My two wheeled licence came about in the days of the scooter mods. After an afternoon of getting the hang of the twist grip accelerator on the right handlebar and the gear change on the left, I was away. About a month later I took my test which consisted of me riding up and down while the examiner watched me from the pavement. then I was told to run around the next street, as I returned he stepped out from behind a bus shelter, raised his hand and shouted stop. I stopped, he passed me. That was it.
Alarmed at the prospect of me getting on some Triumph Bonneville, my father offered to buy me a car. He never had the money to do that, but I picked up the vibes of his concerns and said I wouldn't be getting a motorbike. The scooter went at the end of the mod era, I became a 'suit,' got married, acquired a mortgage and started my climb of the greasy pole. Fast forward a couple of decades, the mortgage is a long forgotten memory, there's money in the bank and I haven't lived from pay check to pay check for years. That motorbike itch was reignited when a good friend showed my wife and I photos of his Harley classic. "I wouldn't mind a big bike like that," I told my missus, "well go for it," she encouraged. So I did, had it for five years, sold it for more than I paid, never had so much as a wobble on it, no near misses, no scares, nothing. The itch was scratched and life moved on.