Why we do it?: An Artist & An Atheist Cruise

By Maurice O'Neill

This book is about motorcyclists and why they enjoy it. For non-motorcyclists, it offers an honest insight into why people drive motorcycles, the culture, and their thoughts. The story starts with the preparation of the motorcycles for a five-day journey to the infamous Tail of the Dragon, bordering North Carolina and Tennessee.

Motorcyclists will nod their heads in agreement while reading this book, and hopefully, others will appreciate their motivation for knowledge is the key to understanding.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Feb 10, 2020
• ISBN: 9781098302047

Book preview

By kind permission of Rowland E. Johnson, Owner Tail of the Dragon, LLC.

Copyright © 2020 - Maurice O’ Neill.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed Attention: Permissions Coordinator, at the address below.

Front cover image by - Maurice O’ Neill.

Book design by Designer – Maurice O’ Neill.

Body text is Palatino Linotype 10

Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Names, characters, and places are products of the author’s imagination.

Supplied by BookBaby.com, in the United States of America.

First release edition 2020.

ISBN: 9781098302047

Publisher

Maurice O’ Neill

303 Teaneck Road,

Teaneck, NJ, 07666, US

Email: [e-mail]

Web: www.maurice.ie

In memory of John and Alice, and all fallen riders.

Dedicated to my greatest supporter and beautiful wife, Stella, with special thanks to Andrea Doyle, Barbara Piela, Terry Coughlin, Genille Simpas and, biking companions, Bob Smith and Herb Dyer, for their editing, constructive criticism, and friendship.

For excerpts of my other books, please visit WWW.MAURICE.IE

Whispers of my Thoughts (fiction - short stories)

Memories of Somalia (non-fiction - UN mission in Somalia)

Margo McDonagh (fiction/drama - gypsy mother & son)

The Quiet Stories of Life (fiction/non-fiction short stories)

Uno and the Barons (fiction – detective story)

Delusions of a Banshee (fiction – delayed adulthood)

Weight, Stress & Sexuality (self-help – achieving hypnosis)

Erotic Scribbles (fiction –liberated sexual views points)

The Therapist’s Thoughts on Sex and Life (fiction obsession)

Contents

Obsession is only Unbridled Passion

A Quick Word about my Beliefs

Teaneck, NJ - Preparing for a Road Trip

Day One – Staunton, Virginia

Day Two – Linville, North Carolina

Day Three – Knoxville, Tennessee

Day Four – Robbinsville, NC

Day Five – Staunton, Virginia

Day Six – Teaneck, New Jersey

Appendage Weight Control

The world is full of us aspiring writers who are willing to invest in ourselves while striving towards that coveted spot on the best sellers list. The reality is we are like a nest of swarming African termites, millions take flight, and only the minutest few will be successful. After thirty years, I’m still not disillusioned.

Therefore, I thank you warmly for supporting me with this purchase and hope I may enlist you to advocate my craft.

Maurice O’ Neill

Obsession is only Unbridled Passion

My garage sits at the bottom of our garden. It is my retreat, but there is nothing sanctimonious to be found here, the opposite, in fact. My garage is a space to chill, relax, and putter leisurely around. My garage relaxes me. Everybody should have such a refuge. Let me tell you about my garage.

From the outside, this cream-colored, 22-foot square garage looks like many others. It is an unimpressive structure, with two side-by-side, up-and-over garage doors. However, like the human body, its heart beats from within.

Often, especially if I close my eyes, the scents of my garage assault me with memories. Lurking under these cresol rafters and shingle roof, are the accumulation of 14 years of indulgence and unbridled pleasure. On the shelves, you will find a plethora of cleaning agents, oils, and glues, all with their labels carefully aligned outwards. Discreet in the shadows, there are eyebolts, lashing rings, and cleats that echo of risqué play never to be spoken of. Today, as I prepare our motorcycles for the trip, each canister, spanner, eyebolt, and nut whispers to me of their exploits.

Memories are what manufacture an individual. Memories release love when loneliness threatens. Memories guide you when trouble is brewing. Memories are the history that accompanies us into the decays of old age, so we may find a reason to smile. Memories are the map of our lives.

This ordinary garage was erected in 1956, by men who are all most likely dead by now. Did they express pride in their craftsmanship when they were building my garage, or was it just another mundane job to put food on the table and clothes on their backs? As they worked in the summer heat of 1956, could they have guessed that I was across the Atlantic Ocean, in Ireland, floating warm and safe in the amniotic sac?

While these workers positioned and secured the joists with hammers and two-inch steel nails, my mother, several thousand miles away, waddled to the corner-store, her only concern that dinner should be on the table when my father got home.

The cresol soaked trusses overhead will never rot, nor invite insect infestation, and protected within, the steel nails will last three hundred years.

As humans, we seldom consider how our actions affect others. They do. Virtually every step of our life’s journey intersects with others. Mostly, it is subtle like a fragrance in the air as you pass a bakery, but occasionally, beyond all reasonable expectations, it creates an emotional trigger that lies dormant, like a dry seed in the earth, a memory waiting to bloom.

Sixty-two years later, I thank these men for their craftsmanship. This perfectly square structure is a symmetrical refuge of tranquility for a dyslexic, obsessive-compulsive, semi-deaf owner to enjoy the silence, and relish the ambiance in peace. There are no threats in my garage. No hidden alcoves to cast a shadow of inquiry. Just straight, clean lines of indifference. Everything here is visible, orderly, and neat. Everything is within a few steps and stretch of an arm.

Even the cresol trusses that support the roof overhead run perfectly aligned; - a mathematician’s dream at exactly sixteen inches center to center, without deviation, not a single warped piece of timber.

It is a perfect space. Purchased empty, and furnished solely by my hand, it is a practical example of my extreme fetish for order. Every canister and bottle label is facing out and positioned squarely to its shelf. The floor is twice coated with a bright sky blue epoxy, harder than varnish, more durable than cement, and most importantly oil-resistant.

The exposed roof trusses are without unsightly hooks or dangling leftover trinkets that might prove useful in years to come. Overhead, there is only one carefully positioned eyebolt that holds a block-and-pulley, which resides in a clear plastic bag until a heavy lift is required, be it an engine block, plaything or motorcycle that I’m working on.

Religiously, twice a year, January and July, the extended arm of my garage wet & dry vacuum cleaner reaches up amongst the trusses to remove all spider webs and traces of dust. My garage must be as clean as my house and my motorcycles. I demand it be so. Such order relaxes my mind and stimulates me with good intentions.

To my rational mind, which demands justification by logical reasoning, this space of simple horizontal and vertical lines offers no resistance. There is no malice lurking. My garage is my church. However, unlike a mosque, synagogue, cathedral, or temple, my garage requires only myself, and some motorcycles to make it complete. My garage, therefore, is my sanctuary. There are only my thoughts and accumulated knowledge for guidance. The religion of my garage is based solely on the sensibility of logic, information, research, and action to create a logical solution. The result may be amicable, disagreeable, or even abhorrent, but the answer will always be sensible, logical, and never exceed my practical abilities. Yes, my garage is my church, and my salvation comes from within myself, always from within.

*****

To put my passion for motorcycles into perspective, since we purchased our house and detached garage in 2004, I have circulated more than $1.2 million on motorcycles, and the indulgence continues. Circulate may seem a strange choice of words, but remember I first purchase the motorcycle, then after driving for a period of time, I sell it, and that money gravitates to my next motorcycle. Therefore, $1.2 million is just the overall number. My actual expenditure, at a guess, is slightly under $200,000.

It may sound like madness to some, but my quest is simple. Allow me to explain. In Europe, vehicle taxes can be 165% of retail, and there is a significant annual road tax fee. A gallon of gas costs over 7 dollars and vehicle insurance is typically quadruple the American rate, with severe restrictions.

In Europe, only the person named on the policy is insured to drive the individual vehicle, whereas, in America, the vehicle is insured, so with permission and a valid driving license, anybody can drive any vehicle.

Additionally, the American used motorcycle market is enormous. Buying second-hand bikes privately is a doddle, and they are so cheap compared to European prices. In Europe, I owned about fifteen motorcycles and never held more than two at the same time. In America, I have owned more than nine motorcycles on numerous occasions. If I see a bargain, like the bike, and have the cash, then it is a no brainer. It’s mine! As I was saying, realizing the availability and cost of motorcycles in America, I challenged myself to own and ride every make and model of motorcycle that I like. Also, I have friends who visit that are motorcyclists, so a spare ride is always appreciated, especially when American insurance affords them the opportunity.

With my mechanical abilities and attention to detail, if I purchase right, I can make repairs, clean, polish, add extras, and enjoy the bike for a few months. Then I flip it with minimal loss, or on the rarest of occasion, show a modest profit. Profit is the sweetest pill of all. I have owned many motorcycles in America. The tally to date of writing is 173. The breakdown is: -

Honda, 41 units - reliability and efficiency with decent manners and looks.

BMW, 40 units – ageless, robustly efficient, ultra-functional, and most models hold their value at resale.

Kawasaki, 38 units - the plow-horse of motorcycles, with rock-solid performance and minimum maintenance.

Suzuki, 32 units - inelegant, but functional.

Yamaha, 9 units - practicable, sedate, reliable, and as exciting as a sleeping hippo.

Ducati, 5 units – beautiful, exciting, and designed to keep the reckless safe.

Can-Am, 2 units - interesting, but not the motorcycle experience I presently seek. However, these trikes are super for two up riding, smoothness, and handling. Their comfort, and luggage capacity are excellent. I would like to write another book about such a journey.

Triumph, 2 units - surprisingly refined with a hidden thrill factor. The Rocket, I loved; - the Daytona was too small for me. I felt like a giraffe trying to have sex with a dog.

Buell, 1 unit - that was one too many.

Harley Davidson, 1 unit - one should never say never again, - but definitely, never again.

MV Agusta, 1 unit - guaranteed to remove the beat from the faint-hearted.

Moto Guzzi,       1 unit - charisma and efficiency blended into fun.

There are many more motorcycles on my shopping list, a used Hellcat would be a dream, perhaps a Bimota, and a Motus, and a Ninja H2R, and definitely a 4-cylinder Ducati Panigale R, and I think you grasp the picture I paint. How much heroin does an addict crave? My perfect garage contains 101 motorcycles with room for one more.

If I may be so audacious, my passion has also given me an insight into the status of the motorcycle market. In general, the picture I see requires a serious address. Unfortunately, since the mass sell-off of private motorcycles after the 2008 financial collapse, the market has continued to shrink. Only Asia is experiencing significant growth in motorcycle sales, but most are under 400 cc, and frequently the only mode of motorized transport for an entire family.

There are many reasons why motorcycling has become less fashionable, and perhaps people more responsible. Fewer young people are entering the sport as the draw of modern interactive technology, such as online gaming, lures them away. There is also a solvency issue as most young people finish the education system with staggering debts.

Additionally, our competitive accelerating pace of life and need to embrace modern technology means less time for personal pursuits.

Family agendas demand more parent participation in the lives of their children.

The roads themselves are more congested, while cars have become so quiet and luxurious, that many forget they are hurtling down a motorway. Hence, driver distraction has never been more detrimental to motorcyclists.

Politicians have fallen foul to corporate greed, and corporations are amalgamating to create monopolies, which structure society with rigid order, not for the greater good, but to harvest more profit. That puts less in the average families’ purse, and financial priorities in the form of bills, food, and housing must take precedence over social pursuits.

Today, the average American rider is approaching fifty years of age. Their children are self-sufficient, and his or her motorcycle is likely to be more expensive than the average base model car.

Motorcycle manufacturers, in their defense, have invested heavily to retain their market share. They have incorporated technology into motorcycling. The advent of ABS, traction control, electronic suspensions, fuel injection, and dual compound tires has dramatically enhanced safety and performance, but in turn, have driven prices upwards in an already fragile market. Motorcycle shops, including custom builders, continue to be walloped hard by developing market trends. Many private shops have ceased trading, and main agents, with their substantial distribution outlets, are in survival mode and leaning heavily on the manufacturers for support.

I don’t wish to paint a dismal picture, but motorcycling is definitely undergoing a paradigm shift that needs an address in the form of advertising campaigns, more female participation, and social activities with a family orientation.

*****

A Quick Word about my Beliefs

In the religious spectrum, I’m self-employed. Simply put, this means, I enjoy anybody who engages me as a human being, without seeking to imprint their faith upon me.

However, I remain tolerant and respectful to the beliefs of others, but for me personally, the foundation of religion resides solely in the human sphere devoid of any celestial intervention. So yes, I’m an atheist by classification.

For me, knowledge is the result of conversation. Confidence is the result of respect. Happiness is a state of mind. In addition, this mixture of knowledge, confidence, and happiness is the essence of one’s character.

My modus operandi centers on rational logic, scientific validation, and the present moment. Following is my road trip story, my life, my game, my rules, my choices, and my values. Hereafter, I just live in that space and allow you to observe.

So anything profound that you may infer from this book is of your own design and choosing.

Since the age of twelve, I questioned the clergy of all creeds, for isn’t it evident that such a diversity of religions draws the credibility of all into question? On overview, the motley of religions, their stark variations, and persistent incapacity to coexist, is proof enough that they are guided by something less than the heavenly principles they extol. To my reasoning, preaching about illusions of an afterlife without a tangible thread of truth is a fairy tale gone awry.

Indeed, no deity is going to materialize and help prepare my motorcycles, to slide me a spanner across the floor, or hold the opposite end of a bolt beyond my reach.

Belief is an elegant word. It is beautiful, mystical, but to stimulate my mentality, there should always be a logical trail of substance to analyze. A caterpillar makes a cocoon, and a butterfly emerges. The tadpole grows legs and sheds its tail to become a frog. However, there is nothing so tangible about religion. The crematorium and earth produce no returnees, and man has reached the moon without colliding into any celestial bodies.

Then I also have trouble justifying that fifty percent of the population is female, yet their presence in the echelons of all faiths remains virtually nonexistence. What nonsense is this when man himself sprouts from such a chalice?

Being flippantly brutal and not without cynicism, my understanding is that religious institutions are awarded reverence and alms, and in return, they verbally assure their flock that the qualities they most covet in life will be allocated to them in death. Forgive me, but this is the perfect insurance policy, place a check in the corpse’s breast pocket before cremation.

Growing up in Irish society, heavily influenced by Christianity, my absence of belief created a personal vacuum that required a logical substitution. This substitution was found in a positive disposition toward humanity. At the tender age of twelve, I formulated the belief that everybody has the right to be happy all the time, as long as they don’t impede on the happiness of others. For me, it remains a simple but ultra-functional logic.

There is ample room in my world for anyone who seeks peace, regardless of their skin color, sexuality, social standing, politics or beliefs. I understand and accept that life is not black and white. There are many graduations of belief, so I’m tolerant until chastised or intruded upon. Only then would I become incisive with a retort, unbridled in action, and absolutely unrepentant for any consequences that may occur. This adjective ‘absolutely’ in the last sentence requires clarity, so you may better understand my actions later on. If someone deliberately consumes a moment of my time without invitation, I will react decisively, without restraint or regret.

Therefore, I find zealots problematic, for such fervent believers drift from the wholesome to the expectant, where they lodge in a void beyond tangible anchors. They preach instead of suggest. Their opinions lack tolerance, compromise or sound reasoning. In essence, they become a horse with blinders, predictable, irritating, and prone to manipulation.

As an atheist, I replace the notion of eternity with three non-variables.

1. Nothing is more valuable than time. It is infinitely more important than money. A single second wasted is forever lost, and the present moment is the only existence of real importance.

2. The guiding logic of our all senses is based on data that we can assimilate into tangible reasoning. Everything else is conjecture.

3. Accepting one’s fate circumvents the delusion of hope and allows failure to become an opportunity.

A good life for an atheist is to live in the moment and maximize it, for the only certainty in life is that you will eventually die. Religion preys on this reality with promises of an afterlife. They promise resurrection and everlasting happiness… or damnation if you ignore their preaching. So now there are two afterlives! One is a beautiful place filled with joy, butter, and biscuits for donations received, and the other, should you disobey, fire, brimstone, and bottomless buckets of misery. For me, this is one incredibly big elephant pile of belief.

*****

Teaneck, NJ - Preparing for a Road Trip

July 2018, Teaneck, New Jersey.

It is a perfect July afternoon. The light is crisp, the day warm. A woodpecker with the rhythm of a demented drummer is visiting my neighbor’s tree again. Both garage doors are open to encourage a breeze. I’m busy preparing a pair of Kawasaki Vulcan 900 LT’s for a journey to the Tail of the Dragon in North Carolina. A raucous of blackbirds sings in the fully-grown Norwegian maple tree that stands in my back garden. Its umbrella canopy shadows the house from the sun. My neighbor, who is a know-it-all, says the shade saves two hundred dollars a month on my cooling bill. I’m not inclined to believe him, and he doesn’t have to rake its leaves each November.

The two groundhogs who pillage my garden have lost their fear. They don’t run away from my presence or shadow across the garden anymore. They watch me with keen eyes and keep a comfortable distance from each other and me. I can live with that. They have a hole at each end of the garden, and the house eaves I share with a pair of robins and a pair of doves. A mature Black Cherry, its branches as smooth as a woman’s arms, overhangs the garden tool shed, and a pair of Great-tailed Grackles have taken residency. Rabbits, like the woodpecker, are frequent visitors, as is a red-tailed hawk, which stealthily roosts in my know-it-all neighbor’s Fraser Fir stalking a flock of resident doves to little success. Living less than seven miles as the crow flies from the neon lights of Times Square, the presence of animals, even possums, makes me happy. I’m a creature of nature myself, a country bumpkin at heart, and perhaps this partially explains my passion for motorcycling as it exposes me to the elements.

I’m looking forward to my forthcoming trip.

The Tail of the Dragon is an iconic destination for all motorcyclists. It is a magical stretch of road starting on a hill at Deals Gap, North Carolina and dropping eleven miles and 318 corners to cross the borderline into Tennessee. It is a place of exhilaration or savage carnage. Over the years, it has claimed lives and hundreds, perhaps thousands of motorcycles. It is a challenge of skill and concentration for those who dare push their luck. The road surface is sketchy in places, and the corners come at you in such rapid succession creating a dizzying pace. Also, the road is narrow, and many corners display unusual cambers and deceiving radius curves so treacherous and tight that commercial traffic is banned.

The young and brash frequently overestimate their abilities, while the wise tread cautiously, as if blindfolded in a minefield. Even at a moderate speed, there is no room for error. Risk is ever-present; - it taints the air like summer pollen, and like geometry, danger requires precise calculation at every turn. Shake any flower too long or too hard, and petals will fall.

This motorcycle pilgrimage has given birth to a strange tree. At the start of the Tail of the Dragon, the Tree of Shame stands as tall as it is imposing. It is a testimony to those who challenged the Dragon and lost. From its branches, motorcycle debris dangles on strands of wire, twisting and swaying on each breeze, as if still trying to complete the journey. Bent and broken fragments of metal, mangled fairings too numerous to count, hang from the branches or are piled altar-high around the tree’s base.

Neither I nor Doug Francis, my traveling companion, intends to make a donation on this trip. Of course, nobody ever does.

Doug and I met in 2008 in Teaneck, New Jersey. We were activists against a proposed apartment development with the potential to irreparably impact our neighborhood. We became friends. Some years later, navigating his midlife crisis, he purchased a motorcycle from me, and this common interest solidified our bond. Now, not a week passes that we do not text or meet for a coffee. Originally, from the Southern Bible Belt, he is a good-natured lapsed Protestant, who sees the best in everybody, except when he is driving. Cut him off or blare your horn and then the paradigm shifts 180 degrees. He instantaneously erupts with aggression. It is so out of character that it never ceases to amaze me.

He always reminds me of when I was a child in Ireland, our neighbor across the street, Mr. Beryll, was of a similar disposition. An absolute gentleman in the street, the man would kick banana skins into the gutter, but the moment his hands touched the steering wheel of his car, the devil took possession of the poor man’s senses. Behind the steering wheel, Mr. Beryll instantly became an absolute lunatic. The moment he started his car, the housewives on the street closed their garden gates, tethered their pets, and kept eyes on their children. The man is worthy of the Guinness Book of Records as the only person alive who overturned a Morris Minor car without hitting anything.

Doug enjoys riding, but he is not mechanically minded at all. For me, a former automobile mechanic, maintenance and riding go hand-in-hand. At fifty-eight years old, Doug is a professional freelance photographer working in the Greater New York City Area. He also plays a mean trumpet on the local jazz circuit. He oozes of artist’s personality: - talented, emotional, and volatile. Unfortunately, I’m tone-deaf, so I’m as musically impaired as Doug is mechanically disadvantaged.

One of the biggest challenges of my youth was this hearing impediment. For me, it was normal that the first word of every sentence went unheard. If someone spoke to me from behind, it often came across garbled. Many tones rolled into one. Virtually all music was noise, and rock music was a wall of violence that caused headaches. However, youth is very adaptable, and you develop coping mechanisms. You avoid noisy venues, read lips, guess a sentence’s structure, and respond with enthusiasm and a smile.

When you can’t hear well, your pronunciation differs from others. As a byproduct, people can have difficulty understanding you. This curtails everything and is often embarrassing. You only speak when you have to. Challenged in communicating, it’s difficult to make friends easily, but your powers of imagination and depth of thought develop to compensate.

At the age of ten, I got a shortwave radio for Christmas. It was the greatest gift. Did my father realize its value to me? If so, he never said and since died, but it was undoubtedly an unusual Christmas gift. With the earplugs buried deep, the words echoed deliciously in my head, and I didn’t have to answer anybody.

During the day, I learned all about the Empire of Ireland, 600 miles long and 163 miles wide, a mighty landmass capable of separating the mighty Atlantic Ocean from the dribbles of the Irish Sea. In my young mind, Ireland was vast and densely populated. Over three million people squashed together like corn stalks in government-built pebble-dashed terrace houses, just like our own. You could neither walk nor run that distance in a single day.

Even if you were a doctor, one of the few people who owned an automobile in those days, the roads were narrow and shared with livestock. That livestock was policed by grumpy farmers, who always wore black Wellingtons, dirty, heavy tweed trousers, and straddled a shillelagh across their shoulders. Dare anybody sound their horn and scare his herd? Those farmers were Ireland’s first protagonists of road rage.

This is our first road trip together. Doug completed two long trips with his older brother on the West Coast, flying out there and renting a motorcycle. Until now, all our outings have been day trips. He has honed his skills on the backwater roads of New Jersey winding into New York State, where we always hang out at the ritzy Café à la Mode in the quaint town of Warwick.

Doug’s bike is parked next to mine. It is the same color, make, model, and is similarly equipped. To the untrained eye, they are identical, but Doug’s is a 2007 Kawasaki Vulcan Classic LT and mine is a 2009. The difference is metallic paint and, of course, the accessories. I’m big into technology, so a navigation system (GPS), USB ports, and various other electronic devices nestle between the handlebars. Doug is American born and needs only a cup holder and phone cradle.

*****

For twenty-seven years, I drove motorcycles on the twisty country roads of Ireland. During this time, I kept the throttle open as wide as possible, went as fast as I could, and lived in the moment.

Many American tourists visited our shores. We called them Yanks, and invariably they arrived trying to imitate our accents while wearing tartan trousers instead of kilts. Over the years, I befriended a few, which wasn’t easy as their two-week holiday tended to be a once-in-a-lifetime event. However, I began to understand that they worked hard and saved for several years to fund their holiday. They came mainly to find their roots and affirm their placement in the universe. I had a lot more respect for them when I realized this.

My view of America became a nation of bumblebees, fly until you die, but bring home the honey. I found them to be enslaved to money trying to fund lavish, unnecessary lifestyles, a larger home, a newer car, fridge, and bigger dinner plates. Their children were taken to school on a bus, whereas I walked two miles. At lunchtime, I had to run home and back to class in one hour. Hence, I learned to swallow rather than chew and run like a Billy goat with mustard on its ass.

Now I too live in America, and I do as the Americans do, mostly. My faculty remains unabridged. Driven by my curiosities, I tend to always delve deeper than is necessary. Only when the crankshaft, pistons, and valves lie scattered around my feet, do I remember I was just going to change the spark plugs. I am unable to prevent myself. Show me an onion, and I immediately want to count its skins.

For this 2,500-mile round trip, my bike needs to be serviced. The fluids must be flushed, and the filters changed. All belts, bolts, and sprockets must be checked for tension and defect, and the tires for tread depth and cuts. I have found the perfect method to service a motorcycle. With one microfiber cloth and a tin of spray polish, I train my eye on the front wheel rims, then on each individual spoke until I land on the mudguard, which takes me to the fork seals. Then I move upwards to the fuel tank, which I remove because I know it is dusty beneath. My nature is obsessive-compulsive. With the fuel tank removed, I must undress all the fairings until she is a pole dancer at the end of her performance.

With the cables and cylinder heads laid bare to sight, I step backward and appraise what I need to do to make this motorcycle perfect. I don’t service my motorcycles, I drool over them.

Let