Motorcycle Touring and the Kindness of Strangers

In Tennessee Williams’ play, A Streetcar Named Desire, the fragile, neurotic Blanch Dubois says, “I have always depended upon the kindness of strangers.”

Motorcycle riders, especially those who tour and travel, eventually learn that “stuff” happens on the road, and that circumstances can force them to depend upon the kindness of strangers.

I’ve benefited greatly from people who have helped me when my trusty steed has developed problems while far from home. But I’ve learned that while help is usually nearby, it is important for riders to be resourceful. It’s important to anticipate and prepare as much as possible to deal with emergencies.

I’ve also learned that help can come in different shapes and sizes, and that situations often boil down to making a few key decisions and doing the best you can with the resources at hand.

An incident that occurred some years ago when I was crossing Canada emphasized those points to me.

What happened to the oil?

I was nearly 1,500 miles from my home in New Jersey and three days into a major journey. While gassing up in Brandon, Manitoba, I offhandedly decided to check the engine’s oil level. To my amazement and dismay, the oil tank was nearly empty. Within a few more miles, the engine would have overheated and seized.

I looked for oil leaks and found none. That meant the engine was consuming oil like crazy -- more than two quarts every 1,000 miles. But how? I hadn’t seen any telltale clouds of smoke billowing from the exhaust to indicate the engine was burning oil.

I was covering about 500 miles a day at high speeds. If I were to continue this trip, I’d have to replenish the oil constantly. And the problem could get worse. I knew that persistent visions of the Triumph’s engine melting into a blob of steel and aluminum would distract me from my driving. I needed a savvy motorcycle mechanic to set things straight.

Brandon’s motorcycle guru lends a hand.

The guys at the gas station suggested I take the bike to Brandon’s own motorcycle guru, a fellow named Lawrence Byrd. I gave him a call, but he had closed for the day.

To my surprise, two brothers who worked at the gas station offered me a place to stay for the night. What hospitality.

Early the next morning I headed to the motorcycle shop -- a small, one-man operation located on a side street in Brandon. It had a parts counter and an adjoining work area where customers could roll their bikes in through wide double doors. The place was clean and orderly and smelled faintly of oil, de-greasing solvents and transmission fluid.

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