WHAT, BE A YAMAHAMER?

   The last couple weeks have been really busy for me, with only a party or two, and being obsessed with getting another "decent" motorcycle. So, since I think you must have figured out I've been diverted, let me tell you my story about how the last motorcycle became acquired. At least this is the way I think it happened.

   When this ordinary guy across the street bought a used cherry Harley-Davidson last year, everybody noticed. He immediately moved his beautiful Ford F150 Truck out of the garage, and made space for his awesome Harley. When he rolls it out on the driveway to wax or polish it, people will slow down in passing, or stop and strike up a quick conversation. On many days, the old man gets begged and bribed to give rides. On many days, he has a passenger half his age put her arms securely around him, certainly holding on for dear life. (Where the extra helmet came from, I don't know.) He's a nice enough fellow, though, a painter, not a canvas artist, but a painter of walls and ceilings. He glides back along the street slowly after the touring cruise on that Harley, and he always looks pleased getting off.

   I used to have two Japanese motorcycles almost fifteen years ago. I had a Honda Shadow 500, and a Honda V65 Magna. I never remember anyone wanting a ride with me. I used to call people on the phone and offer an exciting ride down I-70, and include free lunches or 2-for-1 coupons for dinner. As much as I enjoyed the speed and silky ride, there was always something lacking. I tried cleaning those bikes to a showroom shine, tried dressing in the blackest leather from neck to toes, but eventually I gave up. I sold the bikes 9 years ago when my first child was born. It was then I realized: it was time to be the father, to stop trying to turn heads, to focus on my home, to ignore my thirst for attention. I must confess, though, being called a show-off as a little kid didn't sting long. Neither did giving up the bikes...

   As you know, things really went down the toilet for me after selling the bikes. What a mistake that was. I changed career paths, I was so depressed. We moved to Jefferson City, Missouri ("way out in the middle of nowhere"). It was difficult to find a good job, hard to make house payments, impossible to make friends. Gradually there was an adjustment to the mid-western way of living.

   I finally found a good job selling parts at a rural Yamaha dealership. I tried to know my neighbors, I began to understand what simplicity adds to lifestyle. My lawn never looked better than this spring. I sold my 11 year-old Isuzu pickup and bought a used Ford Ranger, (OK! So I'm capable of making a mistake). Now there's a 16-foot satellite dish in the backyard (cost me nothing but the time to move it from a neighbors' yard), and not far from there are the kids' eight rabbit cages.

   Most nights I sit on the back patio wooden stair steps and sip dark red wine listening to the finches talk around my birdfeeders. The silver maple trees we planted last year are growing up fast and green. My Bar-B-Q pit is working great.

   Now another guy, a mailman, had recently bought a brand new motorcycle, and he lives directly across the street from the steps of my patio, he lives next-door to the painter with the 1100cc Harley. The Mailman has a dinky 250cc Honda Rebel, with chain drive and a pretty two-tone paint design. You can just barely hear him come and go. Nobody notices him. About 3 months ago he put his house up for sale. He's moving for sure now, maybe to some street where 100cc bikes buzz around out in the soybean fields.

   So somewhere behind my stomach I realized here was a chance. There was no question that the desire was in my digestion. I floated the idea past my wife, "it might be fun to have a little motorcycle to play with again. Something small and light, no more than $300... a used bike still in good condition, maybe needing a little work to fix it up." Guess what, it wasn't shot down out of the sky! So there was hope! I could hardly sleep.

   Next I researched the internet like a madman, and drove to the other motorcycle dealers. I fell in love with the chrome-laden Yamaha Virago 535cc V-twin shaft-drive cruiser. At only $5199.00, plus tax and destination, I knew it wasn't going to happen without a winning lottery ticket in hand. But, I found a great picture of the Virago and made it my desktop picture on the computer at home and at work. Each day I scanned the for sale ads on the internet and in all the Saint Louis, Jefferson City, and Springfield newspaper classifieds. There weren't many leads.

   I floated the phase #2 idea past my wife, "it looks like for about $1200.00, I could get a 1980 used one, maybe. They're sure hard to find, I know that's really something old and unreliable, but it's what I'll have to make do with..." This she tried to shoot at like a clay pigeon, "and how will you pay for it?"

   Well, that's why I like my job. I have to drive all over the state delivering parts and I get paid mileage for doing it, paid in a separate check. My paycheck gets electronically dumped into the family account, but the mileage checks get tucked away in my personal account. Over a period of time, even samll amouts have a way of adding up. Sometimes you can make money in a race, or doing a small side job. That's what I've been doing.

   Last Sunday morning when I found an ad for a 1996 Virago 535 with 1600 miles on it, in as-new condition (really!), for $2500.00, I drove out to rural southern Missouri to take a peek. After standing there with the owner for 10 minutes, I knew if I didn't buy it, I would return home and continue to look for the bike I just found. There was a real scramble on my part to get the cash together but I did. Step-brother Barney is always good about lending me money. This was a cool ride home. What an awesome sound charging out of the pipes as I shifted up the powerband! Premium gas only for this puppy! I don't mind much that it's painted a "tomato soup red."

   Sunday night I saw the painter, Dave, out on his driveway, and I called and walked on over to him. We talked for about 15 minutes. He said I could ride with him. A few minutes later another fellow down the street who was watering his flowers waved and yelled over, "hey!, is that a Harley?" I said no, but it was still a compliment in my mind. Then another neighbor and another came over and soon the neighborhood kids were there too, all around crying for a ride.

   One talkative father warned his kids about how hot the tail pipes and engine block could become, "it'll be the worst kind of burn you'll ever get!," he bragged to us. His young sons just stood there, though, smiling blankly back up at him, then they turned and fixed their gaze back on the motorcycle. They couldn't help but smile. One tall neighbor woman walked up briskly, she's a nurse, and she loudly cautioned me not to lose my balls on the road. I laughed. I stood there beaming over the pa-pa-pa-pa of the Virago in idle.