FRANK WESTWORTH
Nostalgia is a many-splendoured thing, as someone of a poetic bent might have said. It's likely that we all suffer from nostalgia to some degree or other – I most certainly do, although in truth I do not hanker much for my younger days. The only thing better about them was that I was younger – in my much younger days, that is, not last week or even last year.You know what I mean!
I've been writing a series of stories for another magazine based around the great stand-out bikes I've had the vicarious pleasure of riding down the years, and although none of them has been a Bullet so far, there has long been a particular singular model which I remember with nothing but fondness. That would be – of course – the Woodsman, about which I've talked a lot in these pages over the last several months. I've already told you how I chased after a couple, but finally found one at a sensible price in faraway Wisbech, which mean that I bought it unseen. A process fraught with perils, as you will be aware.
The first signs were all good. The Woodster started on the button, ticked over like a lively and loud metronome and was in pleasantly good order throughout. Everything worked apart from the headlamp flasher, which I can live without. The fly in the embrocation was a fuel injection glitch, with a noted step between tickover and acceleration – a little irritating at low
