So I went to the Glasgow Transport Museum (it’s actually called the Riverside Museum, but that’s a useless name as it gives you no clue as to what I was looking at) and had a life-changing moment inspired by one of the exhibits.
Someone at the Museum really doesn’t like bikers. There are many splendid carriages and conveyances, hanging on the walls, dangling from the ceiling, threatening to impale an impala….and one Triumph Thunderbird, on its side labelled “motorbike crash.”
People die in cars, they maim themselves in planes, they scar their chins falling off push-bikes – why am I singled out for a memento mori? It wasn’t even a crash that could teach an important lesson, like “always wear your back protector.” The guy got rammed by a car driver. In the panel beside the bike, he says “the only way I could have avoided the crash was not to be there.”
What an incredidbly crass and revolting exhibit.
But that wasn’t the one which inspired me to change my life.
It was this one.
It’s a C-reg. It’s two years younger than Hortense, who drove me up to Glasgow.
My car is a museum piece.
In covering thousands of miles up and down the UK, perhaps I am being unreasonable in my expectations of her.
I don’t think she would like to be hung on a wall like an ornament. But maybe she would like a quieter life.
She has developed a bad case of wheel-wobble. New bearings haven’t fixed it. So she is at the Northern Rest Home for Distressed Machinery, waiting to get new kingpins fitted. And I bought a proper car for 1500 quid to drive home in. It has a cup holder. There’s flash.