 5.10pm, I'm walking out the door and it happens. It rains. I contemplate. I HAVE to be at this meeting. Tube takes 45 mins. Car would be a joke. No choice. I have to brave it. So, I go back in and change into my full battle gear and run back out to the bike. Alarm and immobiliser off, key in ignition, check for neutral, clutch in, press ignition. The bike splutters for 2 seconds, then instead of the usual roar of my blue flame race can, the 'machine gun-like' ticking sound of doom, piercing little bullets of fear into my chest. the battery was dead. Shit.

So seat off, unscrew battery cover, push the bike over to the car and rummage through the crap in my boot to find my jump leads. Found. (I always thought to myself as a kid, my boot will never be as messy as my dads... but I guess some things just can't be avoided). Hook my baby Susie up and 'Roar'... ah that beautiful tone... No time to stand and admire like a horny teenager, screw battery cover, seat back on, bonnet down and off we go. 5.20pm. Riding up the A4 towards past Chiswick, theres traffic. I think to myself calmly, no problem. Phew. Followed by 'eh?' Why am I not moving? Shit. The bike stalled and it wouldn't start again! I resign myself to defeat and push the bike with my head bowed across 3 lanes of traffic on the A4 to the kerb side. Sit on the bike and contemplate how the hell am I gonna get this thing home. I lift my sunken head to see a ray of light penetrating through the clouds, reflecting from a giant sign. My savior was here! and it came in the form of 'Porsche'. I had broken down outside the Porsche garage! I've never been so happy to see so many of these fuel-guzzling yuppie mobiles. Will they help me? I think to myself as trudge up to the swanky office in my wet leathers. Luckily, the lady at the desk was very friendly and called for one of the mechanics as apparently a whole load of them were bikers as well. A little asian fella came out and asked what was the problem. Is it fuel injected? he asks. No, it has carbs. 12V battery? Yes. Under the seat? Yes. Then we have no problem! he smiles. Grabs a starter battery and heads to bike. As he starts it up he tells me he once had the same problem whilst riding in the mountains of Spain on his '02 GSX-R1000. What a dude. After a few grunts, we're off again.

Ok, this time, leave the headlight off to reserve battery and keep revving to charge it. No more problems I think to myself. No wait. Gods thinks he's a comedian today. Riding up the Hammersmith flyover I begin to lose power and the bike starts to splutter again. What the hell could be the matter now?! In the few precious seconds have, I rack my brains to think what I can do. I CANNOT get stuck on the flyover. Then, I remember a time when this had happened before. Fuel. I was running out of fuel! For the love of... No petrol station until Earls court. I'll never make it. If the bike stops, theres no way its gonna start again on such a low battery. Great. On older model bikes like my bandit, instead of a simple fuel gauge, or even warning light, the only way you can tell you've run out of petrol (short of looking inside the tank) is to actually run out of petrol. But fear not. The Japanese came up with a clever little idea to counter-act such a ridiculous situation. Theres what is known as a reserve tank! A little reservoir filled with enough juice to get you another 10 to 15 miles. BUT, the only way to use this reserve is to switch on a valve located somewhere on the engine. So, whilst travelling at about 50 mph uphill on the Hammermsith flyover during rushhour, losing power, fuel and precious time, I hold the handle bars with one hand whilst the other fumbles about the engine looking for the valve which is gonna save my sweet ass. The bike is on its last legs, and just about to die as I gentley rev it to try to keep it alive. Got it. 'Roar' goes the engine again. 'Rah!' I go as I gloat over my triumph.

I make it to the meeting only 5 mins late. Kev buys me a ice cream cake for my troubles and I go home like a hero. Rah.