Sanity often prevails at this point; those with considerable intellectual horsepower or an active self preservation gene, park their scoot in the garage, and find excuses about why they can’t ride.  Citing the lawns’ desperate need for being mowed, or that the kids need their dad at baseball... these are key indicators.  This article isn’t about them, for those of you who have passed this point, this article is for you.  Out of interest, when you bought that litre bike off the guy who had hardly used it and no longer had time, he was passing the infection to you...
The next stage of the litre high is constant track day attendance.  And ride days on the roads that look like the twisted entrails of the roadkill that you will inevitably become.  And constant new rear tires, scuffed knee sliders and toes, and lack of chicken strips on the front.  When the police chopper makes a beeline for your house, when you no longer notice the smell of your leathers after a hot, fast ride, when you use the throttle to turn the bike when you’re dragging the pegs – this is the moment that you are as addicted as a crack whore on that litre high.
“My name is Mike, and I’m an addict.  I knew I was screwed when in ‘02, flat out in sixth on my thou, I was thinking of a turbo kit ‘cause “NOS just ain’t enough”.

It’s worse for me than you, by the way.  I was born without a self preservation gene, the one that stops the desire to jump off tall buildings, drive or ride stupidly, or slow down for that fast approaching bend.  Instead, I want my heart in my throat, bile on my tongue, and to be the last to brake deep into that decreasing radius bend with a sheer drop into oblivion on one side, and a Mack truck on the other.
As was once written by someone far better at this writing gig than I, it’s better to be shot from a cannon than squeezed from a tube.  It’s grabbing a tiger by the balls, squeezing, and then letting go to see what happens next.

But, then I get home, and see my girlfriend, and I hang with the dog, and I realise that what I’m doing affects them too.  It’s at this point that I realise that I need those 12 steps.  Step 1 is admitting I have a problem.  I’ll tick that one off later.  Step 2 is parking the bike up, and making some decisive move to sell it.  I’ve parked scoot up, and I only use her for the occasional event, social ride, or for commuting when the traffic cams look like still photographs.  I even called a dealer, and promised to drop it off.  It has been six months, but it’s tough to find time to ride 20 minutes in order to deliver the evil bitch to him.