Back in the day a Royal Enfield was the soundtrack of the streets, and every time I get my hands on a crankcase, I hear that same roar in my head. Restoring one feels like rewinding a tape—every bolt, every dent, a story from a time when riders chased freedom without a care in the world. The smell of oil and the hum of an old engine bring that old‑school buzz straight into the present, and I swear I can feel the twenties beating in the chrome.

You’ve got it right—every bolt’s a line in the book, every dent a memory you can feel. I always make sure the old gears speak, but I keep an eye on the road ahead. That’s how a bike stays alive, and how you keep your own story rolling.