I used to hate going to motorcycle shows.
Back when I lived in Australia, summertime motorcycle shows were an ordeal.
They’d happen in a large metal hangar where the temperature hovered around a million degrees.
Parking was a nightmare.
You’d have to leave your bike miles away, at the edge of a massive, jam-packed parking lot.
Then you’d trudge for half an hour in your leathers and boots under a blazing sun, to get back to the hangar.
On this delightfully sweaty trek, you’d try to ignore the circling packs of suspicious, aggressive policemen just itching to make an arrest.
Finally, you’d arrive at the hangar door: scowling, sunburned, and panting.
And the fun just kept on coming…