When I'd recovered somewhat from the immediate exhaustion, I got organised to clean the bike. It looked like rain later, so I figured I'd get her clean and shiny and then go park her under cover before the clouds broke.
Where I live, she's parked on the quiet, suburban street. Right next to a house have some renovations to its facade. So me, in jeans and a jersey, cleaning a motorbike, nonetheless afforded the building crew with hours of harmless entertainment.
I don't think they realised I could pretty much hear every word.
They couldn't decide if it was my bike. Then they thought it must be, because I was lavishing so much attention on the details. So clearly it couldn't be a real Harley. What? Oh, because I couldn't be more than 21. (Pauses to preen slightly and bite back a laugh). In the UK, that's too young to ride something as powerful as a Harley, even just the baby 883.
One of them wandered over to check out the tank, and yes, mate. That really is a genuine Harley Davidson marque. And yes, she's mine. And no, I'm not 21 anymore. But I didn't say a word, and neither did he. There was some more discussion after that, and some grumbling as earlier bets were lost.
I finished my polishing and swapped the bucket for my lid. I think my riding off to go and park her safely was the highlight of their lunch-break. After all, I do live on a very quiet suburban street.
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