[Dottore]

RIP Liz.

I am 20 and touring Europe on my 850 Norton Commando. On a country road outside of Reading there's a white XKE at the side of the road, and a woman flagging me down with a silk scarf. It's Liz. Painted on the door next to the handle is a small gold Pegasus with the words "Liz Taylor" in fine script. As if she needed an introduction. She's out of petrol. Forgot to look at the gauge. I volunteer to go find a can and come back. She flirts and asks if she can come along. So there we are: just me and Liz, cruising through English country lanes on my Norton, with that sensational chest of hers pressing hard into my back.

I think she was on the tail end of her second marriage to Burton at the time and must have been north of 40. Even so, she looked impossibly glamorous to me—and was clearly light years removed from my low world of motorcycles, campgrounds and cheap eats. I'll never forget that encounter. She was 200% woman.