I’d “leveled up three times” while shopping for a used motorcycle. I began looking for a gem amid cobwebby ’80s era GL1200s. I’d slowly trod a path of increasing complexity and superior machine. This meant increasing technology (which wasn’t the goal) and expense (to which I’m allergic).
I was on a test drive. I’d found an absolutely excellent 5th Generation Goldwing GL1800.
Everything went haywire!
This particular motorcycle was (in my humble opinion) the best example I’m likely to find in my budget. (Actually a little above my budget.) An optimal compromise between cheap and well maintained. I liked the color. It idled like a whisper. Power was like a nuclear reactor. It bristled with dials and knobs. It was (almost) flawless.
Goldwings are so heavy they have reverse gear and legitimately need it. Yet they’re well balanced. A beached whale when parked, they’re manageable in motion. All that mass and power meant it didn’t adapt to the environment so much as create a warp bubble around itself. It shrugged off wind like a brick wall.
There were no particular flaws on this bike. It had a few scratches. At 70,000 miles it had endless life left in it.
I rode the beast thinking hard about the purchase. Every bit of my research had been proven true. Every step of the path came about in logical and intelligent procession from the one before.
Something was wrong.
I was miserable!
The sea of buttons (mostly) functioned perfectly. Did I really want them?
The LCD screen did a “greeting display” on start up (and there’s a menu stetting to change it). What’s the point of that?
There was an LCD screen and the analog dash and a million digital things on the dash too. There was air suspension with two pre-sets, reverse, CB, AM, FM, cassette (or maybe it was a CD changer, I forget), cruise control, gear display, saddlebag open indicator, and more. Gadgetry spread out before me like a computer workstation.
I spent a few miles testing every damn switch (two had minor issues). I couldn’t figure out how to turn off the radio. I could mute it which is functionally the same. But it’s NOT! It pissed me off that the LCD displayed the FM channel I no longer heard.
So I clicked a few buttons and now I was looking at a display of the the ambient temperature; which seemed redundant. I know the ambient temperature… I’m in it! I still wonder if there was an “off” button I never found?
The cruise control on/off button stuck a bit. As with the radio I hit the cancel button to get functionally the same behavior from a different control.
After a while I had it on cruise and was surfing FM stations. The bike rolled on like a force of nature but something felt “off”. Nervous energy was getting to me. I was playing with the radio to distract myself.
My stomach was churning. I was increasingly frantic. I thought maybe it was the price. I have enough money to buy this bike but just barely. I don’t like spending money. “Wasting” money on frivolities is brutally against my nature. Nothing seems more frivolous than a bike with a “boot up” display!
The radio was blaring Tom Petty. I appreciate the miracle of clear audio at 75 MPH but it just made me madder. Petty sometimes weirds me out. I see him as the apex of a boomer half-artist. Petty is always a solid base hit but he never swings for the bleachers. He’s the 401(k) of rock stars that never tries a lyric or note that might scare the normies. I began to long for Jimi Hendrix or Tchaikovsky. Did I miss the roar of wind or the steady rumbling engine of my old cruiser?
My eye twitched. I began to sweat. This was not right!
I’m trapped in an elevator; listening to an OK song while an OK life played out an OK day.
WTF made me think that!?!
The bike was effortlessly swishing down a two lane blacktop through proverbial amber waves of grain. Why wasn’t I laughing in the sunshine?
A meadowlark flapped away from my wake unnoticed.
This was the correct choice! I’d driven hours to this rendezvous. I had money in hand. The bike was perfect. I’ll never get a better deal on a better example of a better machine. Nothing weird to be discovered. No mystery engine gremlins. It was flat out mainstream engineering perfection. What kind of idiot rides perfection and bitches about it?
I felt like hurling.
I rode back to the seller, who was chatting happily with Mrs. Curmudgeon. She expected me to start cutting a check. The seller did too. He’d represented the bike honestly and the price was fair. Every statistic, number, data point, budget, and observation had all worked out.
My stomach was roiling. My head was pounding. I felt faint.
Grim determination seized me. “Just get this done and ride the fucking thing home. Don’t go on some weird vision quest. You can afford the obvious mainstream solution. You’ve earned something nice.”
A different determination fought back. “I’m nobody’s bitch. I hate how I feel. I won’t be backed into a corner on ANY deal.”
I stepped off the bike and handed the seller the keys. He was beaming and so was Mrs. Curmudgeon.
My mind was whirring. I haven’t felt so miserable in a very long time. OK bigshot, what’s it going to be?
“Your bike is perfect. Sadly, I’ve decided not to buy it.”
Everyone froze, even our dog felt a disturbance in the force. Everyone (including the dog) looked at me like I was a space alien. “Honey, you always freak out with big purchases, we can afford it.” Mrs. Curmudgeon has seen me get cold feet about financial decisions before.
Maybe that was it? I grew up mildly poor. I’ve had moments of absolute destitution. There’s a special dread only a person who’s been broke can harbor. If you’ve been there you know. If you don’t you don’t. Was that it? Probably. It made sense. Just the generic gut churning feeling I get whenever I cut a big check. Shake it off big fella’!
I wasn’t so sure of that. Maybe it was something else. Was it a superstitious foreboding? Was this the bike that would kill me? (The feeling was that strong!)
All I knew is that something was very wrong. Boring Tom Petty songs and careful studies of torque curves had put me in a place that wasn’t right. I’d built a path and then a track then rails and finally sideboards and now a cage. Cutting that check would lock it in for good!
I’d been on a bike where I didn’t see the meadowlark.
I felt like I’d briefly died and then coughed back to life at the juncture where I was supposed to cut a check. Everyone waited indulgently. I’m deeply appreciative of their indulgence. They were patient and kind while I had a war in my head.
Mrs. Curmudgeon was convinced I’d snap out of it. The seller was politely bemused. No need to push the sale on the weirdo losing his shit in the driveway. He’d sell the bike one way or the other.
Why do people do stupid things? Because they don’t stop doing stupid things. They get locked into a path; take each new step based on the last one. They lose the ability to change direction.
Fuck this! I shook the seller’s hand, apologized profusely, and retreated, sweaty and shaken, to our car. Mrs. Curmudgeon drove away slowly. She was giving me time to come to my senses and buy the bike. I was uncertain what the hell had stirred my pot. I was exhausted. I watched the bike recede in the distance. I was embarrassed by my crazy behavior.
Inside I seethed. Tom Fucking Petty? Not yet! I’m still me! I’m beholden to nobody.
After a few miles I calmed. Buying the bike would have been an irreversible choice (I’d have used up my budget). Walking away was just temporary. Things weren’t that bad.
Worst case scenario, I keep all my money and still have two awesome motorcycles.
Well played; I give a thankful nod to the half of my brain that won the war. I lost nothing but dignity. Some other Goldwing might cost a little more and that’s it. There’s always another Goldwing. Honda made 640,000 Goldwings. New ones are made daily. They’re not cheap but they’re hardly rare.
I was certain a Goldwing is the best choice but maybe not now. One’s life doesn’t happen all at once. I don’t have to lock one in immediately. If I buy something technically inferior in the meantime that’s OK. If I get a fucking Ducati it’s nobody’s business but mine and the chiropractor that’ll benefit from it. If I buy something unreliable then I’ll deal with mechanical issues… my Dodge got death wobble and I lived through that.
I’d begun to dislike the path I was on but I’d locked down my own thinking to just that path. The person most likely to screw you over… is you. I’m glad I walked.
Was my action logical? Nope? Intelligent? Maybe not. Do I regret it? Not a damn bit!
The hunt continues. (Actually it’s done now but I haven’t written the rest.)
More later..
P.S. An hour later the seller texted that the bike had been sold. Whomever bought it will surely be delighted. It was a good bike.