Everyone should own at least one perfect thing, especially these days when the rest of life can be so far from it. I still can’t quite swing the Ducati 1098R or a 4500 square-foot mansionette adjacent to Laguna Seca to park it in, but that’s okay. I ride motorcycles for a living, so it’s nice to wrap my head around something entirely different, but weirdly similar. You might be surprised to learn how many of us have gear bag full of spandex next to all the leather stuff. Just ask Ben Spies. A few years back during a little professional detour writing advertising copy, I found myself with chunk of disposable income. I didn’t need another motorcycle. It wasn't enough dough to pay for anything with an engine I really wanted anyway. Fortunately, my local bicycle pro shop was more than willing to help. The old steel Eddy Merckx wasn’t getting any younger. I could recite selections from the dog-eared Serotta catalog that had been riding around in my Aerostich bag for months. Life is short, and if I waited much longer, something more practical and less enjoyable would absorb my little slush fund anyway. A new head for my ancient Toyota pickup, for instance. Denial is not just a river in Egypt. So after recruiting my friend Pozorski to deter spurious fits of common sense, I grabbed my checkbook.