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g as though at attention, were
twenty new BMWs, gleaming proudly in the July sun.
What the hell, I thought to myself; it won't hurt to take a look.
I parked the car and got out, sauntering nonchalantly towards the row of bikes.
It was immediately evident that things had changed in the twenty years since I
had ridden motorcycles. I caught my breath as I approached the first in line:
a pearlescent grey K100RS. Four cylinders, horizontally opposed and water
cooled. Each part of the machine was obviously designed for a purpose, to work
in harmony with every other part. The fairing, with its oversized rectangular
headlight, seemed to be shaped by the wind itself, and the handlebars and fuel
tank seemed to invite a laid- out position.
I walked around the machine, hardly daring to touch it. I knew that, once I
had my hands on it, I would have a hard time letting go. As I inspected the
German machine, I began to feel the familiar tingle in my crotch, the slightly
horny feel
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