Removing the lining may tempt you to look like a tit
I hadn't ridden my bike for three weeks or more; too soft, too lazy and checking the rear tyre pressure on a BMW K1300R is a proper pain in the arse. This morning I could be bothered. The bike stood on my drive, warming up in the middle of a drifting cloud of exhaust fumes on a cold misty November morning. I pulled on my Arai and was transformed from a bloke going to work into a motorcyclist with thousands of miles and experiences. The odour, familiar, not offensive, instantly pricked my memory: rainy days in the Alps, hot sunny days in the Pyrenées, a freezing blast to Rutland water last winter: every moment precious.
I lifted the visor and the moment disappeared into the mist. I waved goodbye to my children, stepped through the thinning cloud of fumes and rode off. A motorcyclist once again.