In Dubai, Husband owned two and a half motorbikes. It might have been more/less, but my brain is set to automatically shut down upon registering keywords ‘motorbike’, ‘engine mount’, and ‘hydraulic brake’, in much the same way Husband’s does when I mention the words ‘book‘ and ‘flights‘. Therefore, if he ever told me about his quantity of motorbike, the information was unsuccessfully processed; and it was always difficult to accurately assess the number because existing motorbike(s) were often spread out in their component pieces in the back garden.
With regard to the portion of bike, there existed what might have been an engine and a couple of wheels, which you might think qualifies as significantly more than half a bike, but according to – well, me – if a bike doesn’t have the capacity to start and roar around the place performing wheelies, it only merits a small fraction. In other words, a bike either Is or Isn’t, so according to – yes, me again – I’m being pretty generous with the half ratio.
Before we left Dubai, Husband sold one and a bit of his motorbikes. We shipped what remained at vast expense and I shagged a customs official to get it into New Zealand. I was under the impression that all Husband had to do was top up the oil and turn the key, and the thing would be hot to trot. If I’d known how far it was from hot trottage*, I would have stopped at heavy petting with possibly a bit of face-licking.
When the motorbike† was delivered some time after the rest of our possessions, the excitement was palpable. Husband put on his motorbike boots and tried to bond with the delivery men (not as much as I bonded with the customs official, but still fairly extreme for Husband; he asked them how they were, and made a comment about the weather).
Since then the motorbike† has been on a cement block in the garage acting as an effective clothes horse, while Husband buys up parts and tools on TradeMe. This prompts discussions along the lines of:-
“Niamhie, should I buy this clutch cylinder case guard? It’s got hard black oxide coating <slaver>.”
“Do you really need it?”
“Not REALLY, but it’s only $255 and the seller says he’ll throw in a special clearance crank bearing free.”
“Yeah, it would be bordering on criminal to miss out on a bargain like that.”
Yesterday morning, Husband repaired to the garage. I was meditating with my muse in the living room when a great roar shook me out of my bean bag. Windows rattled, floors shook, Waitakere trembled. I ran to the window, and caught Husband’s tail on a motorbike‡ booting down the drive.
He was moving fast, but I managed to snap his triumphant return:-
Husband’s official report is that the bike needs ‘a bit’ more work. It still sputters on acceleration, and he and his bike nearly ended up in a tree when the brakes crapped out on a corner. Another terrifying moment was when Hairy Dave gave him a dirty look for excessive revving.
* Can you BELIEVE ‘trottage’ is not a defined word? And yet – yet! – ‘frottage’ IS. Once again I marvel at how screwed up the world is.
† For ease of reference.
‡ Disregard †