OK, so in my minimal state of depression following the loss of my beloved motorcycle, I maybe over-reacted just a teensy-weensy bit and slipped into spoilt brat mode. But hey, that's to be expected of an aging narcissist whose entire Second Life existence is predicted on the simple notion that image is everything. Turns out that my bike wasn't so much "lost in space" as "lost in translation" - the translation being the process of transferring it from Philip Linden's land to my inventory. When I logged in yesterday evening, there was my little treasure waiting for me. No, not you dear Mony but the bike!
Of course, I had to change into my Tshirt and tattoos, then rez the bike on a platform some 100 feet by 50 feet. Maybe I couldn't open up the throttle as wide as I wanted, but it sure felt good to have something big and red throbbing between my legs.