Samir the mechanic, wide-eyed and smiling, edged the motorbike from his garage and stood it on its last crooked leg. The key, a bent spoon, he tossed to me obliquely. The bike had tires thin and a hundred times plugged and mended, brakes worn and feeble, mudguard twisted outwards, tail lamp scratched and drooping, handlebars stiff and rusted, and front lights scarcely luminescent. But it was all I could afford and I loved it for what it was worth: 95,000.
