Dreams of Glory

I managed to sneak in a quick circuit of the National Motorcycle Museum on Thursday.

To me, there’s something wrong about the hushed silence blanketing the chrome, leather and livery of so many extraordinary motorcycles. Like a pack of greyhounds ready to race, you should be able to hear them a mile off.

Still, while the silence may be wrong, if you stand in the right place, you can catch just a trace of oil, hot metal and burning rubber. And there’s always at least one innocent looking old boy ready to tell tales of the time they terrified their fiance taking them pillion on a Vincent Black Shadow, or dropped into France with the parachute bike falling behind them…



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2 responses to “Dreams of Glory

  1. That parachute bike sounds like a bit if a bugger for their colleague dropped 10 seconds later…one moment you’re delighted to have reached the ground safely, the next it’s “Ouch! Where the f**k did that come from?!”

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