It was time to go home.
The shiny new bike perched proudly in the truck bed and it was glorious! It fit just right. Tailgate closed and everything. I had brand new ties with which it was solidly secured. It rode like the lead float in a small-town parade. It was vibrating with potential awesome. It had 0.1 miles on the odometer.
Damn that’s a special moment! Everyone pause and take it in. Just close your eyes and think of it. For a certain personality this is a treasured inflection point of pure joy. Remember your first car, or your favorite car, or a beloved motorcycle, or a boat, or whatever the hell it is that made you happy. Remember when you and that machine met. Remember that time in your life.
It’s all about possibilities!
A factory in Japan had birthed this anachronistic machine and I was going to flog it mercilessly all over the American outback. What fun we would have together!
Mrs. Curmudgeon smiled at my childish excitement. She wants nothing to do with falling off cliffs on a mechanical death trap. If I want to careen around some God forsaken wasteland; crawling with scorpions and bears, getting frostbit and sunburned, well that’s just an untreatable malady which her husband possesses at the molecular level. No need to fight it; just send him off on his own and hope he doesn’t get too stupid while unsupervised. She’s a wise woman. Also, she enjoys seeing me do the things that I love. What man could ask for more? So long as I don’t get myself killed out there, she’s pretty supportive.
I was starry eyed like a child on Christmas morning. I already had a list of “mods” to make the thing from a chunky minimalist blank slate to a beefed up mini-mule. I’d tweak it here or there (but not too much, just enough to meet specific needs without endangering reliability; hot rodding engines is not my game). After 6 months of attacking it with a wrench I’d probably never alter anything again. I’d do oil changes and maintenance but almost never wash it. I’d consider every dent and scratch a delightful chapter in an adventure story. It would become tough and grizzled, like it’s owner.
I sipped overpriced coffee and smiled.
Unfortunately, I could see myself right there with you.
Glad yer enjoying yourself , AC!
Japan had berthed” birthed?
And yes, I fondly remember buying a used pickup with 400 miles on it- loved that truck- in order to haul my slightly-used trials motorcycle and on occasion my brand-new street bike. Good times! Bonus: the looks of consternation from the US scooter-cognoscenti who insisted, nay, demanded, said bike must have either a blue or yellow tank. It was red. I bought it in Japan. Good times, indeed.
Typo fixed. Nice catch. Thanks.