Sometimes it’s hard to make a start on anything and sometimes it’s too easy to make a start on everything and then stall paralysed by the choices. For the Le Mans it the former and even the purchase of a motorcycle lift failed to spur this project into life. I prevaricated over what kind of project it would be, a sympathetic restoration, an oily rag rat bike or a wire wheeled, alloy tanked cafe racer. In my head I would one day find myself with the peace of mind to methodically address each component and, in a pristine well organised workshop meticulously raise each to a zenith of perfection.
So she sat, silent and still, while all around my life raced on, like H. G. Wells’ time machine stroked by the flickering sun rises and sets. I busied myself with surviving my work and the new reality of waking up alone. The bike, elevated on its altar, received an occasional passing caress to a rocker cover, buffed by the touch like the belly of a lucky Buddha.
Here are the timing gears for which time stood still.
Le Mans man 