Many who know me would argue (or hope) that I’m a figment of a particularly diseased imagination. “Enough already!”, I cry — this isn’t about my existence, it’s about whether I really want to get a bike again after all these years, or whether I’m just being a sad git in search of the illusory joys of a previous decade — liking the idea rather than necessarily the execution. If I get it wrong, it’s expensive. It’s also about being able to pitch up a dealer for a test ride without looking like a panicked gopher.

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