I raised my kids with motorcycles. They started with a couple little 50ccs then worked their way up. Both my sons & my daughter have motorcycle licenses, and motorcycles. I tell them I had a motorcycle when I met their mom, Gwynne, and when we moved up to Washington in 1980, I bought a big ol’ Honda 750 4-cylinder beast that I could barely keep up at stop signs. I had bought it in the summer before experiencing a PNW winter, and Sacramento, California, where we came from, didn’t have that much rain. Let’s just say I was ill-prepared for wet motorcycle riding. Still, we didn’t have a second car, so as cold as it was, raining or not, I rode the Honda to work every day, until the day…
It was pouring down rain worse than I’d ever been in. I waited a half-hour or so to see if it would lighten up before going to work, but if anything it got heavier. Sighing, I put on my black leather jacket and my white helmet with the bubble mask, and headed out. Not too far from home, at the first stop sign, the rain absolutely blinding me as it pummeled my helmet, I gave the bike a little gas and it slid out from underneath me, stalling in the middle of the road. People were trying to get to work, so it didn’t take long for horns to start honking. There I was trying to tilt that SOB up, but the oil on the road at the stop sign was too slick, and all the bike did was slide sideways. Hefting it with all my might, I slid it across the street to the curb where I finally tilted it upright. I was exhausted and super hot inside my jacket, which wasn’t improved by the water rushing down my helmet and through the collar, soaking me. The face shield was so fogged up, it was totally opaque, so I ripped it off and threw it across someone’s yard. Of course, after all that, the carburetor was flooded and eventually the electric start ran out of battery. I ended up pushing the bike home. I don’t remember how I got to work but I never road that or any motorcycle again.
Decades pass. My oldest son, Heath, has been to Sturgis, South Dakota for the big motorcycle rally there, and he wants to go again this year. He was nice enough to ask Gwynne & I to go with him. I figured we’d need a motorcycle, it was Sturgis after all, so I started looking in Facebook Marketplace. The last time I’d looked for a motorcycle was when I turned 50 and wanted to celebrate by riding from our house to Denali National Park, Alaska, about 3000 miles. I arranged the whole thing and got 2 of my friends to buy Harleys. I was going to buy a new Harley Davidson VROD but just before pulling the trigger, I read 3 articles in a row about old white guys buying Harleys and killing themselves riding to Denali because they still think they’re 25 years old. That hit way too close to home and I chickened out. My friends were pissed but all I could think of was trying to lift my Honda off the pavement in the rain. Now I was looking for a motorcycle again, and I was going to buy a used VROD the same year as the one I would have bought a decade ago. I got so far as to take Heath to a motorcycle showroom to test ride one.
Just before I pulled the trigger on that one, another motorcycle caught my eye, a 1995 custom-built Harley Davidson soft-tail 3 wheeler; what they call a “trike.” I’m pretty superstitious about coincidences, and it was the same odd turquoise color of the shirt I was wearing; so taking that as a sign, I didn’t buy the VROD but instead made arrangements to go see the trike, a 2-hour drive away. It was pretty expensive; Gwynne was not impressed. She wasn’t in too good a disposition about riding on the back of a VROD either but this thing looked like a brute, and she was really not impressed. I cajoled her to go up with me, to “maybe sit on it, see what you think?”
To make matters worse, the guy we were meeting, who told me “anytime after 5,”responded to my text that we were heading his way, that he was off buying a boat and wouldn’t be there until 6:30. Gwynne thought that would be the end of it but I waited another hour, cleaned off a couple of the kid’s old dirt bike helmets in the garage, and dragged her along. Gwynne didn’t say a word all the way up to Yelm. “Hey, we’ve never been to Yelm,” I said, trying to make conversation. No response ensued. Bizarrely, when Google Maps said we were 10 minutes from the guy’s place, a truck pulling a boat pulled out in front of us. “That’s got to be him!” I exclaimed because, you know, coincidences. Gwynne just looked at me skeptically; but it was him, and when he turned into our Google Maps destination, I triumphantly looked over at Gwynne. Gwynne was not smiling so I quickly looked away.
The place was Redneck heaven: a trailer house surrounded by broken down vehicles. Hell, the boat was worth more than the trailer. There was an automatic gate, and the guy’s wife waved us in after I introduced ourselves. There were some old geezers inside, dressed in tank-tops, tractor-hats, and a couple days-old beards. Everybody was friendly but they all talked like folks from south of the Mason-Dixon line rather than Pacific Northwesterners. There was a giant pole-barn, also with automatic roll-up doors, and one of the bays opened up to show a row of motorcycles, along with the trike; it was awesome. “When was the last time you rode?” the guy asked me, concerned. “It’s been a while,” I responded truthfully. “Decades.” The guy grimaced; “hmmm,” he growled, enigmatically, as he went over and performed whatever magic it took to get the trike started. The thing sounded like a family of bears fighting inside an oil drum; it was awesome. Gwynne was covering her ears. “Let me get my helmet,” I said excitedly, running over to the car. I came back wearing the old too-small helmet. The guy growled, “hmmm…” again. I wished he’d quit doing that.
“You wanna follow me?” he asked. I nodded confidently, got on the trike. I could feel it vibrating beneath me; it was awesome. The guy got on one of his other Harleys and after squinting at me a moment, headed out through the gate. I popped the clutch and killed the trike. After fiddling around, I was able to get it restarted, then I popped the clutch and killed it again. I was able to keep it going on the third attempt and headed out the gate; the guy was no where to be seen as I headed down the gravel road. When I got to the pavement, I could see the guy waiting about a quarter-mile up the street. I couldn’t hear him but I’m thinking he might have been growling, “hmmm…” He headed off and I followed. Wowser, that was some kind of thrill-ride. I had 3 wheels on the ground, then 2 wheels on the ground, and at one point I think there was only 1 wheel on the ground. I didn’t kill it again but there were a couple close calls while turning corners too close to ditches. I was just getting the hang of it when we got back to the guy’s house. I had a huge smile on my face when I took off my little helmet. “That was awesome!” I said to him. He said nothing for a minute or so. “Hey, I’m going to put my wife on the back and ride around,” I told him. I called Gwynne over. She literally had to climb onto the little jump seat with no back and no foot-pegs. She held me tightly around my chest as I zoomed around on the trike. I finally stopped and let her off. I was waiting for her to say something but she didn’t. The guy was standing there, he didn’t say anything either; finally, “why don’t you get back to me?” “Okay,” I responded. “I’ll let you know tonight.” He didn’t say anything. Gwynne & I went back into our car. As we walked by the other people, nobody else said anything. Gwynne also didn’t say anything on the 2-hour trip home. I texted the guy that I didn’t think I’d be buying the trike. He texted back: “LOL”
We’re not going to buy a motorcycle; we’re going to take one of the ones the kids left at home:
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