Battlebike

Still mostly ugh today.  I've been grateful for the deluxe tissues that Mum brought the other day.  Toilet roll and kitchen roll feel like sandpaper in comparison.

I did my best to power through things at work and got three big tasks out of the way before finishing early and getting togged up in my motorbike clothes.  It's been a while, actually.  And with a gentle splutter and a hearty, Pipercross-filtered, Remus-piped roar, Africa Twin and I set off across the rugged badlands of Outer Midlothian to the motorbike garage for an MOT.  I was remarking to BikerBabe yesterday that this was the third attempt: on the first occasion, last year, I caught Covid just in time; on the second, I was unwell again for reasons I can't remember.  I still wasn't feeling great but third time's the charm as they say.  I was half-afraid the bike would break down, because the fuelling has sometimes been a bit tricky, but she behaved.

While men in overalls poked and prodded the patient, I had a long, slow wander around the block, trying not to get too warm in my heavy jacket.  I nipped into a supermarket for something for tea, and then returned to the garage, suddenly aware I'd not had any lunch yet.

And as for the garage's opinion, our survey said? … Ting!

So with that I climbed back onboard, clobbering the luggage boxes with my boot as is the habit of a lifetime, and we pop-pop-bang-popped our way home again.  I entertained a little laugh at the sheer docility of the mighty 750cc twin, where a handful of throttle achieved, well, not very much really, except perhaps +20dB.  Fidra would have been doing 80mph before you could say "what's the speed limit again?"

So the remaining question is: should she stay or should she go?  Battle scars are all very well – and there are quite a few of them – but there is a rather nice little Royal Enfield Himalayan going that would be a fun and more modern replacement.