Now I know what you’re thinking but hear me out.

Just imagine this scenario in your head, you’re driving alone across a vast road and drive up to a lone bar in the rolling green hills of the Swedish countryside, an isolated family run establishment. A few motorbikes are parked up at the front but one catches your notice: a vicious instrument with splashes of orange and green, themed with vast Norse heritage. Large fearsome text runs across its side, “Ragnarocker”. You stumble on your feet as you witness this creature, this apex predator of the motor world, whoever could tame this wild beast must be a man of robustness but also someone who fights for their place in the world. Before you can walk in the bar, the door rings as a firm bodied man walks outside, his arms glistening in the sun. Your eyes dot up and down as you examine his giant stature and mechanical forearms. His glorious ginger mane and fashionable green jacket and leggings are what you notice next, before you come to an obvious realisation: “This must be the man who owns the eccentric bike”. He clasps his robotic fingertips together and his arms spontaneously erupt into steam, roaring like a well tuned factory. The exhausts in his elbows illuminated as he puffs up his chest in Torsten family pride. The bristles of his beard only part for a moment but like when Moses parted the Red Sea it is a miraculous event. He only utters one word as his ponytail rides the wind. “Hey.”