I lied to everyone, (including myself), that I might part the bike out and make some money. There were lots of great parts there that would allow me to at least quadruple my money without much effort. I was so full of shit.
The bike was quickly wheeled into the garage upon returning to my house. I felt like Dr. Frankenstein dragging in a fresh corpse for re-animation. The neighbors surely heard the mad cackling as I made my way around the machine. A battery was borrowed from my street bike to provide the electrical current needed to force life back into the engine. The carburetors were removed and cleaned to ensure proper delivery of petrol, that vital liquid necessary for internal combustion. A rats nest was removed from the exhaust (I wouldn't be needing him anymore). Within the hour mission control was ready for an initial test launch.
With baited breath my hand hovered over the starter button like a concupiscent teenager about to touch a real breast for the first time. Anticipation rose until I thought I should explode, a thought flashed in my febrile mind just before the climactic moment, 'If it runs, we are going to the racetrack.'. Unable to restrain my desire any longer I thumbed that red button lustfully, aching for sweet release and....... Nothing.
The dead remained dead and my nerve softened, but my passion remained unabated. Surely the recalcitrance could be cured with further foreplay? A light touch here, caress there, a poke, a prod? My sweet ministrations yielded only soft clicking from the solenoid, but it spurred me on. A more aggressive approach perhaps? I attached jumper cables to my truck and then to the comatose machine, I talked dirty to it determined to get a response. This time I did.
The beast awakened from it's slumber in a smoking, deafening bellow of barely muffled anger. Dust shook from it's old bones as life coursed through its veins once again. Like a demon summoned in a dark ritual this thing demanded to know who had brought it forth and why. I answered by mounting and riding the smouldering, bucking creature out of the garage. It attempted to throw me off as the rear tire spun in the grass but I was not to be denied the carnal knowledge I sought.
After a decade of death the mechanical Lazarus was alive again, and maybe just a little bit, so was I.