It all started late one dark winter night.
Like all bad ideas, some sort of nameless, faceless Meade was involved, and quite possibly the main driver. The endless flickering of the screen kept flashing pictures of old broken down motorcycles in various states of disrepair, often from places far removed from the viewer.
With eyelids approaching half-mast, and the libation approaching a filmy residue, one last click of the electronic rodent brought a vision to the reddened eyes of our protaganist.
An ancient, dare I say extinct, Yamaha enduro. The same model, year and color formerly owned by our leading man. Priced for quick sale. Promised to be in fine running order. Less than two hours hence. Who could say “NO” when faced by such a predicament, and armed with a sufficient credit limit? The answer, of course, would not be answered that dark night, as another near silent click of the plastic mouse clinched the deal. The motorcycle would soon be in his quavering Hans, awaiting resurrection to it’s former glory.