“Sean’s motorcycle is parked in a luxury storage unit a few blocks away. It looks more like an airplane hanger than a personal garage. He stops, enters a key code, and then rolls us into a hugeass concrete room with climate control. Sean slips out of the van and turns the lights on. As they flicker to life, I realize we’re in a room the size of a football field and filled wall-to-wall with expensive vehicles—including a biplane, motorcycles, and race cars. We follow Sean out and everyone gap...es, shocked. Henry drifts from the cars, toward the bikes, hands outstretched in a gimme pose, his eyes wide. “A 1958 Ariel Cyclone," he gasps. "It’s beautiful. Perfect.” His gaze drifts further, and he wanders over, staring as he swallows hard. “Is that a 1907 Harley-Davidson strap tank?” He’s practically drooling as he straightens, twists at the waist, and looks Sean full in the face. Pointing, he says, “I tried to buy this motorbike at auction. I offered $700,000 for it, but someone outbid me.”MoreLessRead More Read Less
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