Well, I’ve been hunting for a motorcycle lift for quite a while now, primarily for the BSA project. Mind you, I know fine well that once it’s in the garage it’ll get used for just about every bit of two-wheeled maintenance that comes along.
In fact, I could have made very good use of one recently while sorting out the charging system on the Vulcan 800. Crawling about the garage floor at my age is one thing — getting back up again without making noises like an old bagpipe is quite another.
I’d put the word out amongst a few motorcycle friends that I was looking, and recently my CVMG/BSA mate Sean came through with the goods. He spotted a motorcycle lift on Facebook Marketplace for $400.
Only one wee problem.
It was in Wallaceburg.
Och well… what’s a 200 km round trip amongst friends when there’s a bargain at the other end?
Besides, as any Scotsman will tell you, saving a hundred dollars is practically the same as earning it.
At least that’s the story I was prepared to tell the wife.
I contacted the seller and offered $300, pointing out that I had a fair journey ahead of me to collect it. To my pleasant surprise, the lady agreed and marked it as pending while I got myself organised.
Aye, now I was committed.
Or as my wife might put it, “You’ve started this nonsense, so you may as well finish it.”
Preparing the Expedition
The trusty 2012 Ford Edge already had the hitch fitted, so I arranged to borrow my friend Clarence’s trailer for the adventure.
The plan was simple: pick up the trailer Friday morning, head down to Wallaceburg, load the lift and be home again sometime in the afternoon.
Simple plans, of course, are merely an invitation for the universe to say, “Aye right, we’ll see about that.”
Clarence believed his trailer used a 2-inch ball, which happened to match mine.
Turns out a tape measure, a slightly crooked eye and optimism are apparently not precision measuring instruments when you’re dealing with an eighth of an inch.
Wrong ball.
Back home I went.
There are moments in a man’s life when he quietly reflects on his choices.
This was not one of them.
There may, however, have been a few words spoken that would not normally appear in a Presbyterian hymn book.
Naturally, when I got home I couldn’t find the hitch ball I knew I owned somewhere, so Canadian Tire became $12 richer and I became the proud owner of a very shiny new chrome one.
At least if the rest of the trip went completely to hell, I’d have the smartest trailer hitch in Middlesex County.
Southward Bound
Eventually I was properly hooked up and rolling down the road.
My original mid-morning arrival had now become about 11:30 a.m., but no harm done.
I arrived pretty much on schedule and even managed a respectable job of backing the trailer down a rather long driveway toward the shed.
Now, I won’t claim it was professional truck-driver quality, but there was no damage, no shouting and nobody had to come out waving their arms.
Confession: Rather than attempt any fancy trailer manoeuvring near the doors, I eventually unhitched it and rolled the trailer by hand :o).
So I’m calling that a win.
Much easier.
I could worry about getting the Edge lined back up once the lift was safely aboard.
Then came the main event.
The lift is not exactly something ye tuck under one arm and casually stroll away with.
With a bit of persuasion, some wrestling, a few carefully chosen engineering techniques — and possibly language more suited to a Glasgow pub at closing time — I managed to get the beast down the shed ramp and up onto the trailer.
There were a few moments where the lift and I had a difference of opinion.
I won.
Mostly.
The nose of the lift hung slightly over the front, but once it was lowered down it sat quite nicely.
I dropped the feet, got the front wheels settled and began strapping everything down.
A few ratchet straps later, she wasn’t going anywhere.
If the trailer rolled, the lift was probably going with it.
E-transfer completed.
Deal done.
Time to head home before anyone changed their mind.
The McGyver Trailer Light Repair
The old Edge towed the lift surprisingly well, and the trip itself was uneventful.
There was, however, one wee detail bothering me.
I hadn’t actually checked all the trailer lights before leaving.
One of the rear lights also had a broken red lens.
Not ideal when you’re towing a trailer down Ontario highways with what appears to be half the OPP out for a Friday drive.
Fortunately, years of mechanical experience have taught me that almost anything can be repaired temporarily with the correct combination of materials.
In this case:
Red Coca-Cola packaging and duct tape.
Aye… that’ll do nicely.
High-visibility red, weather resistant for at least several kilometres, and carrying the reassuring branding of a multinational soft drink company.
What more could the Ministry of Transportation possibly want?
Call it the McGyver School of Trailer Lighting.
Or as the Scots might say, “It’ll dae.”
I passed plenty of OPP both on the way down and on the return trip, but apparently my precision Coca-Cola lens repair met with their approval because nobody turned around to investigate.
Either that or they took one look and thought, “We’re no getting involved in that.”
Fair enough.
Home Again
I made it home early in the afternoon and even managed a nice clean reverse into the driveway.
Unloading was considerably easier than loading, and before long the lift was safely sitting in the garage.
Easy peasy.
Or, more accurately, easier than expected and with only the normal amount of muttering.
It’s not quite in its final resting place yet because I still need to clear out the BSA side of the garage.
There’s another project happening first.
On Monday I’m having the house electrical service upgraded to 200 amps, along with a new 60-amp panel in the garage and an EV charger.
That’ll let me charge E’s PHEV considerably quicker, and it’ll also give me enough power to do a bit of welding in the garage when required.
Preferably not while charging the car.
I’m adventurous, but I’m not completely daft.
And before anyone says it, yes, I am fully aware that upgrading the electrical service so I can charge a modern vehicle beside a 60-year-old British motorcycle is exactly the sort of logic that makes perfect sense in my garage.
Back to the BSA
Once the electrical work is finished and the garage is reorganised, the motorcycle lift can take its rightful place under the BSA.
And that means something I’ve been looking forward to for quite a while.
It’s nearly time to start putting the old girl back together.
The frame can go onto the lift, parts can start being bolted back on and, slowly but surely, the collection of cleaned, repaired and refurbished bits scattered around the garage should begin looking like a motorcycle again.
Or at least something vaguely motorcycle-shaped.
And this being a British motorcycle, I’m sure every bolt will fit perfectly, every thread will be standard and nothing will leak.
Aye.
And pigs will be flying formation over Glasgow.
Still, that’s part of the fun.
If I wanted something sensible and predictable, I’d have bought a Honda.
That’s it for now.
The lift has been acquired, the expedition to Wallaceburg was successful, the Edge survived, the OPP ignored my Coca-Cola engineering, and the BSA now has a proper operating table waiting for her.
The next phase should involve fewer road trips and more spannering.
Although knowing this project, that statement may age badly.
Stay tuned — the spannering is about to begin.
And as they say back in the old country:
“Mony a mickle maks a muckle.”
One wee bolt at a time, one skinned knuckle at a time, and probably one colourful Scottish phrase at a time.
Before long, we might just have ourselves a motorcycle.