Grrr... My story... Bought a KLR650 out of pure and utter sensibleness. It has been a reliable workhorse, commuter, load carrier and lover for over six months now. Her name is Priscilla because all bikes are girls but no girl who was born as one can be quite that hideous (Don't tell her I said that). We've had a great start to our relationship, we work together at the same place which is convenient because she always gives me lifts there, she vibrates excessively when she's upset with me and she doesn't need much in the way of maintenance. The only problem is... well... we're complacent. I feel like she makes a great wife but sometimes I crave a wild ride. There are moments when I hope that opening her up and throttling her will result in a big smile and adrenaline rush but alas, she gets me where I need to go, she is sensible, we love each other but she probably isn't the girl who I'm going to spend the rest of my life with. To be quite honest, our relationship was fine until the other day. I had just changed her chain and sprockets and after having my hands thick with her grease I was eager to mount and ride her till the cows came home. But that wasn't the way that things would turn out that day. That day I met another motorcycle. She never told me her name but an old friend from school introduced us to each other. The only noticeable markings she had was a large tattoo on her side that read WR450. She sounded exciting... When I mounted her, she was a lot slimmer than Priscilla, I almost felt like I was playing with a petite toy that would snap under my weight but as soon as we took to the roads, that little lady made me remember why I rode in the first place! The throttle drove me into tunnel vision, her little engine roaring into a thick growl as her front wheel lifted and lifted and lifted again. Every time I pushed, she pushed back. We were in sync, dancing through the streets like star-crossed lovers - appreciating the delicate balance between pleasure and pain (the balance point). I took a left and rolled on her throttle one last time as I neared my home and tasted the joy of a power to weight ratio that could only end in ecstatic pleasure. The lady complied and lifted her wheel for me, powering up for one last time before I brought her down gently and pulled off into my driveway, her owner impatiently waiting for me to hand her back to him. As I wheeled Priscilla into the garage, I looked back as WR450 braaaaaped into the distance and felt a pang of guilt stab me in the depth of my belly, a clear sign that it would take a lot of work to come back from this in our relationship. Although my appetite was far from filled, I knew that I could not leave Priscilla. Yes, she wasn't that quick and yes she needed me to slip her clutch for a bit before she would lift but she's been there for me, she has always been the one who ensures that I still have my livelihood, she carries the weight of the world in her top box and saddlebags and she only needs servicing every 5,000 kilometres. Priscilla might not be the prettiest or fastest bike in the shed but she is my bike.