He first saw it parked outside a cafe on the Bristol Road, leaned over on the sidestand. So cocky. Yellow paint. He took it for a restoration job at first, then he saw the disk brakes, front and rear. And the engine was modern. One of those retro things, then. He went in for Buffy’s coffee, and came out to look at it some more. Christ, it was pretty. He’d always had a thing for cafe racers.
Once he started looking for it, he saw it parked in the city often. And at that cafe. He thought he’d spotted the rider, as well, a scruffy thirty-ish man in creased riding leathers, hair sticking up every which way from the helmet. Giles thought about asking the fellow what he thought of the bike. But probably the road grime he saw on it, sometimes, gave him the answer.
Saturday morning, fine weather, out for a drive with Buffy. Quick stop at the cafe for the coffee she always wanted, and there it was. Giles hovered. He’d priced it on the web earlier in the week. Surpringly affordable. And he’d kept his license current. The yellow, or the black? Yellow, he thought.
He leaned over to look at the instrument cluster again.
“Giles, you can’t.” Buffy was at his elbow.
“Why the hell not?”
She met his gaze for a long moment. “It only has one seat thingie. I couldn’t go with you.”
Giles looked again. Yes, only one pair of rearset pegs for the rider. He twitched up one side of his mouth. “Well then,” he said. “It’s riding school for you.”