In days gone by I have sold bikes to some interesting characters including a dark, menacing, fellow who bought my Harley, paid for it all in wrinkled $20 bills, and told me he was a professional magician. "I make things disappear" he said looking me straight in the eye. Uh..yeah...ride safe...
Today the Ruckus sale hit the other end of the public spectrum; we sold it to a judge. No, not a beauty contest judge or county fair livestock judge, or even someone as lofty as a vintage bike show judge. Mark is the kind of judge who you get to see when you've transgressed in some fashion that got you noticed by da cops.
I'd never had a conversation with a judge on my own turf before. Interesting experience. In the course of trading greenbacks and paperwork for the Ruckus our conversation turned to you rascals out there who like to exceed the posted speed limit in some flagrant and excessive fashion and thereby wind up in court. I was shocked, shocked I tell you, to find out how fast some of you ride on public roads! (...he said glancing around watching for an incoming lightning bolt).
I cannot divulge the privileged communication between His Honor and I or anything I may have admitted to now that the statue of limitations have run out except to say that he takes a dim view of traveling at "warp factor 5" on the public roads. Dim as in dim like a poorly lit jail cell. Word to the wise: The fact that you race on the track and your sport bike is safe and stable at 135 mph will not be a winning argument in his court.
After the Ruckus left to begin it's new life on the straight and narrow path I began to ponder how to once again shuffle things around in the garage. With the way bikes come and go here at the palatial 40on2 estate I feel sometimes like my real hobby is rearranging the garage to make more room for whatever comes next or cleaning up the mess from the last adventure. This afternoon I moved the TW200 into the slot vacated by the Ruckus so once again I can walk directly through the garage and open the garage door without squeezing by anything or tearing a good shirt or pair of pants on sharp metal. Hopefully the garage will stay in it's present configuration for a while although I do have this unseemly urge to buy a clapped out Yamaha XS650 and build a bobber. Say what?
I know, it's not a Yamaha 650
I've never built a custom bike of any sort before, it would be a new experience and who knows, I could even take up smoking unfiltered cigarettes, get a tattoo, slick back my hair, get a 60's vintage metal flake helmet, and fully embrace the raw edged bobber kulture that has emerged on the motorcycle scene in the last couple of years. It appeals to my sense of rebellion, of non-conformity, and there is no way to run at 135 mph on a hard tail bobber as my spine and kidneys would disintegrate long before that speed was reached.
The wife was going to spend the Ruckus money on motorhome stuff but the money is just sitting there on the counter tonight gathering dust and I saw a Yamaha 650 on Craig's List the other day. A real bad boy would go for it and hope for forgiveness later or maybe just laugh a careless, devil-may-care laugh and take off down the highway on his new bobber to go tip cows or whatever it is that wild men do these days.