Diisaster Strikes
Tuesday 16th September 2014
We track down past Gallipoli to Eceabat, where a small ferry takes us the short way across the Dardanelles to Cannakale.
We stop for lunch at a roadside cafe. It's a lovely day and the traffic is light except in the few small towns on the route.
We
are in Menemen, a big town 30 kilometres north of Izmir when disaster
strikes me. My first inkling of a problem is a strong smell of petrol
when we stop at a traffic light. I assume it is coming from the old car
in the adjacent lane.
But a few hundred metres later my engine coughs and lurches, misfiring. I've run out of fuel often enough to recognise this symptom. But how? I should have a quarter of a tankful, good for 80km or more.
I manage to get across the heavy traffic to the road side. It's a very bad place to stop. Sure enough the tank is empty but I see no drips to indicate a leak.
I have a 2 litre emergency can in my luggage and pour it into the tank as quickly as possible. Still no sign of a leak. I remount and head down the road.
The others have pulled up half a mile down the road. There is a service station in the distance so I ride past them and head for it. I fill the tank but when I set off I hear shouting and a guy pointing at the bike. I pull up at the side of the station. With the ignition on I see petrol spraying out of the right side of the engine.
The sun rises with the promise of a hot
day in Turkey. We have left the gloomy northern autumn far behind,
it is still summer here.
Our route takes us due south. We are headed for Kusadasi and the holiday home of my good friends, Bob and Margaret. It's a good road, mostly dual carriageway and we progress swiftly, slowing only for the numerous small towns along the way.
Our route takes us due south. We are headed for Kusadasi and the holiday home of my good friends, Bob and Margaret. It's a good road, mostly dual carriageway and we progress swiftly, slowing only for the numerous small towns along the way.
 |
| On the Dardannelles ferry |
We track down past Gallipoli to Eceabat, where a small ferry takes us the short way across the Dardanelles to Cannakale.
We stop for lunch at a roadside cafe. It's a lovely day and the traffic is light except in the few small towns on the route.
 |
| Lunch in the sunshine |
But a few hundred metres later my engine coughs and lurches, misfiring. I've run out of fuel often enough to recognise this symptom. But how? I should have a quarter of a tankful, good for 80km or more.
 |
| Just hanging around |
I manage to get across the heavy traffic to the road side. It's a very bad place to stop. Sure enough the tank is empty but I see no drips to indicate a leak.
I have a 2 litre emergency can in my luggage and pour it into the tank as quickly as possible. Still no sign of a leak. I remount and head down the road.
The others have pulled up half a mile down the road. There is a service station in the distance so I ride past them and head for it. I fill the tank but when I set off I hear shouting and a guy pointing at the bike. I pull up at the side of the station. With the ignition on I see petrol spraying out of the right side of the engine.
There
follows a pretty crappy 24 hours. With the right side fairing removed I
find that the valve assembly in one of the two fuel lines has broken at
the junction. With the ignition switched on a fast spray of petrol
leaks out.
We try for a fix involving tie wraps to try and pull the break together. No good. The service station crew and a number of onlookers gather. All try to be helpful but few speak any English or German.
I have emergency cover for all of the EU but not for Turkey. A fellow biker, though in his car at the moment, comes over. At the time it is not apparent but Alper Selvi turns out to be an absolute star. His English is very good and he insists on giving me his phone number in case he can help tomorrow.
It is getting dark now and a fix is not going to happen. I replace the fairing while Charly and Karl-Heinz speak with another Turkish guy who wants to help us find a hotel. The service station guys find the address and number of BMW Motorrad in Izmir, 40km away.
I pack an overnight bag, park the bike up under the security cameras and arrange for the staff to keep a watchful eye on it. They will pass this on to the night staff because, fortunately, the station is open 24 hours.
I get on the back of Charly's bike and we follow our guide to a lodging house. It is truly horrible but cheap and only 4km from the bike. We sleep badly, three of us in a hot room full of mosquitos.
Me I'm just worrying about what I can do come the morning to get this problem sorted out.
We try for a fix involving tie wraps to try and pull the break together. No good. The service station crew and a number of onlookers gather. All try to be helpful but few speak any English or German.
I have emergency cover for all of the EU but not for Turkey. A fellow biker, though in his car at the moment, comes over. At the time it is not apparent but Alper Selvi turns out to be an absolute star. His English is very good and he insists on giving me his phone number in case he can help tomorrow.
 |
| Not the best place to leave your bike overnight |
It is getting dark now and a fix is not going to happen. I replace the fairing while Charly and Karl-Heinz speak with another Turkish guy who wants to help us find a hotel. The service station guys find the address and number of BMW Motorrad in Izmir, 40km away.
I pack an overnight bag, park the bike up under the security cameras and arrange for the staff to keep a watchful eye on it. They will pass this on to the night staff because, fortunately, the station is open 24 hours.
I get on the back of Charly's bike and we follow our guide to a lodging house. It is truly horrible but cheap and only 4km from the bike. We sleep badly, three of us in a hot room full of mosquitos.
Me I'm just worrying about what I can do come the morning to get this problem sorted out.
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