Part of my own (very) long-term fascination for old – and strange – motorcycles has been the mysterious ability to become obsessed. It happens all the time. The obsession usually begins when I borrow a bike, ride about on it to write about it later, decide I must have one, and spend the next however long plotting, scheming and generally wasting huge amounts of time, effort and money until eventually I acquire one.
What happens next is seemingly endlessly variable while at the same time grimly predictable. Although I’d never admit it in public, I do sometimes suffer from buyer’s remorse. Quite frequently, in fact. If you’re happily unfamiliar with this appalling affliction, it’s what happens when after a century or so of ruminating, scheming, saving plotting and finally spending,…
