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Jim read the sign again and sighed.

“No motorbikes beyond this point”

Jim felt it sensible to obey signs. He still remembered Sally on the train track.

Leaning against the hawthorn hedge he considered what to do. He was on foot so that was OK, but he always carried many motorbikes around with him.

First, he took out his earliest experience of a motorbike, aged 5, sitting on his neighbour's black and gold Norton Commando 850.

Then he disposed of that ice cold ride across the moors on his first Yamaha 125.

It took Jim time to work through the past bike rallies and custom shows he had attended, leaving the shadows of other bikers in his memory confused, and not a little annoyed.

He wanted to keep the scent of Castrol R, but as the warm sweet smell was only achieved after time in a running engine he could not take the chance.

The last memory of his grandfather looked wrong without him stood next to his prize Triumph T100.

His father's funeral Jim disposed of wholesale. The idea of the cemetery without his friend's custom Harleys and Indians more upsetting than the loss of the whole memory.

Once he finished watching the past evaporate into the early morning mist, someone who was no longer Jim walked past a sign saying;

“No motorbikes beyond this point.”

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