Dr. V's Hero

For an expat-local, dilemmas like broken vehicles present worrisome challenges. Most locals know of trustworthy garages, processes and protocols, even if they have never actually experienced an issue. Moreover, they usually know someone nearby who can help. When my scooter, Dr. V, broke down at the most inopportune moment, I felt my little expat-local confidence balloon collapse. In working through the problem I discovered two excellent tools. The associated organizations, Rapid Recovery and JC Motorcycles, offered some of the best customer service and value for money I’ve experienced in Plymouth. And because my internet is kaput due to gale-force winds, the following review is a written as a story, too.
It had been a long expat-local day spent working Miss Ivy’s “All Things Vintage & Lovely” event. The proprietor of these traveling vintage clothing and bric-a-brac show is a friend of mine. Working her events is equal parts joy and job. Over the course of 12 hours, I serve tea in the café, lift-and-shift for stallholders, pass out event flyers, and respond umpteen times to the question, “Where are you from?”

This was the first event when I enjoyed the luxury of transporting via Dr. V, my new Chinese-made scooter. To explain his look, if a Harley were to have sex with Vespa and their baby was Chinese, it would be Dr. V. I arrived to the event with fresh legs and RSVP’d to a party afterward, sure that I would have enough time to zip home, zip into whatever new vintage frock I picked up at the event, scarf down a cupcake from Miss Ivy mainstay Dot-Tea’s Cakes, and then meet friends on the Barbican. I finally knew how to save enough energy at a Miss Ivy show to keep my expat-local patience and enjoy a night out afterward. It all came down to Dr. V.

Around 5:45PM on a Saturday, I leave Plymouth Guildhall to mount Dr. V. Helmet? Check. Gloves? Check. Cake perched on backseat, wrapped with bike lock to keep in-place? Check. Keys go in, click, turn, clack, lights flash, right hand twists, whirr, cough, black. Are you there, Dr. V? It’s me, Emily. Nothing. I figured it was the gas. Dr. V has his own version of “Full and Empty.” When he’s low he refuses to move an inch. I totally appreciate this attitude; I get hangry, too (hungry-angry). Hence the green gas can I keep tied to Dr. V’s rack. Saying a prayer of gratitude, I galloped to Asda gas station, filled up my gas can, trotted back to the Dr., and filled ‘er up in less than 20 minutes. I’m so smart, I thought.
Helmet? Check. Gloves? Check. Cake? Check. Keys go in, click, turn, clack, lights do not flash, right hand stills twists, no whirr, no cough. Nothing.

I openly wailed. It felt like I was watching a movie where Los Angeles crumbles into the ocean. Woe is me! Why did I buy this stupid scooter? I bet I was swindled. Who do I call? I just want my Dad. I’ll never make it to the party! £15 ticket fee down the drain because I’m a stupid expat-local with a stupid scooter and a stupid plastic thing full of cake. I have no idea what to do. I bet Dr. V hates me because I’m American. I bet this parking spot has a curse on it and Plymothians already know that. I bet an angry English goblin stole the battery while I was at Miss Ivy’s Event. I hate England! I hate scooters! I’m never leaving Denver again!
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Later in the evening, bus ticket in the bin and several cakes consumed, I Googled terms like “scooter help in Plymouth.” Because the toll-free number for Rapid Recovery is advertised on every page (+07597 730239) I initially ignored it. Desperate for information and realizing it was the only line open at 7PM on a Saturday night, I rang. The young man who answered the phone empathetically, asking me a few questions and trouble-shooting. He quickly determined he couldn’t solve the problem and provided me a list of next options, only one of which was using his recovery service. He advised me to wait until the next day when I could tow it directly to a garage. After we hung up, he sent me a text message with his recommendation. “We only charge £25 for Recovery,” he said. I actually cried on the phone. “You have made me feel so much better!” 

The next day I trooped to the city center with a scooter-aware friend. We concluded that Dr. V needed a new battery. A kind-hearted fellow helped us to jump-start. As the battery was completely dead, I couldn’t let off the gas nor start without a jump. The helpful Plymothian followed me down the street in his car in case I lost power again. Finally, I got Dr. V home.
After calling several garages in Plymouth and receiving the response, “We don’t do Chinese,” I searched Dr. V’s records. I found an invoice from JC Motorcycles at Warleigh Avenue. I grumbled, Where-Leigh is more like it. Google reviews showed 5-star ratings. A cheery bloke answered my call (+01752 551867), “Oh yah, sounds like the battery, bring him in! I might remember him.” I’ll bring Dr. V AND my wedding ring because we’re getting married, I elated.

A red, a black, a twist, and a clack later, Dr. V and I are off, diving into the neighborhood near St. Levan’s Gate, one of Devonport Dockyard’s entryways. Finally, Dr. V and I putter to the open door of JC Motorcycles. The workshop is nuzzled picturesquely into the walls of the iconic rail bridge spanning Devonport. Two tall tattooed men work inside the roof peaked by beams that I guess were stolen from ships. When I jump off Dr. V with a joyous hoot and fist-pump John, the owner, casually greets me. Taking one look at Dr. V, he smiles. “Oh yah, it’s no problem at all. Just leave it here on the street and I’ll replace the battery. I’ll fix that starter, too.” As I chat with another customer in the sunshine, John replaces the battery and uses a screwdriver to adjust some knob with ease, like a teenage boy fixing his bicycle. The other customer offers me cake, explaining, “I bring cake to the boys every time I come.” John gladly lets me use the loo to refill my water bottle. The bathroom is in the loft, where I notice a wicker Harley Davidson bike hanging above their heads. It’s a sweet addition to the posters and typically disorganized garage atmosphere. John tells me that four employees work here. His customer tells me this is the best bike repair shop in Plymouth.

Within 20 minutes Dr. V is ready to go. When he purrs back to life, I feel like the battery of my heart was also replaced. I try to explain to John how grateful I am for his service, gushing, “This is an expat’s worst nightmare!” John chuckles. His co-worker peeks at me in concerned wonderment from behind the hub of a bike. John runs up my invoice for a mere £30 with a 12-month guarantee. I croon like a cock in the country.