REVISITED
I decided to buy a motorbike. A very specific bike that had been calling to me via eBay. A 1978 BMW R100S to be precise. I had ridden one extensively 27 years previously and, well, nostalgia and stuff. It had been my dad’s old bike; the DOB. He had tried to fit it with a Honda fairing for some reason, and when that went wrong he left it in the back of the garage in disgust.
I was 19 and in need of transport. My old, knackered Yamaha DT50 (circa early 1980s) which I had ridden since I was 16 just couldn’t cut it anymore. So of course a monstrous litre bike was the natural progression.
Stripping off the horrible fairing (a Honda Silverwing offering, I seem to recall) the DOB revealed itself like a butterfly emerging from a chrysalis. A rather tatty butterfly, combining oil and dust layers to an impressive depth. After a clean with degreaser it didn’t look much better. Bunging in a battery, it wouldn’t even turn over. I summoned my dad, the equivalent of Google back in the day. He poked at it, pulled out the clutch safety switch, short circuited it, tucked it away (where it stayed) and pressed the starter.
An enormous noise, as of wild beasts registering displeasure, a shaking as of gods saying it with earthquakes, a bang as of a motorcycle backfiring and a roar as of a
