I got to work this morning and there was smoke coming from underneath and behind the seat of my motorcycle. Not a lot, but a little. And it smelled very, very faintly of burning plastic.
I looked underneath but could see nothing cracked, broken or melted. I could see nothing sticking to the hot exhaust pipe, I could see nothing out of the ordinary except a really, really lot of gnats stuck to the underside of the mud guard.
I lifted the seat where the fuse box and wiring are. There was nothing out of the ordinary there either. The wiring looked fine, there was nothing melted or hot smelling.
The smoke dissipated after about two minutes, but left me feeling angry and afraid. I talked to the guys at work who seemed to think that it's nothing about which to worry. "Oh, it's just a zip tie or a bit of plastic bag that got caught on your tailpipe." "It might be an exhaust leak that's heating up some plastic." The consensus was that I will not die if I continue to ride it, despite that little inner voice I have that is telling me "It's suicidal to drive a vehicle that is issuing smoke from any part therein."
Well, that's fine. Except that the last time something bad happened, first I complained to pirateguillermo and he dismissed it as nothing. Then I insisted that we take it to the shop where they drove it around the block one time, pronounced that "nothing was wrong with it," and sent me on my way. Two days later I drove it to work and ended up stranded on the freeway. I was furious at pirateguillermo, furious at the shop, furious at men in general who think that if you are not a certified mechanic, you are a moron.
Is that how it's gonna be? Is it? 'Cos if that's how it's gonna be, somebody's going to end up sorry. And I can tell you right now, it's someone else's turn.