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T100R
With
the front forks fully compressed and the tie-downs secured
we backed out onto Elizabeth Lane and started back towards
Savannah. As we wound our way out of the quiet neighborhood
of neatly tended suburban homes I kept looking back through
the pickup's rear window to be sure things were secure and
by the time we broke out on to state road 78 I was pretty
comfortable that things were staying put. Beside me Patrick
was still buzzing from the jolt he got when Richard first
fired up the bike - the throaty roar of the old Triumph
bringing distant memories up through my bones.
The madness that is GA78 soon gave way to I-285 then I-640
and finally I-75 south toward Macon, the little four cylinder
truck engine heaving in and out of high gear as the cruise
control coped with the long rolling terrain south of Atlanta.
We had commitments back in Savannah that night so the ride
home had some urgency to it and as we rolled along the conversation
in my mind turned to the wisdom of my purchase...
| An
old 1971 British motorcycle - you are crazy! What have
you done? Your girl friend . . and even your |
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brother,
in their own way, rolled their eyes at the thought.
Where you gonna keep it? When you gonna ride it? Will
the curse of Lucas get you by the diodes? Should'a bought
a cheap jap bike for what you want to do. Should'a put
the money in your IRA. Should'a . . . back and forth
an on and on . . .
As the miles tick away I remember that I need to get
a helmet. Question is, do I do so tomorrow back home
or take the time now and find a bike shop in Macon.
Another bout of dithering ensues as the exits click
by and Macon draws ever nearer. In the end I decide
to stop and after asking at a convenience store we are
pointed west on |
Mercer University Avenue looking for that stretch of town
where "the bike shops are." Past the housing projects
and the mall, all the time westward we traverse Macon ending
finally at Capital Cycles, a huge phantasm of recreational
hardware – four wheelers, jet skis, dirt bikes, cruisers,
road bikes, clothing, equipment, all in and surrounding
a huge building fronted with big glass windows.
I park out front and ask Patrick to stay with the truck
while I go in and peruse the helmet selection. After some
mild hand wringing I make my choice and as I'm headed to
the cashier I look out through the windows at Pat - up on
the truck sitting the bike. The phone lines are clogged
so the charge authorization takes a while. When I finally
exit the shop and head to the truck I see a guy, fore arms
resting on the truck bed his feet crossed behind him, talking
to Pat. As I approach I'm introduced to Rod one of the head
mechanics at the dealership. He's glowing. "Man this
is gorgeous! a T100, cool, I've had a 650 Tiger for years,
wiring harness burned up a couple years ago - oh there's
this great guy in Marietta does incredible restorations
- buddy of mind had a Daytona like this that caught fire
and he took the charred remains and for six grand put it
in show room condition - man you know what you can get in
there (he points to the showroom) for six grand? shit, that's
what - guys in there, I try to tell up but they don't know,
this here's a real motorcycle." I haven't said a word
yet. He slows down and we chat some, sharing that particular
(and there are many) interest in old British motorcycles.
As we part he says he'd buy it from me right then and there.
Buoyed by the encounter Patrick and I head back through
Macon to pick up I-16 eastbound and home. Once up at highway
speeds my mental conversation begins anew but with a difference.
Yea, I bought an old British bike and the last ten minutes
demonstrates one of the main reasons why. At this point
in my life the objects I acquire need some substance about
them beyond just the atoms and molecules from which they’re
made - quality, a story, history, some characteristics which
connect people together across the gaps that isolate us
so.
After a while, as the rolling red clay hills of central
Georgia give way to the sandy pine forests of the coastal
plain Patrick pipes up as to how he needs to take a leak.
We're okay on fuel so we dodge into a convenience store
at the next exit. While waiting in the store for Pat to
do his business a voice from behind me asks "Is that
you're Triumph out there?" I turn to find a man coming
through the entrance door with a swarm of children weaving
and dodging to get through and into the rows of candy. "A
six fifty?" "No, a Daytona" I reply. "Whow,
I had a Bonneville a long time ago" he says. We chat
a while. You can see the distant look in his eyes, his wife
walks by behind him and into the rest room, our eyes making
contact momentarily, she smiles and her's twinkle, the door
swings closed. His kids are running around but he is now
floating. I tell him I just bought it and with a soft snap
he disconnects completely - unplugged entirely from this
space/time continuum. We could have walked out and spent
the next hour leaning against the pickup running our eyes
across the old familiar parts and pieces that loosely come
together to form a 1971 Triumph Daytona. But Pat and I needed
to get on home so I shook his hand and left him standing
in the candy isle amid the wonderful sound of his kid's
voices discussing the pros and cons of a 5th Avenue vs.
a Snickers Bar.
Pale
Rider – aka Donald Ansley
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