Mr. McQueen, your bike is ready.

Much to tell.

First of all, let's deal with the long silence: I've been out riding. I mean, that's pretty much the explanation. It's been busy at work, yes, and I've been trying to avoid screens in my down time, but basically - in my head, at least - I'm riding. Doing it, reading about it, buying stuff for it. Riding. It all started with an ultimatum.

One fine day in May, I decided that the gravel hill that was haunting my nightmares like some white whale wasn't going to change its position on the matter, so I had to, or this experiment was over. And down I went (the hill, I mean, without incident). Things moved pretty quickly after that. I rode every chance I got, flogging the little Suzuki hither, thither and yon, and knocking off every nervous-making road within 50 km one by one. Not elegantly, or quickly, but convincingly enough that it was only a matter of weeks before I knew I was going to outgrow the little thumper sooner than later. Then my 'dude economics' gene kicked in. If I'm going to sell it, better I should do it in the spring than in the fall, I intoned to my long-suffering wife.

The rest is a bit of a blur. Somehow, the week of my birthday, the beast in the picture above landed in my driveway. 500 lbs and 865 cc of Brit-bike hipster cred, not at all the Bonnie I thought I wanted, but infinitely more suited to its bucolic new home. In my defense, it was a great deal, a 2013 demo (the year I would have preferred anyway, because of the chrome wheels), well below list and with an $1100 rumbly exhaust system bolted on to ice the cake. I've put 1000 km on it already. More on that later.

In short order, the S40 found a new home. A nurse at a local hospital, probably about my age, rolled up the driveway in her minivan, took one look, and said, "I think I want this." She was tired of being a passenger in life, she told me, had had about enough of mom duty and of waiting for her husband to make good on his intention to buy a bike so they could get their second puppyhood started. So she was taking matters into her own hands. Cash deal. With the ink barely dry on her M2, she rode the little Zook home on a pretty busy road, grinning like a fool. She was pretty cool.

Now, Scrammy has the barn all to himself. A custom vintage leather seat is on the way, after which I think I'll leave it alone for a while. Mind you, if you've been reading this blog, you already know my promises are about as reliable as a house cat's.