OK, OK! I admit it. I’ve been slacking on the spannering front. Not entirely idle, but certainly slacking. I have given myself a verbal warning about this. After two more I shall sack myself. Which is easier said than done, but I know I deserve punishment. Why? Because I’ve been having an utterly ace summer time riding around all over the place in sunshine (and thunderstorms) instead of locking myself away in The Shed and sweating over a hot Thor hammer.

What a summer. What. A. Stunner.

At the risk of introducing personal nonsense into a magazine story read by a couple of million total strangers who don’t care at all, I will reveal that this is a special summer. This is the summer in the middle of which – before you read this, in fact – I shall hit that magic age when the government starts to pay me simply to be alive. What a great thing. What a surprise.

Which is a slightly insane way of revealing that I decided to make an old-age resolution: if I’ve some spare time, instead of diving into The Shed and immersing myself in the grubby fascinations of the BSA A65T, I shall drag out a motorcycle which actually works and head for the hills. The Welsh hills. And this is what I’ve done.

It is not a new thing, by the way. I make this resolution every year. It is however unusual, mostly because in all previous years, by some mysterious cosmic force, whenever

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