Don Q 6

The next chapter where Don Q works on his new found bike and other droll matters leading up to his transition to insanity following his brother who was without a proper wind.
The hurricane lamp he found was a vast improvement over the candles and he was able to lay out the contents of at least some of the boxes.
Some were so heavy that they had to be dragged across the floor leaving huge gashes in the wood.  One was clearly the bike frame, longer than Don.  Another was the engine, too heavy to do more than unwrap even with the cylinders and cams in different boxes.  He laid it out like a crashed airplane would be laid out by investigators after a crash.  It began to almost look like a motorcycle, but it was so old, the gas can dented.  One of the boxes that wasn't oiled contained a small book with a picture of a motorcycle from world war II, that Don could only assume was the same thing that was laid out on the floor.  Outside, it continued to storm. Another box contained tools, a rubber hammer, wrenches, spare parts, something that he vaguely recalled as being a torque wrench.  There was a strange backpack with a light metal frame, the bottom of the frame cut off leaving open holes for no obvious purpose, a small tent, sleeping bag, military issue mess kit and other camping equipment, some of which seemed familiar, some not.
He found himself outside watching the rain at one point in time, some of the water on his hands beading up with the oil.  He saw a door on the side of the house opened to the outside and remembered standing in the door looking at sunshine a day or two before.  How many days had he been here?  He didn't know.  He had had nothing to eat for some time, but the water was still turned on.  Inside on the table the books and the script were open.
'I am a veteran and an officer of the court,' he thought.  The equivalent of a modern day knight to the extent that anything could make one such a thing.
It is old and beat up thing.  An entire generation out of date.  It looks more like a antique than a road machine, and truly that is what it is.  But what would it be other than a time machine if it was put together.  Many would have looked at the parts and boxes, as many unopened as open, and given up on it as a lost task.  Why didn't he?  He wasn't a mechanic, he wasn't a restorer of antiques.  He had never ridden a motorcycle more than a few miles.  And yet none of this affected him, nor did time.  He was free of time now, as free as his Brother who everyone called Q.