Passing Temptations
Passing temptations
LEANINGS
Peter Egan
DEEP SUMMER HAS ARRIVED IN THE Midwest, and the want ads are finally in full bloom. They came out in the spring like lilacs or black locust blossoms, and, at this writing, fill nearly two full columns in the newspaper. I count 89 bikes for sale this week.
A nice change from winter. Had you looked under "Motorcycles for Sale" in, say, February, you'd have found the section slightly shorter in length than "Livestock Removal Services." I've never quite figured out why dead farm animals are called "livestock," but there you go.
Peruse the want-ad section in mid winter and you'll typically see only three or four entries: a couple of ATVs, maybe, a Honda Mini-Trail for sale, and one guy trying to get $22,500 for a Softail Custom he bought for $16,000 just three months earlier, perhaps be cause he's added "much chrome." Hope springs eternal.
But now the ads are back, in force. Garages are being cleaned out, trades are being made, estates are being set tled, and people are getting into mo torcycling, out of motorcycling or moving up or down a rung on the mo torcycle food chain of cost, speed and sophistication. It's musical chairs time in the world of bikes. After six months of frozen tundra and pent-up supply and demand, it's as if some body poured gasoline on the anthill. Stuff's happening.
Which is fine with me, of course, as I am a motorcycle classified junkie. I begin virtually every morning of my life with a ritual that involves a large cup of coffee with a little chicory in it, the Fred Ramsey Memorial La-Z Boy on the front porch (named in honor of my late father-in-law, who knew a good chair when he saw one) and the motorcycle classified in that day's paper. I admit to checking on cars and musical instruments as well, which can help compensate for a thin day in the motorcycle market and ease the disappointment down slowly, like a good closing ramp on a camshaft lobe.
What is it, I sometimes ask myself, that I am looking for? Don `t I already have a couple of perfectly good bikes to ride? Why don `t I just read a good book instead of the motorcycle classi fieds? Or go for a ride? The answer, it seems, is that I am looking for temptation. Preferably cheap temptation.
Let's look at last Sunday's paper, just as an example. There were lots of bikes in which I am not very interest ed, but hidden among them I found a Honda 550 Four, "All original, $475 rides it away." The hair naturally stood up on the back of my neck, so I called and found the guy had already sold the Honda to a buddy who bought it on the spot when he heard how cheap it was.
Elsewhere in the Honda section was a low-mileage 1979 CBX for $2200. A legendary motorcycle for about the cost of a new 50cc campus motorscooter. Intriguing, but I decided not to call. I don't have $2200 and don't need a CBX right now, but someday I probably will. The chemicals in my brain will tell me when.
Or how about a 1969 BSA 441 Victor, "stored for 5 years, $1950, mci. some tools." A beautiful bike, but troublesome by reputation, the "441 Victim" has always been right on the edge of my lifetime wish list. Lovely alloy and yellow tank, great looking pipe and muffler, a classic big Single.
I jumped up and dug out my 1969 hardbound Cycle World volume and found an ad for this bike with a picture on page 37 of the February issue. "BEEZA, The Bold Way to Make Time," it proclaimed. Bold indeed. Sultry British model in skimpy dress, nice side shot of bike. Only in 1969. I circled the ad, but did not call. My Tri umph 500 is presently keeping me supplied with all the strange electrical problems I need for true happiness.
Not too far down, a Moto Guzzi T-3 with a sidecar for $3200. Neat chance for somebody to have a classic stan dard Guzzi and enter the strange world of sidecars, at a reasonable price. But not me. Not this week, any way. Still, I circled the ad because it qualified as circleable.
A seller with a BSA Spitfire was looking for "serious offers only." Whenever I see this phrase, I am tempted to call up and do my Daffy Duck imitation ("Whaddaya mean, a B-Eth-A THPIT-fire!") or show up to look at the bike in a clown suit. Seri ous, schmerious.
Two different Nortons, a `71 750 Commando project bike for $2000/ offer (wince), and a `75 Commando in "beautiful condition" for $3950. I've had three Commandos, and am cur rently "between Nortons," i.e. still at least a year of healing away from my next one. Nonetheless, I was com manded by instinct and honor to circle both ads.
"Ducati 900 Monster, black, 56800." Hooo, they are nice in black. Agile and light, like a Triumph 500 that goes fast. All-day backroad fun. Circle ad. No call. No bucks.
When the coffee was gone and I'd combed the ads, I grabbed my jacket and went out for a Sunday ride on my own Guzzi, down along the Rock River. It was still early in the day, but it felt almost like my second motorcy cle trip of the morning.
The first one took me backward and forward in time, past landmarks of en gineering, blunders in marketing, evo lutionary dead ends, shining moments in design, the romance of my own past bikes and deep into the pages of a magazine I bought when I was only 21. All from an easy chair, and it didn't cost a dime.
Not this week, anyway. I got off easy. The Honda 550 was gone, and with only $827 in checking I couldn't make any serious offers. Barb got off easy, too. She makes an audible sigh of relief whenever I put the paper away and say the magic word. "Nothing."
