Parting is such sweet sorrow

In 1995 my little Hyundai Excel hatch back died, something about not changing the oil for a couple of years and just adding oil to compensate for the constant leak not being sufficient. So I was without a car for a couple of years, which was not cool but I managed. My apartment was only a short walk to the bus line which was a short ride to a major bus hub, where you could catch a bus to virtually anyplace in the city.

It is a well established fact that riding the bus is not Hip at all for an American male, this is a lesson learned about the ninth grade when you become both completely enthralled with the opposite sex and simultaneously aware that others attending your school are licensed drivers who are not forced to travel to and from with the “little kids”. Not that you can’t list a dozen reasons why utilizing any mass transit system is a good thing, but it’s just not going to do a lot for your “rep” to be riding the bus in high school or there after.

So imagine my indignation at being forced to ride the bus as a twenty-something. Sure I could (and did) bum rides from friends and co-workers, but this gets old fast (mostly for them, didn’t bug me except the asking). Also picture trying to portray yourself as a suave and virile male to the ladies with hip lines like, “would you like to go to dinner, and drive me” or “Yeah I would love to meet up with you and your friends. But the bus stops running on that line at 9:00”. Oh yeah I was quite the man about town.

Well I ask you what could be the polar opposite of the afore mentioned situation? No I didn’t buy a Ferrari! I bought a motorcycle. It was such an odd transaction too. I worked with a guy who rode a motorcycle to work several days out of the week and I told him on several occasions that I would like to purchase it from him. I would say things like “why don’t you sell me that bike, it would look much better with me riding it ” (real modest huh) none the less he always rebuffed me saying he would never sell it.

After a few months working together he is about to leave the company and in fact was missing in action for a couple of weeks before he was scheduled to make his exit. When he briefly returned he almost immediately comes and offers to sell me the bike, there is just one snag. He doesn’t own it! He is buying the motorcycle from the rightful owner on a payment plan, and offers to let me take over this arrangement. I jumped at the chance. So began a somewhat strained relationship with the owner, who was in fact not the outright owner but had a lien against the bike with their bank.

This all transpired in September of 1997 and by that time I was completely smitten with the future Mrs. to the point that I abandoned all ties to San Antonio, loaded the personal possessions that I could not sell or give away in the back of a pick up (including the motorcycle) and moved to Albuquerque to be within wooing distance.

My little Motosickly was pretty good to me. Even in the cold of mountain spring I rode that bike as my sole source of transportation. Alas when we finally wed the little motorcycle was not sufficient transportation for the two of us on a daily basis and so I purchased a little car from my sister and brother-in-law and the motorcycle began to see less and less road time.

Fast forward a few years and we are moving from Albuquerque to Kansas City and I load the bike into truck again for another thousand plus mile relocation, this time following a job and in a large box truck rental. Over the years preceding the motorcycle had fallen into some disrepair; little cracks in the saddle, a ding here and there, a broken turn signal. But put on the battery charger for a while and she would willingly launch me on another adventure, wind in my face and bugs in my teeth. But once we get to Kansas City the poor motorcycle is almost completely ignored. We had a baby son to play with and the weather in Kansas is not well suited to two wheeled adventures most of the year, and so for the first year she sat in the apartment carport in front of the primary family transportation collecting dust.

A year after our move to Kansas City we purchased a home and load up to move again, when it comes time to load my faithful bike on the truck I realize that she has fallen into further disrepair; the control cables have frozen presumably from moisture and rust, the water reserve tank has cracked, and the little crack in the saddle has become a big rip. She is in such a sad state that I could not even roll her into the truck because the clutch could not be disengaged allowing the rear wheel to roll free. So it became a two man job just to move the bike from one spot to another. And once she was parked in the garage of the new home I never moved her. The only use made of the motorcycle for the last two years has been an oversized rack for my string trimmer and an occasional climbing toy for my oldest son.

Well last night the seven and a half year relationship was ended, I sold her to a young man who has both the desire and mechanical ability to bring her back into road worthy condition. I am a little sad and a little relieved to see her go but at some point all things come to a close. Now the huge obstruction in my garage is gone and all that remains are the happy memories of wind in my face.