Skip to main content

My Gremlin Bell




The picture above is my new Gremlin Bell.  As you know I recently replaced my Kawasaki 1500 Classic with a Yamaha Stratoliner 1900.  I forgot to take the bell off the old one so I have been riding sans bell on the new one, and I was just a bit concerned about that.  Riding a bike is dangerous enough without having to worry about road gremlins, too. Thankfully, I got my bell as a gift for Christmas so my luck is doubled.  I put it on a lower frame bar close to the road as possible. Ain't it purty? And you thought us bikers were an unsentimental pragmatic bunch.  So there you have it.  A couple of neat stories,  insurance for safe riding, and all is well in the universe once again.  However...   

...24 hours after placing the Bell on the bike, I accidentally stopped it after a ride with the power on, something about a kickstand (as Tim begins to chuckle), thus draining the battery.  Sadly, the Bell doesn't guard against owner stupidity.  


Here is the legend of the Guardian Bell:


"Many of us have heard the story about Evil Road Spirits. They are little gremlins that live on your bike. They love to ride, and they’re also responsible for most of your bike’s problems. Sometimes your turn signals refuse to work; your battery goes dead, the clutch needs adjustment, or any of several hundred things that can go wrong. These problems are caused by Evil Road Spirits.

Evil Road Spirits can’t live in the presence of the bell, because they get trapped in the hollow of the bell. Among other things, their hearing is supersensitive, so the constant ringing of the bell and the confined space drives them insane. They lose their grip and eventually fall to the roadway. Have you ever wondered how potholes are formed? The bell has served its purpose.

If you pick up a Guardian (or gremlin) Bell of your own, the magic will work, but if your bell is given to you, the power is doubled, and you know that somewhere you have a special friend helping to look after you."


Variations of the Gremlin Bell:


"It has been a tradition among some of us for a long time to attach a brass bell to our left swing arm, to remember our brothers and sisters who have gone down riding.
It’s a small thing, but the reason a brass bell is chosen is that, as we ride, it gets dirty and tarnished. Every time we get down to wash and polish it, we are reminded of friends lost, and our thoughts turn to the meaning of being in the wind.
As we ride and hear the bell ring, we know that our brothers and sisters are riding with us, and how easy it would be to join them with a single mistake.
And maybe, just maybe, the next time a situation comes up; they will be there to help us...as long as we remember them by polishing the bell."



And a story of the origination of the tradition:

"Many years ago, on a cold December night, a crusty old biker was returning from a trip to Mexico with his saddlebags filled with toys and other assorted trinkets for the kids at a group home near where he worked.
As he rode along that night thinking how lucky he had been in life, having a loving riding partner that understood his need to roam the highways and to his trusty old pan that hadn’t let him down once in the many years they had shared the road together.
Well about 40 miles north of the border, in the high desert, lurked a small group of notorious little critters known as road gremlins. You know, the ones who always leave little obstacles like, one shoe, boards, and pieces of old tires on the road, and also dig those dreaded potholes for bikers to run over and crash, thus giving the road gremlins a chance to rejoice over their acts of evil.
Well, as the lone wolf of a biker rounded a curve that moonlit night, the gremlins ambushed him, causing him to crash to the asphalt and skid before coming to a stop next to one of his saddlebags that had broken free. As he lay there, unable to move, the road gremlins made their way towards him. Well, this biker, not being one to give up, started throwing things at the gremlins as they approached him. Finally, with nothing else to throw but a bell, he started ringing it in hopes to scare off the dirty little gremlins.
About a half a mile away, camped in the desert, were two bikers sitting around the campfire talking about their day’s ride, and the freedom of the wind blowing in their faces as they rode across this vast country. In the stillness of the night air they heard what sounded to them like church bells ringing, and upon investigating, found the old biker lying along the roadside with the gremlins about to get him. Needless to say, being part of the biker brotherhood, they preceded to ward off the gremlins until the last ran off into the night.
Being grateful to the two bikers, the old road dog offered to pay them for their help, but as all true bikers do, they refused to accept any type of payment from him. Not being one to let a good deed go unnoticed, the old biker cut two pieces of leather from his saddlebags tassels and tied a bell to each one. He then placed them on each of the biker’s motorcycles, as near to the ground as possible. The tired, old road warrior then told the two travelers that with those bells placed on their bikes, they would be protected from the road gremlins and that if ever in trouble, just ring the bell and a fellow biker will come to their aid.
So, whenever you see a biker with a bell, you know that he has been blessed with the most important thing in life—friendship from a fellow biker."


Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Summer Swim

It's Monday and the start of another work week.  Except for me.  I have the week off because the parents of my daycare charges are taking the week off, too. This is one of those wordless posts I love on Mondays so I can put my laziness in full view of loyal readers.  These pics need no words.  Why muddy the waters?   They were taken at the pool at Sinkhole Estates aka Death Valley.  The nice thing about this pool is it is heated in winter.  If one must find positives in one's situation, I suppose that is one.  But, please, no more.   

Flashback Friday

Class, Or Lack Thereof The Dwight Vice gravestone in Oquawka, Illinois. I bring this old chestnut out every so often just to remind me that class is classless.  Dwight Vice was killed in his home near Oquawka in 2001.  It was one of those things that can generate crime:  two guys thought Dwight had a lot of money stashed at home because of his pot-selling sideline to supplement his fishing job.   Not really one of those big drug deals gone-bad things.  Marijuana was, according to the trial, about the only stuff Dwight sold.   But these two guys barge into the house and killed Dwight and attempted to kill his 11 year old kid, Darryl, before they took off with what money they could find.   His son, now 23, was stabbed in the back and left for dead.  He survived and is wheelchair bound and has undergone several surgeries to repair his wounds.  He will be paralyzed for life.   None of this is pleasant.  Reading the facts of the murder and attempted murder are most unpleasant