Sunday morning, riding with the Guzzi Club.
Perfect, clear, mild, sunny morning. We've just reached the top of Arthur's Seat. We chat and decide that the ride up was so good that we should go down and ride up again.
I thumb the starter on the Mk II. This is my NEW Mk II, much modified, with trick "Moto Gadget" dash, twin plugged, LaFranconis, battery under the gearbox, big brakes, de-linked, braided hoses, and the most gorgeously voluptuous frame mounted fairing.
It backfires and doesn't start.
I hear "fire" and look down. The left side K&N has blown off, and the flames are at my elbow. I hit the starter again; if the fuel fire is in the carb, this will suck it all into where it's supposed to be. But it doesn't: doesn't start, doesn't suck the fire in. I dismount, making a better assessment as I get off.

Rather than drop it, I lay it on its left side and the frames rapidly engulf the whole lot. The bloke on his Ducati 1098 in the next parking bay moves hastily away. So do Ash with his 1200 Sport and Paul with the SP on the other side. There's no danger now to person or property, and not much to do except watch. Given that the bike had a good three quarters of a tank of juice, watch from a safe distance.

The flames are about a metre high, a black sooty column of smoke rising. The wiring burns through and the trick geared starter engages, cranking the lifeless engine as a futile punishment. There are a few pops, and then a slowly increasing roar. I guess the fuel line has burned through and pressurised petrol from the tank creates a blowtorch effect, increasing the flame volume and skewing the flame front to the right. It's a very, very ugly sight.

A huge black column of smoke rises through the Autumnal calm of what up until a few minutes ago had been a bloody lovely day. Diners flock from the restaurant and gawp. Some kind soul brings a fire extinguisher, but by now it's not worth emptying; this is an ex-Lemon, deceased and gone to meet its maker.

The petrol-fuelled blowtorch has petered out and the fire almost burned out when the fire brigade arrive. They've taken ages because they were expecting a crashed bike off the side of the road somewhere, with fire threatening the national park, but when they turn up its two trucks and a heard of fire fighters. Casually, they extinguish the last of the burning rear tyre and play water across the wreck gently; to cool without risk of cracking the crankcases and having an oil spill as well. Kitty litter is spread to soak up what is spilt.

I inspect the damage. It is still my bike, after all. A ribbon of fibreglass mat lies where the fairing once ran back to its mounts off the rocker boxes. The shell of the "Moto Gadget" lies on the ground, the aluminium bracket having melted. Also on the ground is the breather box. The gearbox case has melted and the filler plug is sitting alone on top. On the ground behind the left cylinder is an ashen heap. Sitting on top is a brass bolt, which I recognise as one that once held the float bowl onto the carb. Both carbs and the fuel taps are in there somewhere. At the front there are a series of bare wire loops around the front wheel, and the braided skeletons of the brake lines are still there. The aluminium alternator cover has drooped onto the alternator. The right rocker cover has melted and reformed itself over its now not quite so precious contents. No trace remains of the lovely brown leather covered saddle. Two sad black light bulb eyes peep from the distorted remains of the tail light assembly. Seems odd, but the exhaust pipes and mufflers appear little damaged.

The police arrive and are great. They're happy that there's no blood or damage. Actually, so am I. If this had happened in my garage, for example, the result could have been much worse.

Eventually the tow truck arrives, a flat bed. I pick the now cooled bike up and put it on the side stand. It is a sad sight. No, pathetic. As the tow truck backs in and lowers the tray I decide I need to wash my hands; I can't watch this bit. Returning with clean paws, I see my Lemon prostrate, held down with chains. Surely that is the greatest indignity one can inflict on a Guzzi.

Anyone got a nice, straight Mk II Le Mans for sale? Good home assured....

JFerg