Italian quality

Friday afternoon, 3:40. We'd just left Frauenfeld West and had hit the autobahn. The bike wasn't even warm yet. The Termignoni growled obediantly along. Brmbrmbrmbrm...BAM-BAM-BAM.

Heck no, not again.


Bossi, who soldered the attachments so I got to Zurich the evening after all, commented, "Great Italian quality. Properly speaking: Bullshit."

Yeah, yeah, I give in. The next day I ordered a Remus, so I don't have to spend my ten days in Sardinia worrying that my exhaust is going to excuse itself.

It's a pity about the sound.