The day began as any good adventure should: with a hearty breakfast plan and the promise of a day enjoying the scenic roads of Wales. Bob and I were set to meet Bonzo and Ray just outside Ross-on-Wye for some early morning grub before hitting the twisties. Spirits were high, the weather was just right, and all seemed to be going according to plan—until a certain car driver decided to spice things up by playing a real-life game of *Grand Theft Auto* with Bob.

As we cruised along, minding our own business, the driver in question swerved with the grace of a drunken walrus, clipping Bob and sending him off the road. What followed was something straight out of a slow-motion action movie. Bob and his trusty steed parted ways, the bike skidding across the asphalt while Bob executed what can only be described as an unintentional interpretive dance into the bushes. The bike dropped with a thud that could probably be heard back in Ross-on-Wye.
Bob, tough as old leather, emerged from the chaos battered but still breathing. He brushed off a collection of cuts, bruises, and what later turned out to be a few suspected broken ribs like they were minor inconveniences. “It’s just a flesh wound,” he muttered, channeling his inner Monty Python character, as the rest of us wondered if we should call an ambulance or a priest.
The bike, however, didn’t share Bob’s resilience. The poor thing looked like it had gone three rounds with a cheese grater. The left-hand engine casing had been practically sanded down to nothing, the left fairing was a mess of scratches and cracks, and the exhaust was bent at an angle that would make a pretzel jealous. It was a sorry sight—a noble steed brought low by an asphalt ambush.
When the insurance company got involved, they didn’t even bother sugarcoating it. One look at the damage, and the verdict was in: total write-off. Bob’s beloved bike was officially declared beyond saving, destined for the scrapyard or, as Bob joked later, a career as modern art.
While Bob took the loss like a champ, muttering something about “every biker’s rite of passage,” we all agreed it was a ride to remember—for reasons no one would want to repeat. Over breakfast (eventually), we raised our cups of tea to Bob’s survival and the dearly departed bike, and then began plotting how to keep him upright on his next two-wheeled adventure.