Motorcycles and misfits

Motorcycles and misfits

I’m lying on my back on a freezing cold concrete garage floor, my breath cursing the cold as I twist my body to get at the bolts that need releasing, skimming my knuckles in the process. I’m underneath the back of my old Harley, sorting out some awkward routine maintenance and on a tight deadline to get the job done. It’s late in the evening, and I’ve got to be on the road first thing in the morning to conduct a funeral several hours away.

These days, I try not to ride sub-zero unless I really have to. The knees and back can’t take it any more. I guess riding somewhere in the region of approaching 500,000 miles, in all weathers, has caught up. The bike is carrying a few scars as well. It’s been a solid workhorse and never really let me down, apart from the time the stator packed up on my way back from Poland which became a bit of an adventure. It’s survived a few scrapes and there’s definitely more corrosion than chrome these days. But I look at this old bike and it’s like a favouri...

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