Time I contribute one to this thread.
I've come back here to the beginning to apologise. I had never intended this to be such a big post but the story just kept flitting off my fingers. I just hope it remains at least readable. Nothing as dramatic as some of the other stories here, just a puncture. No big deal, but the incident that came to mind did have a couple of 'features'.
I was on a trip down the West Coast of the South Island on my BSA R3. It's an absolutely glorious ride in good weather. That though, the good weather, usually requires blood sacrifices to the gods duly accompanied by a little dance with one hand in the air and the tongue held in exactly the right position while reciting a poem about a boy standing on a burning deck using the Maori language. It was good on this occasion.
There was a certain tenseness to this trip.
I had discovered some time previous that my bike had a fault. I had taken the rear wheel apart so I could have the hub chromed and it had been re-spoked by an 'expert' who used to work in the Triumph factory. Despite protesting that he knew all there was to know about spoking wheels, he used the wrong pattern! It turned out he had worked as a test rider, not as a spoker of wheels.
Now BSA in their infinite wisdom had used a Triumph 500 wheel in the Rocket 3. It wasn't as good nor nearly as strong as BSAs own wheels and I'm not sure why they did it. A concurrence with the Trident perhaps. I presume they had their reasons. It was OK, normally, but it couldn't withstand the wrong spoke pattern! It started breaking spokes in the rear wheel.
The bike however was my only vehicle so I put off having it respoked for a while. It was OK as long as I didn't get more than three broken spokes. More than three I found became six very quickly and then you were risking the entire thing unzipping.
I had the back wheel collapse on me once during this time when applying some torque in order to clear a V8 that wanted my space from the lights. But less than three broken I could live with for a while until the stars aligned for the full wheel rebuild.
I had to keep replacing the spokes of course which was do-able while I was in the city. However when with great glee, relief and gusto I set out from Christchurch on the trip in question I didn't really think about how far I would be from suppliers of spokes, nor for how long. I didn't take enough spares.
By the time I was riding down the West Coast I was doing so gently and dodging bumps feeling much as you would with an eight months pregnant girl on the back. (That's another thing I had experienced for a while. )
Now the West Coast is remote. This may seem a contradiction in terms to those of you that inhabit far larger lands, but there are plenty of places down that coast, especially as you get further South, where you are a long way from anybody or any thing, let alone any kind of specialist.
I remember waiting with a friend (Jenny) at a camp ground at Lake Hawea once for a pair of lads on an old Matchless we had met up with to turn up. They were pretty late and I was really very concerned for them indeed. The area was remote enough that I was considering contacting the Police by the time they turned up.
Friend Jenny. (A much later than trip than that related here) It was her first time on a bike and she loved it.It turned out that they had broken a primary chain. They had wandered up the first track they found thinking that there must be some thing or maybe someone that could help at the end of it. There is no guarantee of that at all in those parts but as it happens they discovered an earth moving machine up there. They ripped a bit of chain off it and made it work.
On this trip by early evening I was approaching the bridge at the Gates of Haast. It was about 6pm as I recall.
Puncture!
"Damn" I said, and lots of other extremely unsavory words. I always carried a puncture repair kit, but a puncture inevitably involved lots of time, grease, skinned knuckles and many more naughty words. There was nothing for it though but to settle down and get on with the job, so that's what I did.
The Gates of Haast bridge, where I had my puncture that evening. That part of the road was gravel then. I was at the far end as we look at it.All proceeded in due order and I found my hole in the tube. It hadn't been caused by a broken spoke either! But then came the time to goo the patch on.
Guess what! My vulcanising goo had totally dried up! Help! It was as solid as a rock!
Now I was well stuck. I could not think of an answer to this. I considered stuffing the tyre with foliage but I had doubts about the practicality of this given the foliage available or if I could make it work at all. I was thinking about this when a car turned up. Hooray I am saved!
The car stopped. Well of course it would at that time in the evening with someone in obvious trouble. But the guy driving it was in a panic. He was a tourist. I'm not sure where from. Possibly from one of the Pacific islands (small) or some heavily populated country. In any case he was totally freaked out by the distance he had come without seeing any signs of humanity and demanded to know where the next petrol station was. He was going the opposite way to me and had no idea what lay ahead of him.
Without even attempting to ascertain my position he shot off in a shower of shit and small stones, leaving me staring down the road after him. I did not think well of that man.
"Well" thinks I, " 'spose the best thing is to set up camp for the night and revisit the problem in the morning." I had decided that I needed to hitch hike my way to Wanaka and to buy the needful. Whether that would take one day or two depended on the traffic and remained to be seen. Who knows? I might get lucky. There might even be a bus I could get back on, maybe.
The only plausible tent site was right up at the start of the bridge right beside the road. There was just room there for the tent and the bike. It was a lonely place though and I was feeling it a bit. I somewhat wished the Lady Margie had been able to come on this trip, but then again, given the condition of the bike at the time it was probably best that she was unable to.
The lady MargieI was about to get the tent out when a ute came winding up the hill. At that time in the evening that was falling into miracle territory! He stopped too.
The situation was discussed but having a spare wheel, of course the guy didn't have any patching stuff. He did however have a tube of Butyl Mastic. (used in building). Maybe, just maybe it would hold the patch in place during reassembly and maybe it would stay put with air pressure behind it at least until I got to Wanaka.
We gave it a go. Everything was reassembled and I hooked up the spark plug pump I carried. The patch held air! We weren't sure how long it would last though so he sent me off ahead of him so he could pick me up if it failed down the road, and I tried to get to Wanaka before it did.
Success! I duly got myself to a motel in Wanaka. The tyre was flat in the morning.
I bought the needed goo from a pushbike shop and fixed it but of course there weren't any spoke trees growing anywhere. I was over my 3 spoke limit too, by quite a margin.
I was only 176 miles from my parents place in Invercargill at this point. 176 miles with a fair dollop of twisties, bumps and hollows in it but still only 176 miles. Given the nature of the road an the now very gingerly approach I would have to take to it it should take between four and six hours.
Invercargill was my ultimate destination for this trip. It was also a place where I could get that back wheel permanently and properly fixed. It was time for the final leg, excluding all further exploration, sight-seeing or dallying about in nice places. I choose the Crown Range route. Lots of climbing, tight curves and bumps to try and dodge but the alternative route was 30 miles longer. I wasn't sure if I was making the right choice though. I would be limping along.
I got about 105 miles, to a place called Fairlight before I got another puncture in the back wheel. This time if
was a broken spoke. I must admit that by then I was expecting it. Things had not been feeling good.
When I looked there were
only three spokes left on one side of the wheel. (the other side had nearly all of its ones) No amount of care or coddling was going to allow me to ride this bike any further. I hid it among some trees went out on the road and stuck my thumb out.
Two hours later I was still there. I have never hitch hiked for the fun of it. Only because something had happened and I needed to get someplace, so I wasn't feeling good about the time going by. Also, being in bike gear probably doesn't advertise you as the ideal passenger to pick up. Something had to be done.
I pulled the bike out of hiding and stood beside it with my thumb out. Then, the very first car that came along screeched to a halt and managed to squeeze me in among all the luggage and junk they had in the back seat. Having the bike beside me had changed the entire scenario for them. I was obviously having trouble. I hid the bike in the trees again before we left.
They were only going as far as Lumsden though so I had another three hour thumb extension exercise there, but this time with no bike to pull out of a hat. 50 miles to go.
This time I was standing opposite a Tea Rooms (Cafe these days) so I started watching people coming and going from it. I spotted a couple who stopped who were traveling South, went over to the Tea Rooms and approached them, explained the situation and asked them if they had room in their car for me. A bit cheeky perhaps but it worked. Just over an hour later I walked through my parents door for the first time in months.
"Hi Pops! Your trailer got a warrant on it?" Three more hours and the bike was home too. I estimate that between ten and twelve hours had passed since the time I left Wanaka.
That wheel was re-spoked by a guy who really did know his onions! I wonder if he is still around? Those skills are a bit rare. In any case, it gave no further trouble in the entire considerable amount of time the bike remained in my ownership.
Edit
The Rocket 3 broke down three times in in the years that I owned it.
I classify a break down as a mechanical fault that brings you to a stop, and do not include other things that need doing or fixing from time to time, nor accidents.
Two of these breakdowns were my own fault and this was one of them.