Here’s a picci of our Harley-Davidson Sportster 883 resplendent in her
own private quarters on Freyja’s front deck.
With the handlebars dropped, the top-plank up and tarps down, she’s as
snug as a bug in a rug and nobody knows she’s there. The Bloke has corrected me, it’s a “he”. Sorr-ee.
We load and unload with a wide ramp that chains to points on the
gunwales. Nothing complicated and it
works. And it is amusing to see jaws
drop when we decide to go for a ride and the Bloke rolls up the tarps and we
unload her-him-it; usual comments are
along the lines of: “Well, I’d never
have guessed that was there.” and then
we hear about all the bikes they’ve had.
And we eventually get to go for our own ride.
Getting her, um it, was another story:
we went into the dealership with a tape-measure and had a puzzled sales
team following us around as we measured up everything we fancied. Funnily enough, this was the one we liked
most and the one that fitted perfectly.
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