Having parts made us feel good. Parts were wealth. They were life on two wheels. Before leaving for the races at 11 p.m. on a Friday, we had carefully packed the parts box, a cheap steamer trunk. There were the pistons and rings in their cheerful, promising little white boxes in the top tray. Fresh pistons. There was also a spare crankshaft, should anyone need it. Clip-ons, right and left. A sensible person carried all crash-damage parts—footpegs, handlebar levers, cables, fairing brackets. In compartment boxes were all the small items—the carefully hoarded eccentric adjusters for the magneto points (not sold separately!), needle bearings, nuts, bolts, washers. Spare magneto coils, too, should one begin to die by sparking through its linen-and-varnish insulation to the oh-so-close rotor magnet.