The motorcyclists who trundle up the Motovun hill, usually in small bands, are quite formidable on their mechanical steeds and in their fancy attire. Their arrival is almost always rather anticlimactic, though. As soon as the shiny helmets are removed, baldheads come to light. When armored jackets come off, potbellies spill out. By the time the hapless motorcyclists start waddling away from their steaming toys, they turn into lawyers and dentists that they actually are. In their mid-forties to mid-fifties, they are a sorry bunch to behold. To remain formidable, they would have to roar around Motovun day and night. Day and night.