So…last year, I bought a motorcycle. My first. Not only had I never driven one in my life—well, unless you count that time a friend of mine let me try his out in a parking lot and upon stopping (after approximately 18 feet of driving), promptly went over on my side. But, I don’t count that one. So, not only had I never really driven one, but I’d barely spent any time riding on one.
But I have a friend, John. And, I suspect we all have a “John” in our lives. He’s the friend that agrees with you when you say, “I think that a quick jog down the middle of Main Street wearing nothing but a clown nose is exactly what I need right now. What do you think?” Last year, when I said, I’m thinking of doing the Coney Island Polar Bear swim the first weekend of March, he’s the guy who came with me for the seven plus hours in the car with the stop off in NJ to visit Shades of Death Road.
Anyway, John started cruising Craigslist when I once cavalierly announced that I wanted a Honda Rebel. And then he got me cruising Craigslist…just out of curiosity. I, to this day, have no idea what possessed me to call on the ad that went in one Saturday morning for a Honda Rebel for $1,000 obo. And I have no idea what I was thinking when I told the guy that I’d like to come look at it. And I sure haven’t a clue why I ultimately bought the thing for $750 that I didn’t have and had to borrow from John.
But, all those “no ideas” notwithstanding, I bought the thing and when we got it back to my place, John said, “ride your bike up the driveway.” I, literally, looked at him as though he’d spoken Farsi in a falsetto voice. I just couldn’t comprehend the idea that I was going to get on a motorcycle—my motorcycle—and drive it…even such a short distance as the length of my driveway. But I did. Holy shit, I drove a motorcycle and didn’t crash and didn’t tip over and didn’t kill anybody. Holy shit, I just drove a motorcycle…my motorcycle. Heh.
Despite his ache (and my own) to do something wrong, something harmlessly illegal, something victimlessly criminal, John wouldn’t take me riding until I’d gotten the bike registered and insured and passed my motorcycle permit test. Understandable, as I wouldn’t have wanted to get caught, which I was certain I would. I had melodramatic visions of pulling out of my driveway and immediately be surrounded by police cars racing from either end of my street to box me in and pull weapons before I could make an heroic getaway a la Thelma & Louise. A helicopter would be circling overhead, its floodlight pinning me to the street like an insect to a specimen board.
Melodrama aside, I got my permit; I got the bike registered and insured and John and I went riding. He came over one night and said, “Let’s go.” And we just went. No fanfare, no drama, no jerking around. We simply got on the bikes and rode.
Terrifying.
Exhilarating.
Addicting.
Terrifying.
Exhilarating.
I don’t have a short clue as to why I ended up waiting so long before I did this. Seriously. I let my apprehension…cowardice…get the best of me sometimes. I exaggerate things in my brain and then just get frozen in place. It’s stupid, but it happens.
Anyway. It wasn’t long before I had my eye on something a bit more grand in scale.
In poking around—as I am often wont to do—I discovered a relatively new bike in Harley’s line of Sportster models. The Iron 883.
When I was younger, I’d seen someone, somewhere on a Sportster. I couldn’t tell you the model, the color, the anything more than I immediately fell in love with it. It was another The Terminator moment in my life. When I was a freshman in high school, the original terminator movie came out. And, I don’t know if you remember, but at the end, Sarah Connor (Linda Hamilton) was driving off into the Mexican sunset in a topless red Jeep Renegade, German Sheppard at her side. Since I’d already fallen in love with her ninety minutes earlier, I fell in love with the Jeep. Being who I am, I knew that, when it came to be time for me to buy a vehicle, there wouldn’t be another one that would make me happy. In 2000, I finally got my own Jeep. It’s black, not red, and I haven’t yet driven off in to the Mexican sunset, but I have taken it cross country, top down, music blaring.
It was just about like that with the Iron. It was not exactly what I thought of when I thought of Sportsters, but it was better. Matte black tins and tank, low to the ground, me sized. I fell in love at first sight and knew that that was “the one”.
In July 2010, I bought my very own Iron 883.
It’s in the shop right now.
Once I get over my anger at it for making a second trip to the shop in about a month, I’ll post you further.
No comments:
Post a Comment