No, not dark chocolate. The Bike. The Bike. The sort of Bike that winds into country roads in Devon, sticking to the tarmac like its been glued there (well of course moveable glue, otherwise it would not go forward…you get the picture). Ah, yes freedom of the english highway, freedom to dodge the “sorry mate i didn’t see you”, freedom to skid through the admixture of cowshit, oil and blood (from the previous biker’s death), and freedom to scare the living bejeesus out of little old ladies in Totnes when you wind up the baffle free ‘not for road use’ exhaust pipes. Not very carbon friendly of course and hitting a car coming out of a junction takes the shine off the day somewhat (1977 and I still bear the scars) but hey i am old and I am going to die. Might as well be screaming maniacally while high on K and horlicks as I slam into a carthorse in Penwith.