Looks like an essential ride to us. Even if it’s just in his head

t has come to this. Retirement. Not me. But the snarling hooligan I bought 40 years ago has been assigned home-ornament status. My 1977 KH250, once the L-plated menace of our neighbourhood, is now an immaculate icon of youth misspent. A conversation-piece. Art.

I’m not entirely comfortable with this. Having a shiny motorbike indoors is borderline jerk-off. It’s OK if you won Daytona on the thing. But if you got it straight from a showroom?

I’ve broken four bones on this bike, among countless memorable incidents. It was ridden by a bunch of friends who never got to middle age.

There’s a practical reason for the move indoors. A while back I decided to give it a cheap rebuild, but mission-creeped and – at great expense – made it too perfect to ride.

It got parked in a lock-up. To my horror the rust fairies began nibbling. Meanwhile, I’d been restoring an ancient house, got bored with doing all the proper stuff so created a games room. Here the bike can languish happily.

I bought the KH a month before my 17th birthday – a month I spent sneaking out to the shed, to sit and imagine. Now I can sneak out with a beer while the family watches telly, perch on it and recall. And that, mid-lockdown, is a kind of biking, at least.

I