This thread's a joy to read, thanks all for writing, and to NorEaster for the revival.
A lot of resonance for me. With no mechanical experience nor inclination I picked up a copy of Zen & the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, years ago now, just because it was a classic, you've gotta read Tom Sawyer at some point in your life, right? I worked my way through it, relishing the gems that shone through the tedium, and sure enough caught the bug, only it was a '74 bus.
I wasn't up for a motorcycle at that point in my life, and figured an old aircooled VW was the simplest engine I could find short of that. (And in all honesty at the time I was a raging neo-hippy: you can't carry a didjeridoo on a motorcycle.) With a quickly dogeared copy of the Idiot's Guide and numerous trips to Moab under my belt I worked my way through pretty much everything, from the regular valves and timing and points work to replacing clutch, carburetor, and finally engine. It was a joy and frustration, fabulous trips through the desert, making coffee streetside in Berkeley, stranded in the middle of nowhere in pre-cellphone days wracking my brain or elated with a mechanical eureka.
Anyway, I never had much interest in motorcycles. My girlfriend and I got into scooters a few years back; we'd talk to friends who'd "graduated" from scooters up to motorcycles; I thought, why's that a graduation? I'd watch something like Foyle's War and see a WWII motorcycle and think, now that would be a motorcycle to have. Then I saw my first Enfield, a 2012 classic battle green, and I was in love, which surprised me; I didn't think I was a guy to fall in love with a motorcycle. In the end we picked up a 2007 with under 1000 miles on it, painted a bizarre and gorgeous blue by the previous owner. It was serendipitous because at the time I had no idea about the evolution of Bullets and am grateful to have gotten one of the last of the Iron Barrels.
And yes, it's already been frustrating - the mysterious compression loss thread elsewhere on the site - but I've gotten my hands gratifyingly greasy again after years away (the bus is long-since buried) and when she's up and running, riding that Bullet is incomparably sweet.