I’d always had this preconceived notion that I could outrun the cops, based on no sound logic or evidence whatsoever. Big, heavy bikes ridden according to the Police’s roadcraft bible would be no match for my whippet-like sports weapon piloted by a man with my talent. I’d leave PC Plod for dead, race to the county border, and stick my finger up to The Man. No sweat.
On roads around Almeria, the Yamaha could be hustled along spiritedly...