Adaptive Curmudgeon

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.

I’ve been on the prowl for a new (used) motorcycle. I mentioned this in Memento Mori and Motorcycle Hunt: Close Call With Greatness. You’re only getting the high points (like all good hunts, it’s an individual journey). I’ve been sniffing the breeze and watching the horizon, confident something will happen.

Something did indeed happen. I either narrowly avoided a mistake or inexplicably flaked on a great deal!

Curmudgeon’s Navel Gazing:

Did I make the correct choice? Let’s back away from the trees of motorcycles and discuss the forest of life: Why do people do stupid shit? Some stupid shit is gloriously innocent: “Hold my beer and watch this…” Nothing wrong with that. Other stupid shit is so predictably doomed to fail it hurts to watch. That’s the shit to avoid!

Ever see people do stuff so absolutely mind bogglingly moronic you wonder how they derived the slightest hope it would succeed? Think of paths were people march into bad results that are more or less a certainty. The fool that smokes 3 packs a day while bitching about their health. The moron that’s always broke who just took on more payments. The dude who eats shit from his harpy wife until she takes half his money and runs off with the UPS guy.

Many of us sleepwalk into the woodchipper… repeatedly. We’ve all seen it. It’s a human thing. We need self-control to avoid predictable failures.

It’s hard to plumb an individual man’s mind. It’s easier to observe big groups as they take obviously unwise paths. This is best examined for a time and place far removed from your current situation; thus to avoid your own biases. War is often (usually!) avoidable and it’s always horrible. With 20/20 hindsight the precursors that created most wars seem unthinkably obvious.

I suspect the American Civil War was like that. Pressure built for whole human lifetimes. Nobody diffused it in advance. Few people correctly predicted the hell that ensued. Everyone thought it would be a spat… a faffing about… a skirmish. It was nothing like that. Americans were incredibly effective at killing Americans. Things happened in a way that didn’t happen in Britain or Brazil.

What’s weird is that it wasn’t sudden. The ethical division in the populace had been there literally since the founding. As Lincoln so eloquently put, we had four score and seven (87) years to sort our shit out. We didn’t. Many nations had to thread the same needle. Many did so without bloodshed. Why not us?

I think we deliberately chose to avoid resolving things and instead used it as a political hot potato; a loser’s game in the long run. We let a real problem become merely one-upmanship. Each new State became a brand new battle. “Will the new State side with Team A or Team B? How does the addition of that new State change the balance of power? Who gains? Who loses?” Two points of view never finding or seeking compromise. Keeping the kettle on boil instead of inching toward resolution. America played politics until things had already gone to shit and by then neither side could find a way out.

A forever game of political one-upmanship instead of resolving legitimate issues. Sound familiar?

The “States as pieces on a gameboard” thing still happens right now… or rather it’s frozen in a stalemate. Puerto Rico isn’t a State. It’s bigger than some States. It could be a State. Yet, if we add it, some would benefit and some would lose… so it stays balanced on the knife edge of a nation that has razor sharp political edges. Maybe that’s for the best, I’m not in Puerto Rico so I don’t know. But it’s odd that we went from 13 colonies to 50 states and then lost the use of the tool. (We last added states in 1959; Hawaii and Alaska.)

Existing States can be split as needed. It has happened before. West Virginia split from Virginia in 1863. Maine separated from Massachusetts in 1820. Now that’s considered “unthinkable”. If we split a State someone would benefit and someone would lose. Notice that release of pressure or responsive governance is irrelevant? It’s not even considered. It’s all about short term wins and losses in the forever game.

A rancher in East Rattlesnake, Oregon; where it barely rains, the neighbor is six miles away, and coyotes outnumber people has to live under rules made by a foreign power. His State is run from Hippietopia where it never stops raining, there are more lesbian drug dispensaries than tractor supply stores, and people consider skate boards a legitimate form of transportation. Chaining those two disparate worlds together is exclusively for the benefit of people who care for the game. The welfare of ranchers or skateboarders isn’t relevant.

The dude trying to run fence isn’t selfish. He legitimately chafes under regulations made by people who are unlike him and possibly hate him. His part of the State can’t split off because endless friction is not just tolerated but embraced.

How long has it been this way? Has the rancher eaten shit for his full 87 years yet?

Back to my original example, after decades of building pressure, Republicans elected their first president. The Republican party specifically supported abolition. It was a hotly contested election. As soon as the guy was sworn in, everyone freaked out. Sound familiar?

(I pause here to help uninformed victims of America’s dumbed down public schools. Many if not all societies had slavery at one time; from Aztecs to Egyptians, from Vikings to Venice, from Congo to Constantinople, Byzantium to Brazil. Slavery faded out in fits and starts (with many caveats); often due to boring economic factors or occasionally because of soaring enlightenment ideals. America’s transition involved the first Republican President; Lincoln. Even now people debate the way the mess happened. Ironically, most folks who riot in our urban areas on sunny summer weekends; gathering to piss and moan and stamp their feet at the base of a George Floyd statue erected on Martin Luther King Jr. boulevard have no idea of this. They howl against the party that took up arms to end slavery. Before you set out to change the world, read a book!)

To me, war seems the least wise way to resolve the situation. Why wasn’t 87 years enough to figure it out? Careers were made on the endless struggle. Lives were lived in support or opposition. Earnest, dedicated, citizens on both sides bled out together in Gettysburg. It could have been an eight decade series of committee meetings.

Here’s the lesson I take from it: Humans are herd animals. Once they settle on a path, change is beyond the mind of most humans. A self-actuated human can break free but the rest will plod, stupid and complacent, like robots. Each step is another step on a path that was laid out long ago. There will be times when someone says “this is stupid, lets see if we find a new way”… but it won’t resonate. Humans unthinkingly continue doing stupid shit until you bury them in box lots.

We all carry this weakness. Only the use of our barely understood monkey derived mind gives us a small chance to escape. When shit seems sketchy, a humble man will ask himself “am I the cause”. Maybe, if I’m on a track that’s “wrong” or “stupid”, I can figure it out in time. “Oh no! I’m being an idiot! I’ll stop following this path right now!”

When’s the last time you adjusted your sails to the changing wind? If you don’t occasionally change settings you’re not steering the ship. Fools take the next step because they already took the last one. Don’t be a fool.

Now back to the story.

Less Heady Thoughts About Motorcycles:

I researched the living shit out of old motorcycles. I considered my expectations of the new acquisition, what old machines could do, how reliable they were, how much they cost, etc…

Initially I was thinking of an old Honda Goldwing GL1200. There’s a lot going for the opposed 4 cylinder engine and Goldwings basically created the tourer motorcycle market. They’re common, popular, cheap, often well cared for, and the average age of the original purchasers is geriatric. I would re-home some geezer’s GL1200 and give it a second life. (GL1200 photo from Wikipedia.)

Unfortunately, I live in Bumfuck Egypt. Used vehicles here are a mixed bag. Many GL1200s were worn and mistreated. Cheap, but shot. I’d have to drive a million miles to find a good one or move up the food chain.

Moving up the food chain, I pondered the advantages of the next generation Goldwing; the GL1500. It’s a huge step up. The GL1500 gained 2 cylinders and 300 cc displacement. They are newer in vintage and everything mechanical was significantly improved. Plus, I was getting antsy about the single and scary flaw in the GL1200, the stator.

So yours truly anteed up his mental budget and started looking for a GL1500. (Photo from Wikipedia.)

I don’t much like the GL1500. I think it’s too boxy. I’m not overly concerned about aesthetics but the GL1500 is my least favorite Goldwing. Still, there’s no doubt it was a better value. The specifications and reviews were clear. There is no real flaw to the GL1500. Even people who hate them admit they’re awesome.

But if new is better what about the GL1800? (Photo from Wikipedia.)

Comparing a GL1800 (hit the market in 2001) to a GL1200 (hit the market in 1983) is to compare a donkey to a spaceship. The Goldwing GL1800 is a fuckin’ BEAST! They’re simply awesome. I’d be gaining components that increase reliability, fuel injection, LCD screens that aren’t so old, radios that are more modern, etc…

Thus it passed that I’d “leveled up three times”. Soon I was test driving an absolutely excellent specimen of the 5th Generation Goldwing, the GL1800.

Stay tuned.

Via the comments:

Come on man, you tell us you took photos, but then you don’t show them. Where’s the photos?

Photo 1: That ain’t sunset… it was mid afternoon on a sunny day just minutes before. It’s blurry because I didn’t have long to fiddle with camera settings. It was rolling up on me like a freight train.

Photo 2: This is the clear “inviting sky” to which I fled. It was only “tame” in comparison. I’m rusty with my weather knowledge but I’d guess a “cumulus” that wants to be a thunderhead got enough energy at the base until it just plain busted through a layer of air that was minding its own business above it. There were several of these and once they penetrated the flat layer they started getting tall fast. Lotta’ energy in the sky that afternoon.

It’s random story time here at Curmudgeon Compound…

I stepped out of the Dr. Office feeling like I’d met an angel. The first doctor in years that has been smart, aware of medical pros and cons, and seemed to care if I live or die. A miracle!

I bump into him in the hallway. Someone is handing him his keys.

“Looks like it’ll rain.” He says.

“If it rains, I’ll get wet.” I shrug.

He smiles as if I’ve said the deepest thing ever. With most doctors I’d assume he’s mentally chiding me for owning a bike; assuming I’ll pancake into a Kenworth within a fortnight. With this cat it’s hard to say. Dummies and NPCs are an open book. It’s hard to judge smart people.

I head out to the lobby and all hell is breaking loose. “SEVERE STORM WATCH” is being announced on a PA. Everyone looks at me, the dumbass with a motorcycle.

They’re lowering the shades on the windows.

“Afraid of blowing debris?” I ask.

“It’s policy.”

“You have a policy to lower the shades during storms?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

The lady messing with the shades vapor locks. She has no idea.

Well, that’s that. The blissful moments after meeting a good mind are gone. I’m back with the toads who’re drawing shades because someone wrote that on a piece of paper. Might even be a good idea. What do I know?

At a desk I ask a woman for details about the storm watch. When did it start? How long? What area?

She has no idea but hands over her cell phone. She’d been watching a radar animation. A wicked looking streak of red and orange is headed our way.

“Looks like I’ll go half a mile and hole up at the burger joint.” I say.

“Be careful.” Her eyes are wide. Like I’m going to fight a dragon.

I thank her and head to the foyer. That’s weird, not a drop of rain is falling. I hastily zip up my jacket and don my helmet. I step out into the air. Now I can see the situation more clearly.

To the north, it looks like hell itself is on its way to flatten the county. To the east. The sky is clear. We’re under a broad, well defined, black edge… the edge of a system that’s not messing around. The air feels tense. Clearly all hell is going to break loose and very soon.

My plan was to ride to the burger joint. I’m starving anyway. But I want to go east. The sky is clear to the east. I judge that black edge, moving with the resolution of a bulldozer… it’s in motion. Flowing fast.

How fast? Motorcycle fast?

Decision time.

My tires are good, the pavement is still dry, the bike is in proper repair, I’m a pretty good rider, and I spent a fortune on this jacket (which is supposedly rainproof). I fire up the bike. Left toward the receding clear sky, or right to a burger joint half a mile away in the gloom. In that direction a streetlight is clicking on; it’s that dark and it’s the middle of the afternoon.

This is what we train for.

I’m going for it!

Within 10 seconds of stepping to where I could get a good view, my plan of “hunker down” has become “bug out”. 30 seconds later I’m in the saddle and rolling onto the main road.

I see lightning in the mirror. I see the edge of that black cloud right overhead. The tempting clear sky in front of me is a couple miles out; toward the east. Throttle up!

Turns out I made the right call. Ten minutes later I get out from under the gloom. The storm was moving fast but not motorcycle fast. Not a single raindrop fell on me.

Once I was in the clear I stopped to take a few photos. The grandeur of nature is amazing. Lets all pause and acknowledge that when nature tries to kill you, she does so beautifully.

I watch a bit for funnel clouds. I’m not seeing any. The storm begins to catch up. It’s not headed my way but it’s so huge that it’s growing toward the east as most of it’s massive size flows to the south.

Cheeky of me to have stopped!

I hop back on and ride the rest of the way home. The storm nips on my heels but never catches me. I park in the garage nice and dry.

“I made a very good decision.” I repeat to myself, thinking of nature’s deadly storms and society’s madness at the same time.

I hang up my jacket, pet the dog, and take off my riding boots.

BOOM… the wall of weather hits the house. The dog whines. The temperature drops twenty degrees in five minutes. Sure would suck to be out in that!

I spent the rest of the evening reading a good book and calming the dog. It had been a good day.

It’s random story time here at Curmudgeon Compound…

I got to the doctor after a little bloodletting. By now my stern outlook had been sanded down. Nice people are a calming influence. I was feeling positively civil.

The doctor bustled in followed by a nurse with a computer on a rolling table. Apparently doctors have stenographers now?

It starts out as I fear. He ignores me and starts clicking at his database. He’s trying for small talk and I suck at small talk. Somehow he focuses on a Disney-ish castle on a poster. “What a pretty view.”

“It’s Neuschwanstein Castle.” I say, immediately regretting it. Nobody wants to be “that guy”. I don’t deliberately try to be an asshole… it just comes naturally.

“Ever been there?” He asks, missing (or choosing to ignore) my rudeness.

“Nah, I once passed through Germany on the way to X. That’s it.”

“Oh X? Is that a nice place to visit?”

“It was OK but kinda’ third worldy.” I pause, thinking my own thoughts. “You know, that was 30 years ago, America is a lot more third worldy now.” I wave around as if our modern Clown World can be summed up with a gesture.

“But we do OK up here in our corner of nowhere eh?”

What’s this? A fellow human? Someone who’s been seeing things happen? Wow!

“Yeah, it’s OK here.”

“I worry sometime I’ll drop by <City Z> and it’ll be a crater. I’ll be on a weekend trip to buy Christmas presents and the place will be in mid collapse. People are nuts.”

“Me too.” I’m wondering where this will go. Ours lives have been so “Sovietized” that when someone has similar views (especially in real life) I’m surprised.

He chuckles and points at the database. My deplorable failure to get the vax is highlighted in red. “Want that?”

“You and five of your best friends can try to force it. See what happens.”

At this he lets out a guffaw. The stenographer / nurse is giggling. She’s seen this give and take before. I’m not sure what’s going on, is this guy a Fed? Am I about to get framed as a badthinker?

“You made a very good decision.” He nods approvingly.

What. The. Fuck?

This dude is a doctor. As far as I know he either got the shot or got fired… but then again I don’t know if that was a strictly enforced policy up here in Bumfuck Egypt. Maybe in Bumfuck Egypt they never got around to enforcing weird shit? The nurse is smiling. Are these people refugees from madness elsewhere? Or is this homegrown common sense still rooted in the soil?

“They threatened to fire me!” I grumble.

“Pointless.” He clicks on the database. “Your weight back then wasn’t bad. Stats looked good. You were getting exercise?”

“Three days a week.” I swell with pride.

“Covid wouldn’t have taken you out.” He waves at the helmet. “A bike might have killed you but not the ‘vid.”

“I know.”

“Me too. Firing people… such a bad idea!”

The stenographer isn’t writing any of this down. I’m gradually feeling at ease. The doc checks my blood pressure. The earlier nurse had already checked it but what do I know?

“Look at that.” He winks to the stenographer / nurse. “Five points lower just letting off some steam.”

Holy shit, my blood pressure (which was OK but not perfect) is now 5 points “better”!

Stress matters and the doc knows that. I’m impressed. The doc starts picking away at my data and I’m shocked that the blood test from half an hour ago is already on his screen… plus the new blood pressure he’s typed in. The stenographer / nurse is tapping away as we discuss my diet, the meaning of all those chemistry markers, some vitamin details, etc… The doc actually knows the difference between continuous and discrete variables and how that matters on the blood test results. Wow!

It’s the first time in years I’ve had a doctor that appears to care if I live or die. Not only that but he’s on the ball. Doctors used to be drawn from a population of smart cookies but then they suddenly started acting dumber than a sack of hammers. This is an old school doc. He knows stuff. Where there’s uncertainty he says so. He’s happily moving back and forth through my data from different time periods looking for long term signals.

Where did this man come from?

Somehow the topic goes back to firings. “You know,” he adds, “Mayo fired something like 700 nurses.”

I’m dimly aware that Mayo clinic is somewhere important. Top of the line place probably. Like Johns Hopkins or whatever. A place where millionaires and Senators (who are inexplicably millionaires too) get treatment… and I think they do medical research. (Though I wonder if there is anywhere that does legitimate research anymore.)

“That sucks, they had to replace 700 experienced people with 700 n00bs. That’s a setback.”

His eyes turn cold. “Not a setback. A loss. You never come back from that.”

We’re both silent for a bit. Damn. I see the world though new eyes. It was hard for me. Must have been harder for him. He’s clearly top notch and paying attention. What’s it like to be a skilled doc in a world on the verge of Nuremberg crimes? How did he survive the last 3 years? Is this where he landed? Was he fleeing elsewhere? Was he at Mayo?

“Well,” he concludes, “it doesn’t matter to you.” Just like that, the terrible setback is registered as just a societal loss and nothing we in our remote world can change. Stay in shape if you can, because you must. I’ve seen other people think the same thing. “You’re doing pretty well. You could use the gym again but who doesn’t need that? Stay away from vegetable fats, Crisco, margarine..”

“I eat a lot of steak. Wild game…”

“That’s fine. Drag an elk home and eat it whole… still better than margarine on wonder bread.”

“I’d guessed that.”

“You’re right. In general, if it didn’t exist 200 years ago, don’t eat it now. And don’t let them stick you.”

“Of course.”

It was the best Doctor’s visit I’ve ever had!

As I’m getting up to leave, someone rushes in. “Doctor, we need you car keys! Bob noticed you left your window down, it’s going to rain.”

He handed over his keys. I was impressed at the human kindness. “They noticed your car? Great staff!”

“People are OK up here.”

I wanted to hug him!

One more post to follow…

It’s random story time here at Curmudgeon Compound…

I rode my motorcycle to a medical appointment. Thank God for motorcycles! It was good to get some sun. I enjoyed the ride as much as I dreaded the visit.

Having ridden to what I will always think of as “the scene of the crime”, I strode through the door with the attitude I’ll have from 2020 until I die; acknowledging medical personnel did evil. Having witnessed it, I know they’d willingly do evil again.

Were they cackling supervillains bent on destruction? Nah, that would engender more respect from me. They did, as they’ll explain away to themselves as they try to sleep at night, mostly “minor” evil.

Weak people are always willing to do what weak people always do.

The word “trustworthy” excludes the weak.

Evil at the behest of a bureaucracy? Sure. Evil to keep their jobs? Sure. Evil because that’s how the incentives were stacked? Sure.

Doesn’t matter to me; it’s still fuckin’ evil. When they strapped grandpa into a ventilator even though it was an unwise choice they did it because money was tied to ventilator use. Initially, some of them may have believed that was the best treatment… which makes them merely wrong. But that only excuses those first few weeks. There’s no sin in being wrong. Sin comes from doing wrong after witnessing clear evidence that it’s harmful.

Depending on how carefully they observed victims of their treatments, doctors and nurses gradually fell on a spectrum from utterly incompetent to forcing lingering death on helpless people for a subsidy.

I wonder what the subsidy was? The best I can sort from muddled sources is an extra 20% on the top for any hospitalization with the word “covid”. That’s a full 20% extra on the already high base rate for a ventilator. 30 ounces of silver is worth a little under $700 in today’s dollars. How much did they get from grandpa’s death?

I reserve my harshest thoughts for people smart enough to know it was bad medicine yet willing to do it anyway. Might as well throw puppies into a wood chipper. To injure the innocent is unforgiveable. Sick people trusted them!

At a less esoteric level they withheld ivermectin and bitched that it was horse medicine. A  safe, cheap, well tested treatment. Even if it didn’t work, who gives a shit? If an adult American citizen wants to try it, why the hell not? In a world of face tattoos and expensive car leases the thing “too risky” to allow a Citizen was a dose of malaria treatment? I call bullshit.

I walked in that door knowing medical people did what they were told… even if people suffered. They complied first and didn’t bother to treat illness except as an afterthought. TicTok morons have the attention span of a mouse. They’ve ret-conned their memory and “let it go”. I can’t.

Doctors and nurses took the first step on the path to cattle cars! Until I see Fauchi’s corpse in a gibbet I can’t be sure it won’t happen again.

Have you guessed my mood?

I strutted past seven (count ’em SEVEN!) long ignored placards about Covid. All I needed is what they call “annual checkup” and I call “the vig”.

A “vig” is the fee charged by a bookie for accepting a gambler’s wager. Personally, I’m wagering a healthy if grumpy asshole benefits from minor routine medicine in a manner that outweighs the risk they’ll fuck up and kill me. I bet otherwise most of the last three years.

If I hit the gym more often I’d probably stay away entirely. Like everyone at the doctor’s office I wished I was working out more. I bailed on the gym in 2020 and got complacent. Oh well, nobody’s perfect.

Now it was time to get “serviced” by a doctor. Doctors don’t have it easy. Their nuts are in a vice. They’re indentured servants owned by the medical complex. They’re trapped in a system of pimps in suits managing credentialed hoes in labcoats.

I fuckin’ hate ’em!

The woman at the front desk (for reasons only known to HR there has never ever been a man at the front desk) greeted my sweaty, armored motorcycle jacket wearing, grim self with an absolutely radiant smile. Actual humanity? Wow! You can’t fight kindness! I smiled back; which probably looked like a hyena getting ready for dental work but my heart was in the right place.

“Riding today?” She prompted.

My first thought was to be a wiseass. “I carry a helmet in case I need to pilot a jet”. With effort I reign myself in and let small talk ensue. “Yep, nice day out.”

“They say it’s going to rain.”

“Then I’ll get wet.”

She ignores me and continues beaming. “Labs are on the right.” Her giant smile is obviously well practiced. It borders on a superpower. She should give lessons!

Labs? WTF! I don’t like surprises in medical buildings! Regardless, it was about the only thing that wouldn’t piss me off too much. I’ve got plenty of blood to spare and I love properly administered diagnostic chemistry! I trust chemical detections (if not interpretations) more than I trust the monkeys administering “medicine”. (Don’t get me started on weirdly misused covid detection methods. That was  damn near divination as far as I can tell.)

At the lab, a bubbly woman takes blood and tells me all about her plans to have a Harley-Davidson. There are motorcycle riders and people who like Harleys. Occasionally someone is both. If a person loves motorcycles and just happens to choose a Harley as one excellent choice among many good options that’s a rider. The opposite is someone who’d die of misery if handed the keys to a perfectly good Suzuki or Triumph. Many Harley owners “buy in” with a Harley as the price of admission to join a group. The group can tolerate only one brand.

She sees a helmet and probably knows nothing about motorcycles. Thus, she can only conclude I’m a “Harley person”. She’s super happy. If I mentioned that my “American made iron” is a Honda that was built in Ohio she might cry. For that matter it looks new but it’s 24 years old. I let it go. See how nice I am?

I’m not loyal to any company. I have a Yamaha and a Honda. (Admittedly the Honda is a flat out rip-off of protectionist era Harley-Davidson styling. But it’s laden with the sweet sweet engineering of Japanese perfectionists. Honda wisely kept all the good stuff carefully hidden but I appreciate it more every year.)

I’m shopping for another Honda. I don’t tell her that. She might not know Hondas exist.

I wonder if she has a Harley tattoo? Everyone that age has a tattoo of something. No way to ask without sounding creepier than I already look.

I wouldn’t buy a Harley unless it was half the going market price and came with a free Suzuki on the side. This is mostly due to preference but also I’m a cheapskate. I find myself wondering how a nurse (phlebotomist) can afford the most expensive brand this side of a Ducati?

Her story develops and I soon know. It involves someone who had a Harley. That guy kicked the bucket, the bike persisted, passing through a series of cousins or whatever until she nabbed it. She relays the story of how she drove it into a ditch and I get the idea she probably doesn’t have a motorcycle endorsement on her license. She says it’s all ok because her husband will be the main operator. Hmm… someone else paid for it, customer base roughly the age of dead, not a chance of an empowered female solo rider…

Holy stereotypes! She’s checked every box in the Harley playbook! She did it in less than 5 minutes. I’m impressed! The only groups more devout are Mormons and Packers Fans.

She does a great job with needles and such. I watch to make damn sure she’s extracting blood and not injecting anything. I wish her well. I really mean it. I sincerely hope she winds up having a great time wearing rebellious black t-shirts like all the other people wearing black t-shirts; ideally at Sturgis. It must be cool to have a “tribe”. She has joined something. I cannot.

“Looks like it might rain.” She says as I move on.

“Yeah, I’m gonna’ get wet.” I chuckle.

Now for the Doctor… stay tuned.

My last post mentioned spring; the season of renewal. I wish I’d said it as well as Adam Piggott:

It is with great gratitude that I find myself here at this time. We are suffering in a time of great upheaval but the beauty of the world is still there if we care to look. And I like nothing better than walking in the rain, a sometimes lit pipe in my mouth, and the faithful hound trotting along beside me, happily wet and bedraggled.

We are all engaged in writing many words recording our great disappointment with the world as it stands. But there is also need of joy, of acknowledging the gifts which we have been given.

Having considered Adam’s lofty words, I made the time to appreciate the wonder of my derelict homestead. Here goes…

I’ve no quarrel with dandelions. They look pretty, they grow very fast in the spring, they hold the soil in drought, and free range chickens love ’em. These will be mowed in due time (which never seems to hinder them much), but for now I’m too lazy to hitch the mower deck. I’ll give myself another week to enjoy the colors.

The old apple tree never ceases to amaze me. It’s older than dirt yet every spring it blooms like a champ. Bees and hummingbirds swarm the old tree.

All rural men have a few “I’ll fix that later” bits of yard art. It’s tradition and it’s good.

This is a ’41 Allis Chalmers that hasn’t moved for a while. Someday, if I find the time before it rusts out, it’ll run again.

The old tractor had a surprise for me. Do you see the fleeing wing on the right side?

The robin’s nest will make a mess of the distributor but I can live with it. Just look a the color of those eggs!

I’ve been posting less frequently this spring. Why? Partly because everything political is propaganda. It’s increasingly hard to know what is true; so why comment on the unknown? But there’s something more. This is a moment when I choose to step back and look at the world as an overall whole. Here I am, surrounded by a million trees, have I seen the forest? Have you?

One part of the forest I have seen is this:

For some individuals it is spring, for others it is autumn. Everyone’s clock runs differently. The grasping and myopic think it all ends with them. In their autumn, they cruelly infect the vigorous with their own decrepitude.

Many years ago I coined a phase of mismanagement. I observed it in the Soviet Union’s decline:

“The boss is fit and healthy right until he was dead two weeks ago.“

I can’t remember which of the many geriatric geezers piloting the USSR’s empty husk in circles brought about that observation. Maybe it was Nikita Khrushchev or Leonid Brezhnev? It was a long time ago. I remember videos of men who were at best teetering. These were narrated by newscasters uttering words as if the paper thin beings on the screen were lions. (In modern times nobody sane gets “news” from TV. If you do; stop.)

Even now, if you Google Khrushchev or Brezhnev you’ll see a photo of their handsome youth. You won’t see their weakened and declining state. (That applies universally, if you type Dianne Feinstein into Wikipedia you’ll get a carefully composed photo that’s 19 years old.) As for Khrushchev or whoever it was. I’m remembering his autumn and it was a very bitter one. In just a few years their 70 year old Marxist bullshit-fest would collapse for good.

For me, it was spring. I was a youthful American Curmudgeon enjoying Pac Man and Cola Wars. All through that fine spring I was told I’d get incinerated in unavoidable nuclear hell. Why? Because geezers had deemed it necessary.

It didn’t happen.

Nobody apologized for spending the first twenty years of my life bitching at me about geopolitical destabilization. Why did they do it? Did they think some kid on a Huffy bike was somehow responsible. Did they think I’d weep when they shuffled off their mortal coil?

For that matter I’ve been bitched at about “the end of the world” my entire time in the world. It never happens… or rather it ends for some and is born anew for others.

Younger generations know nothing of my youthful “end of the world”. “Mutually assured destruction” is just a plot device in that old move where Arnold Schwarzenegger plays a bad ass robot… you know the first one, before they made a fake and gay CGI / geezer remake.

Today’s youth have their own “total upheaval”. Their school was shut down, they were socially isolated, they never got to swig a cold brew illegally by the campfire, and if they notice a girl is hot they’d better watch their ass if HR is around (assuming of course they have a job at all). They were injected, masked, and spent two years pretending to learn by laptop. Fauchi dumped theoretical hellfire on them just as much as Russkie nukes dumped on me.

For the weak and evil, their declining cold dark autumn is always looking for a sunny spring day; in hopes of ruining it.

The assholes that do it never recant. As nobody apologized to me, nobody will apologize to Millennials or Gen Z.

Back in my springtime I felt the pity at the very old when they seemed, for want of a better word, driven or unfulfilled. The end of Pope John Paul II’s time seemed tragic to me. I’m not a catholic, I’ve got no horse in the race. Maybe the guy was awesome. Maybe he was a jerk. Not my call. However, I remember feeling sad when they wheeled an obviously very very tired man around. I felt like maybe he was in hell.

I pictured a Pope’s job to be contemplating God’s wonders. Shouldn’t he be resting peacefully in a garden, enjoying the wisdom of religious understanding and passing on what benevolent knowledge he could? Whenever I saw him it looked like the poor bastard had just spent all week in a board meeting sorting out administrative squabbles. Suppose you’re the direct conduit to the almighty, in your last years should you be in a garden or harnessed to a desk? This was in the time of widespread sexual abuse within the church (or at least when it became known). Did he know? Was it the same as the travails at the Kremlin. “It’s all a house of cards… God help us.”

What do I know? I’ve more humble life goals than ruling the Soviet Union or the Vatican.

Because I’m Gen X, I have to mention Fidel Castro. He spent the last decade of his life sending out press releases that he was fit as a fiddle. Everybody and their dog knew he was barely kicking; it was embarrassing. More recently Ruth Bader Ginsberg, a rock star of “Judicial Activism” was actively castigated by her faithful… for dying in office. A few years before that, Robert Byrd and Strom Thurmond burned through a human lifetime to more or less die on the job. If the grim reaper hadn’t clocked them out they’d still be there; human dust grasping power at a committee meeting.

The boss is fit and healthy… no matter what.

I see that cycle again. Consider President Biden, of whom it’s is legally unquestionable that he won more votes than any other candidate in history.(It is literally unquestionable, as in you risk finding your ass in jail should you ask too many questions.) The man is in excellent health and guiding things with the mental acuity of a chess grand master. Everyone looks forward to his upcoming 18 months of many popular campaign events before adoring crowds. This will be followed by 4 more years of wise and successful service.

Suuuuure… Look at him. Does he look happy? He looks like he shit his pants and got lost looking for the podium. No pleasant time to relax in the garden for that guy.

A small shadow of a bigger shadow, U.S. Senator John Fetterman is in the same boat. He suffered a stroke before his election and spent a good portion of February in the hospital. Some people’s clock runs fast. Such a shame. Fetterman can barely read a sentence and he stumbles in ways that would get you a C- in “public speaking 101”. It is his autumn. As our Chief Executive demonstrates, oration is not necessary; a pulse and a ballot is enough.

Fetterman is a train wreck. Dude just stands there like Lurch, dressed worse than a college freshman, looking confused, and likely just as confused as he looks. Like I said, he’d barely pass a required freshman public speaking course at a flyover state agricultural college. Yet there he is, a Senator. Or rather a supposedly fit and healthy meat puppet in the service of whomever does his thinking. If my head were scrambled I might want to stay off stages. Perhaps go fishing or just sit on the beach watching the waves; but that’s just me.

Senator Dianne Feinstein was hospitalized for “minor” issues and emerged looking remarkably like Darth Sidious; except more confused. We pretend this is totally normal. I’d pay good money to watch Biden, Feinstein, and Fetterman have a conversation amongst themselves.

My point is, at least some of a person’s fate is made by their own hand. Part of that is to let go of the wheel when you can no longer drive.

We are to be “led” by geriatric meatheads who refuse to accept time. It results in the absolute dipshit leadership were seeing. People who haven’t had a new idea since the internet was a toy for nerds aren’t going to suddenly rise above. If they had wisdom, they’d have already used it. They’re going to create problems and then use the same damn solutions they’ve been using since they were sentient.

What’s worse is that they’re broadcasting their futile struggling against mortality onto the rest of the world. We, who are living and thriving and growing, must wriggle our way through the human mulch. As we do, it’s important to learn what not to do. Remember the old decaying sad being that shit on the young? Don’t be that guy. Be the one that smiles at children and appreciates the trees.

The trees are flowering. For them… it is spring.

I’m hunting for a used motorcycle. Motorcycles aren’t merely utilitarian. Thus, owning one is not fully logical. Owning two is even more illogical. The two I own are so awesome I want to own three. There’s no end to this circle. Don’t fight it, grok it.

I have a Honda Shadow ACE. It cruises all I’ll ever need to cruise. I also have a Yamaha TW200 that’s basically new despite me beating the shit out of it. That stout little critter happily pack-mules my ass into all the fun I can handle.

Yet I feel the need to add to the stable; less a thought than a calling. I sense this is a time when I can get a heck of a deal on a kind of machine that will never exist again AND it’s also a good moment to do what one “ought to do”. (Define “ought to do” anyway you wish. I’m still working on it myself.)

The world emerged from a COVID fever dream only to psychotically drag itself into the trash. Whatever motorcycles our future cockroach /AI / technocrat overlords allow to exist in our future of mud huts and electric vehicles won’t suit me. For now, the supply of old yet well maintained bikes continues existing, however improbably. It won’t last forever.

Shit often looks the worst right before total destruction fails to happen. The future is likely brighter than it seems right now. But maybe not. The only certainty is that things are increasingly uncertain and a good bike doesn’t fit with the kind of mind that eliminates incandescent lights and gas kitchen stoves.

If you knew… really honestly knew… shit was going pear shaped… would a good clean motorcycle be among your plans? Hard to say. In mine; maybe. It feels like it should. Motorcycles are freedom! Who doesn’t want a nice stockpile of freedom? (Before you rush to comment, all the stacks of ammo in Bert Gummer’s basement can’t substitute for the joy of flying over pavement in pursuit of the horizon.)

Well anyway, that’s my theory. I said it wasn’t logical.

The first bike I checked out was a Honda GL 1200 Goldwing Aspencade. It had 60K on the clock and was going for two grand. I didn’t expect much. I was correct. It was in rough shape, serviceable but tattered. Not what I was looking for.

Here’s a random photo of a GL120o Goldwing Aspencade from the internet. The one I checked out looked like this… but after you rolled it in a cement mixer for a while.

I was attracted to a single line in the ad: “Reason for selling, 82”. There’s something very poignant about that. I met the man. I hope he has many years left. I lingered too long and hated to leave. I’d have happily listened to his life’s story.

His bike started and idled perfectly. Alas it was crufty; switches that don’t work, a hole drilled in the faring for reasons that probably made sense when a switch was mounted in the hole, the odd wire that goes nowhere, well worn aftermarket bling that was lame when installed decades ago, a corner of the LCD was dead, etc… The bike’s mechanicals could probably warble happily for another 50,000+ miles but it would never look “clean”.

I didn’t take it.

There was a dry spell after that. I live in East Bumfuck Nowhere. Local markets in anything are slim. Searching for a 30 year old gem of a motorcycle on the cheap is expecting a lot. I’m aware it may be an impossible ask. Patience is merited.

Then I had a road trip. I had to go to a place to do a thing. While I was there I sniffed around for more bikes. I found a gem indeed!

I found a BMW LT1100. Just a little under 30 years old. Less than 4oK on the clock. It was offered at just about twice the cost of the clapped out ‘Wing. Still within my cheapskate budget.

This machine was perfect! Clean as a whistle. It left the factory with much less extraneous gadgetry than the ‘Wing and it’s old age everything functioned flawlessly. It had ABS which is pretty cool for that era.

Mostly I liked the motor. The BMW transverse inline 4 is a good design. I  wanna hug that motor!

It had a full maintenance history and was obviously well cared for. There was no weird shit bolted to it. It was like I time traveled to the late ’90’s and rolled it off a showroom floor. I had no doubt I could hop on that bike and cross three time zones without the slightest hesitation!

Here’s what an BMW LT1100 looks like:

The guy was more than willing to let me take a test drive. I’m nervous just looking at another guy’s bike. Also I’m from the social class that doesn’t even set foot in a BMW showroom. But I figured “if I drop it, I’ll buy it” and that chilled me out. Test driving a $30K BMW would give me a stroke, test driving a beauty I can afford is less stressful!

I’d been traveling with Mrs. Curmudgeon. She happily waved as I rolled away on that sweet BMW; leaving her and the truck behind.

About a mile down the road I was like; “Did I just abandon my wife as collateral on a used vehicle test drive? Is that rude?” Then I was like “Nah, it’s fine, she can handle herself.” Soon I forgot all concerns and focused on the immediate “this is a sweet ride!”

It purred like a kitten, every gear was great, every shift flawless. It was a little buzzy at 4,000 rpm but it was scarcely noticeable. I meant to ride slow but the thing was so smooth and capable that I found myself going way faster than I expected. It might be a speeding ticket machine!

Tragically, the ergonomics of putting a grunt like me on that sleek engineering marvel was a mismatch. My inseam is too short for the tall BMW. I could fix that with a lower positioned seat but that’s only the start. The whole ergonomic package was integrated and it was completely off kilter for my Neanderthal body. I wound up leaning too much on my wrists. I mashed my nuts into the tank. On my cruiser I sit “in” the bike, on the BMW I perched “on” it. I guess I’m not a “perch” kind of guy.

It felt tall and gangly. I wanted laid back and chill and this bike was just too awesome for that. It wanted to go. It was all cheetah and antelope where my next bike is meant to be badger and napping dog. Does that make sense? Is this why wine descriptions devolve into stupid analogies? (“Despite the bouquet that hints of apricot, the body suggests leather and the aftertaste is tax reform.” Wine guys… I get ya’ now.)

I wicked it up a little and it went from great to superb. That’s what it was built to do. I leaned a touch in a few curves and gave it a fraction more throttle. It held traction like it was bonded to the planet. What a great bike!

But already my back was starting to ache. It’s a great bike but not for me. A chiropractor could buy that bike, give it to me free, and make a profit off my future visits.

Such a shame. Someone is going to get a hell of a deal, but that winner won’t be me.

Still, I call it a success. It was proof of concept. I had the proposition that under $5k can get a bike that’s all that and a bag of chips. The Beemer was  stupendous; mechanically perfect, well maintained, appeared bulletproof, and ready for a road trip right now. Very close to the target.

There are unicorns out there. I just have to find mine.

If you think I’m going to write about current events, you’re wrong. I’m going to write about time.

Long ago railways phased out cabooses. Like puppies and cold beer, everyone loves a caboose! (Get your head out of the gutter!) I’d read somewhere you could buy one cheap. I recall something like $500 or $100… I’m not sure. It was along time ago. Probably 30 years I think?

I remember that moment. I drove to a train yard and looked upon a huge array of old cabooses. They really were for sale! How cool is that?!

Of course there’s more to a thing like that than the initial purchase. There was the issue of shipping the behemoth… and I didn’t have any land upon which to plant it. I was a broke ass kid. The logistics were beyond me. I shrugged my shoulders and let the moment pass.

If I could regain that moment I’d love it! If I could have a caboose at that price and from that time magically transported to my homestead I’d sprain my arm throwing money at whomever offered it. Alas, it was a one time opportunity.

Our household’s cars are aging. Among three main vehicles I estimate we’ve accumulated 600,000 miles on various odometers.* They’re all still fine but we had a close call with a deer a few months ago. We nearly lost one of three.

That got me thinking. Being a belt and suspenders kind of guy, I’d love to have a “beater car” as a backup. However, “beater car” has gradually become a concept from a time before.

When gasoline was made of gasoline and carburetors still walked the earth, a Buick cost eight grand, you could pay it off in 4 years, and maintenance was constant but cheap. That sort of vehicle also drove like a potato, burned a lot of fuel, lacked things like electric windows or AC, and had half the lifespan of a modern EPA compliant space vehicle.

Back then odometers “rolled over” at 99,999 miles.

A ten year old Buick of that era is what I’m thinking about but I don’t live in that era. I spent my youth in rusty pieces of shit. I bought them cash, drove them a while, and then swapped to the next one. I was a bottom feeder. Cars of that time rarely “rolled over” twice.

Here in 2023 that’s an old timey geezer idea. A cheap ass “backup” car that can be bought with spare change and will get to town but not much further has been replaced by a laptop on wheels that starts with an 8 year payment plan and runs a quarter million miles before something big goes out that’s too expensive to repair.

Cars are immensely more expensive/complex and that changes everything. They’re superior in many ways but they’re also big ticket items. As a result, Americans keep their cars running as long as they can… we follow the trail blazed by highly regulated worlds; such as Cuba and private aviation. (Ever wonder why the “logbook” on a 50 year old Cessna is almost as valuable as the plane itself? Ask the FAA.)

Does it matter. Nah! I’ve got plenty of years and miles left in my “fleet”. I don’t need to pine for a type of car that existed in an economy that’s long gone. There might be a few out there but the market itself probably fell on the altar of “Cash for Clunkers”.

I’ll shrug my shoulders and let a moment pass.

But wait! I’m here to talk about a moment that’s not passed. Used motorcycles right now are undergoing the transition that’s mostly over for used cars.

If you walk into a modern motorcycle stealership you’ll see the most amazing, cool, powerful, technologically advanced, motorcycles. They’re awesome! They’re fuel injected, have ABS, come with navigation, want to engage in bluetooth tomfoolery with your cell phone, etc… Motorcycles are the last of machines piloted by people who can use a clutch but even that is fading. Honda is already shipping Golwdings with automatic transmission. (Groan all you want, from what I’ve heard Honda has nailed it.)

Modern flagship bikes are incredibly cool but they’re also inhumanly expensive!

YMMV but I also think they’ll be a stone cold bitch to maintain in 20 years. Just as a modern car is totaled when the airbags deploy and a Tesla is junked if the battery is nipped, so to with the modern motorcycle. A $30,000 full dress bagger bought today is going to be very hard to maintain in 2043.

What can we learn from the lesson of cars? Forget what’s on the motorcycle showroom floor and consider the bike’s ancestors. My Honda cruiser was made in 1999. It lacks ABS, has two carburetors, and doesn’t have radios and navigation. What it does have is liquid cooling, shaft drive, disk brakes, and modern metallurgy. It was built like a brick shithouse; go Honda!

My bike runs like it did the day I bought it and has had hardly any issues. With basic maintenance it could last forever. If you couldn’t afford it in 1999 maybe now’s your time?

I dropped something like $8k on my bike when I bought it new. I probably added a grand in saddlebags and shit over the years. Used bikes exactly like mine are readily had for $2,000-$3,000. The difference between performance on day one and two decades later is nil. If you want that sort of machine, a few grand is a smoking hot deal!

I think there’s a sweet spot with the used motorcycle market and that moment is right now. History is like this: UJMs (universal Japanese motorcycles) of the 1970s and 1980s can be infinitely fixed and are great fun. They’ll hang OK in modern traffic but they’re a bit basic. By the late 1980s and 1990s many bikes were functionally equivalent to anything you’d need right now but they were still infinitely reparable. It’s hard to say when that moment passed but it did. I guess around 2010 is when they started the drift toward the not infinitely reparable.

Also, I might as well point out that motorcycle riders in America are fading too. Used vehicles are usually purchased by young people entering the market. With some exceptions younger generations are barely willing to walk outdoors where it might rain. The population of people that can swing a leg over a rolling engine and ride it to the horizon is us… not the youth who are afraid of their own shadow. You might as well capitalize on this!

That’s just my opinion, you’re welcome to mock me.

I am prowling Craigslist. I’m looking for… I’m not sure what. I’m looking for something that will be gone in 10 years and it’s cheap now. Something from the “infinitely reparable yet ready to ride without a wrench in your pocket” era. Wish me luck.

I already have a V-Twin so I want something different. I’m looking at old Goldwings. The GL1200 / GL1500 series had bulletproof engines but still had repairable carburetors and serviceable parts. No ABS, fuel injection is uncommon, etc… Goldwings have the best reputation for long miles. They’re sometimes infected with decrepit technology, faded LCD screens, stereo systems from the cassette era, etc… I’m looking for bikes with the least features; not the most.

There’s other candidates too, some Yamaha Ventures, the Kawasaki Concourse, I’m weirdly attracted to the goofy market failure that is the Honda Pacific Coast, I’m not sure about some of the inline engine BMW tourers (I may be too short for them), and Moto Guzzis look cool but they seem pretty rare. I’m not looking at Harleys. They don’t interest me.

What you do with this information is up to you. What I do with it is uncertain too.

All I can say is “It’s a strange time so recognize it”. If you want the biggest baddest most mile eating supertourer of 1988 you can get one in mint condition and plenty of miles left fir a high market price of $7k. I’m looking at the under $5k market and haven’t yet found what I want; but I’m patient.

Memento mori; remember you are going to die.

I just checked out a clapped out GL1200 for $2k. The bike would probably run another 100,000 miles but the non-mechanical stuff was pretty banged up. The motor was as smooth as silk but detached switches and stuff that doesn’t work were all over the bike. It’ll ride fine and the right person could ignore it all for an easy 50,000 miles for sure.

I decided I’d like less drama. Also, I’m a shitty mechanic. It’s wise to spend more up front to avoid future issues. (Also the local motorcycle mechanic’s pool is pretty thin!)

What really got me was the last line in the ad. It mentioned the mileage and various features and so forth. Then it ended with this:

Reason for selling, 82.

That’s it isn’t it?

The whole arc of mortality in four words.

I met the seller. He looked pretty spry for 82. He explained that his balance wasn’t what it once was. That’s is a biological certainty for all of us. Regardless, I hope I look that good when I’m that age.

The bike wasn’t what I wanted but I lingered, soaking up everything he had to say. He seemed a good fellow who’d done cool things. I heard a small sliver of a fascinating life story. I hung on every word. I can find another bike somewhere else, but I wish I knew the guy so I could hear more.

We’re all gonna’ die. In case you’re wondering that includes you too. When your time approaches you can be the guy standing in a garage telling a bearded stranger about your many motorcycle trips to Alaska. Or you can spend your time doing nothing and therefore have nothing to say. Your call.

On that happy note, I’ll stop typing.

Bye.

A.C.

*Ponder my accumulated mileage for a minute. A generic nobody of a blogger with some basic vehicles has traveled well over half a million miles. That’s just the current crop of cars in the driveway (I have owned many cars). I’ve no idea how many million miles my eyes have seen but it’s unfathomably vast. Compared to most humans in all of history I have lived larger than a king. The personally owned vehicle is freedom. Never let your gift from the inventive generations before you be seized!