I myself am in dry dock at
the moment; still struggling
to clear the rancid fumes of
countless Russian
juggernauts from my lungs.
The motorcycle that
delivered me home safe and
sound from my last jaunt, up
through Scandinavia and
through Eastern Europe, sits
resplendent in the garage,
impatiently awaiting the
next border. But with two
little boys learning to walk
via the systematic
destruction of my lounge,
that next big ride will have
to wait a while. The Kawasaki
must content itself, for the
time being at least, with
more local sorties; attacking
the Welsh A-roads on sunny
Sunday mornings and
scrubbing in those new
Pirellis at Oultan Park.
But that’s ok; each ride is an adventure and I don’t necessarily need to
be lost in Latvia or scything through Moscow traffic to appreciate the
joy of movement. Every time I fire up the ignition I know, with absolute
certainty, that memories are about to be made.
www.haplessbiker.com
Dun he talk
posh!