First thing you learn is that you always got to wait

I'm waiting for my man
Twenty-six dollars in my hand
Up to Lexington, 125
Feel sick and dirty, more dead than alive
I'm waiting for my man


A cold, cold, Wednesday night, too many beers and a total disregard for the delicate matter in hand had me on that train a'going round the bend. A twist too many and the 36 year old fuel tap was defunct. Boy, was I mad at myself! A black cloud gathered and swirled above me for the rest of the long week.
The first parts supplier I visited at the weekend laughed in my face. OK I deserved that. Then I remembered my man. Yes, it would be a 58 mile round trip, if he was open. He never answers is phone. But he supplies without fail.
Despair turned to elation as I swung the car into the parking bay of the workshop. He's there. No other hopeful is loitering, trying to attract his attention with ambitious projects. I waited patiently for the 10 minutes he used to open up a gearbox. Clean and precise like a surgeon on amphetamines.
Looking up at me and then to the petcock I held towards him I knew I had his interest. He stepped over a plank of wood bedecked with signs and symbols warding off mortals from entering the vast cavern of treasures and returned with two crates full to the brim with petcocks. Tipping them onto the floor in front of my feet as pearls before swine he directed me to pan for gold. Each possibility was accompanied by his encyclopedic knowledge of the bike to which it belonged, along with the year of manufacture and its likelihood of satisfying my goal. Then the force kicked in. My hand plunged into the hill of cast metal and retrieved a gem that shone like the morning star. The mans congratulations and incredulity were a bonus.


I now have a working fuel tap and a one legged mutant frog-amphibian thing as a potential figurehead.