The love and death of motorcycle building

To love to build and ride motorbikes is in no comparison table like the love of a girlfriend. Undeniably I love my girlfriend with no ounce of hate becoming involved whatsoever but with motorbikes it is somewhat different.
I can be in love with the build, even reciting poetry to it as we develop our relationship towards the crescendo of the sucking of air and the exit of carbon and all of a sudden it acts like a fucking bitch.
Firstly I have never before set the timing up wrong so the engine will ram the pistons into the valves and whilst we're on a magical tour of a nightmare like state I have never, within a matter of mere seconds afterwards, dropped a bike with a freshly painted frame onto a motorbike lift causing the meeting of metal that should never have met.

Hate. A very fine line between that and love which I have fluttered across today without the stealth of a tightrope walker.