My motorbike, like that of every foreign teacher I know, is secondhand. Realistically, it's probably more like fifthhand, but it's impossible to say. The origin, age, and previous ownership of these bike is mysterious, at least to those of us who can't read the paperwork. The condition upon purchase is what you see; if you don't notice some grave problem in the course of the round-the-block test run they allow you, then it becomes your grave problem.
A secondhand dealer requires two things: your money and a signature. Not necessarily your own signature, either; registering a bike to a foreigner cost twice the registration for a Thai person, so it's best to bring a local friend. Hand over your cash, and the bike is yours (well, it's your friend's). They don't try to sell you a helmet, they don't ask to see a license, they don't brief you on the Thai rules of the road (as if there were any), they don't ask if you've ever driven a motorcycle or if you have the foggiest idea what you're doing on one. Just the cash please.
So we blunder through our experience with this unfamiliar form of transportation. I don't know what type of gas I need, so I assume the attendant got it right. I'm not sure if that noise is normal, so I do my best with Google and crossed fingers.
My current problem is a common one, at least for my rickedy Honda. The thing dies if I let it idle too long. It starts doing this every few weeks, and the fix is simple and cheap. Thing is, I don't have the faintest idea how to express that to a mechanic. So I can't bring it in until the problem gets very, very bad. Several times I've gone to the shop and sat there, the mechanic's ear to bike, waiting for it to die. Of course, like any piece of machinery under the eye of a hired expert, it chooses this moment to behave perfectly. He shrugs, and I'm defeated. I leave after a brief, awkward thanks. I'll be back in two weeks when it starts reliably dying at every stoplight.
