So I check the bike, make cooing noises to it. Start, I suggest, softly. The lounging rickshaw men stare and the people on tourist coach that pulled up just behind me look on. My hotel staff are watching too. No pressure. Here we go then... Kick 1! A mutter from the bike but no life... Kick 2! I throw myself into this one. Two things now happen. First is that the bike roars into life. The second is that I notice my genitals are on display, on the seat in front of me - the stitching in the crotch of my cheap local jeans simply failed. No one mentions it as I wander back into the hotel to change.