world and now were eternal witnesses to my walk of shame. Sun was still shining, skies were still blue, but that was about it. I’ve not been back on that bike in the 25 years since that day, and it
patiently waits, fully restored in my parents’ garage under the cover of a drape. Maybe it’s because I’ve moved on to an F 650 GS that’s taken me more than 110,000 miles to every state in the continental United States and each province in Canada. Maybe it’s because that same green, ven- omous snake-colored piece of equipment unknowingly catapulted me into the motorcycle adventures I enjoy today. Yet, every now and then when I visit my family, I tell myself to pull
that drape and start that little bike for old times’ sake. I mean, what is the worst that could happen?
