Eurocycleguy
Hero member
- Location
- Chicagoland-USA
Anonymous Motorcyclist
By Eurocycleguy several member of the family encouraged me to post this
My name is Larry, and I am hooked; not on drugs but on gas, grease and gears. I’m a motorcyclist, but not your typical cyclist. I’m into the hard-core foreign stuff: BMW, Moto Guzzi, Laverda, anything from the Continent. It’s an expensive habit and hard to kick, but I’ll tell you right now, I have no hope of getting this monkey off my back; I’ve tried, believe me I’ve tried.
It all started about forty years ago after I dropped out of college. You see, I was young and knew it all. Jobless and broke, hoping to use my mechanical skills, I applied at a garage and surprise! They hired me!
At last a light at the end of my tunnel of despair: I was going to be working, using my hands, seeing the tangible results of my labor. But I didn’t know it was a motorcycle dealership, honest! Little did I realize that the light at the end of the tunnel was a cycle headlamp on high and it had already pierced my soul.
Shortly after I started working at the garage, no it was a Shop, motorcycle businesses are shops; not garages; anyway shortly after I started at the shop my rose-colored glasses fell off and I saw the horrible truth. I was doing a low-side slide deeper and deeper into the world of motorcycles, but I was not alone. Riding on my shoulder sat a grinning grease monkey.
This shop was different than the many shops you would see, if you looked, this shop was one of a few, actually of a couple for this marque. It was not supplying the readily abundant Asian drug, this shop dealt in rare European stuff.
Each Asian motorcycle cartel has their own major pipeline with hundreds of dealers to satisfy the cravings of their addicts. But I bought an Italian motorcycle. Can you imagine a National sales network consisting of only two dealers, one on the West coast and the other one on the East coast with 3000 miles between them and me stuck in the middle between them.
This meant I would have to come out of the closet and openly search for a parts connection. Everyone would know the truth about me.
Now the monkey was alternately whispering in my ear and laughing out loud at me; he had full reign over me. Next came two more Italians that were left on my doorstep by another desperate addict like me. I wished them Good Luck in taming their monkey. The beautiful cast parts were swaddled in old newspaper from another day and another town and were lovingly packed in cardboard baskets. Like abandoned infants these Italian babes would require all of my time and attention so they could live again.
After many, many months of acquiring used and a few new parts, filling folders with receipts and paper scraps with scribbled notes of possible sources for more parts I realized that these Italian beauties were users and they were using me. I realized that I had to do something “But what?” I gathered up the few shreds of my self-control and secretly developed a plan. I would go cold turkey, hard fast and quick: I would collect up all of my beautiful pieces of Italian engineering, tie them up in burlap bags, then take these bound sirens out of my garage, far from my home and leave them somewhere, bury them, throw them in the river, something. On this last part of my plan I was unsure of what exactly I was going to do. The term plan was a bit of an overstatement as I was operating on desperation at that point.
Then I remembered I lived only a half mile from the Boneyard creek. The Boneyard probably had a proper name but everyone called it the Boneyard because a century ago bones were discovered along it’s muddy banks. According to local legend these bones were Indian bones.
Now I would add more bones to the Boneyard, Italian bones. Then I would be free!
As I gathered my beautiful cast aluminum parts my hands shook and my vision blurred. I wrapped the pieces in new local newspaper of recent dates and placed the pieces into the fabric bags.
Could I actually complete this terrible act? In a daze, I stared at the lumpy lifeless bags trying to come to terms with what I was about to do. “No! I can’t do it.” I weakened and reached for the tied cord on one of the bags but I stopped and told myself “Remember Larry you knew this would not be easy, you have to stay strong.” I picked up the heavy bags and slung them over my shoulder. The pieces inside clunked, clanged and scraped together sounded like muted cries. It was evening now and as I trudged towards the Boneyard a light snow began to fall and I sarcastically thought “How appropriate.” The snow muffled all of the evening sounds except my boots scrunching in the snow as I walked towards the creek.
As I grew closer to the creek those beautifully shaped castings became awkward irregular edges that dug into my back like sharp fingernails on desperate clawing hands, with each step they became more frantic. I could not go on with my plan. I spied an unsuspecting doorstep where I left my bundles; I pushed the glowing doorbell button, then I quickly, quietly ran away through the snow.
Several months passed without any relapse and I was adjusting to a new normal for my life. Then one day, while driving my car through an unfamiliar part of town, I saw a German motorcycle brazenly on display to the world. Without realizing it I had stopped my truck at the curb in front of the seller’s home, I was enraptured. The bike’s sensuous body, wrapped in glistening black beckoned to me. This Teutonic siren whispered to me, she said “Let’s go. Just you and me, come on I’m ready.”
All of these months without a tremor, I thought I was cured of my addition. As I sat there seated in my metal coffin staring, slack-jawed, desiring, wanting, needing that bike I realized I had only been in remission. I also realized that this siren was lying to me, it was not just her and me; it was her, me and the monkey. That damned grinning monkey sitting on my shoulder and whispering in my ear.
You can probably guess the rest of my story; as it has happened many times before and will again. I now own another European motorcycle and I realize that I probably always will. I have decided to live with my shame and that I must consciously remind myself to hold my head up in public.
As for the monkey, I have bought him a studded black leather collar.
By Eurocycleguy several member of the family encouraged me to post this
My name is Larry, and I am hooked; not on drugs but on gas, grease and gears. I’m a motorcyclist, but not your typical cyclist. I’m into the hard-core foreign stuff: BMW, Moto Guzzi, Laverda, anything from the Continent. It’s an expensive habit and hard to kick, but I’ll tell you right now, I have no hope of getting this monkey off my back; I’ve tried, believe me I’ve tried.
It all started about forty years ago after I dropped out of college. You see, I was young and knew it all. Jobless and broke, hoping to use my mechanical skills, I applied at a garage and surprise! They hired me!
At last a light at the end of my tunnel of despair: I was going to be working, using my hands, seeing the tangible results of my labor. But I didn’t know it was a motorcycle dealership, honest! Little did I realize that the light at the end of the tunnel was a cycle headlamp on high and it had already pierced my soul.
Shortly after I started working at the garage, no it was a Shop, motorcycle businesses are shops; not garages; anyway shortly after I started at the shop my rose-colored glasses fell off and I saw the horrible truth. I was doing a low-side slide deeper and deeper into the world of motorcycles, but I was not alone. Riding on my shoulder sat a grinning grease monkey.
This shop was different than the many shops you would see, if you looked, this shop was one of a few, actually of a couple for this marque. It was not supplying the readily abundant Asian drug, this shop dealt in rare European stuff.
Each Asian motorcycle cartel has their own major pipeline with hundreds of dealers to satisfy the cravings of their addicts. But I bought an Italian motorcycle. Can you imagine a National sales network consisting of only two dealers, one on the West coast and the other one on the East coast with 3000 miles between them and me stuck in the middle between them.
This meant I would have to come out of the closet and openly search for a parts connection. Everyone would know the truth about me.
Now the monkey was alternately whispering in my ear and laughing out loud at me; he had full reign over me. Next came two more Italians that were left on my doorstep by another desperate addict like me. I wished them Good Luck in taming their monkey. The beautiful cast parts were swaddled in old newspaper from another day and another town and were lovingly packed in cardboard baskets. Like abandoned infants these Italian babes would require all of my time and attention so they could live again.
After many, many months of acquiring used and a few new parts, filling folders with receipts and paper scraps with scribbled notes of possible sources for more parts I realized that these Italian beauties were users and they were using me. I realized that I had to do something “But what?” I gathered up the few shreds of my self-control and secretly developed a plan. I would go cold turkey, hard fast and quick: I would collect up all of my beautiful pieces of Italian engineering, tie them up in burlap bags, then take these bound sirens out of my garage, far from my home and leave them somewhere, bury them, throw them in the river, something. On this last part of my plan I was unsure of what exactly I was going to do. The term plan was a bit of an overstatement as I was operating on desperation at that point.
Then I remembered I lived only a half mile from the Boneyard creek. The Boneyard probably had a proper name but everyone called it the Boneyard because a century ago bones were discovered along it’s muddy banks. According to local legend these bones were Indian bones.
Now I would add more bones to the Boneyard, Italian bones. Then I would be free!
As I gathered my beautiful cast aluminum parts my hands shook and my vision blurred. I wrapped the pieces in new local newspaper of recent dates and placed the pieces into the fabric bags.
Could I actually complete this terrible act? In a daze, I stared at the lumpy lifeless bags trying to come to terms with what I was about to do. “No! I can’t do it.” I weakened and reached for the tied cord on one of the bags but I stopped and told myself “Remember Larry you knew this would not be easy, you have to stay strong.” I picked up the heavy bags and slung them over my shoulder. The pieces inside clunked, clanged and scraped together sounded like muted cries. It was evening now and as I trudged towards the Boneyard a light snow began to fall and I sarcastically thought “How appropriate.” The snow muffled all of the evening sounds except my boots scrunching in the snow as I walked towards the creek.
As I grew closer to the creek those beautifully shaped castings became awkward irregular edges that dug into my back like sharp fingernails on desperate clawing hands, with each step they became more frantic. I could not go on with my plan. I spied an unsuspecting doorstep where I left my bundles; I pushed the glowing doorbell button, then I quickly, quietly ran away through the snow.
Several months passed without any relapse and I was adjusting to a new normal for my life. Then one day, while driving my car through an unfamiliar part of town, I saw a German motorcycle brazenly on display to the world. Without realizing it I had stopped my truck at the curb in front of the seller’s home, I was enraptured. The bike’s sensuous body, wrapped in glistening black beckoned to me. This Teutonic siren whispered to me, she said “Let’s go. Just you and me, come on I’m ready.”
All of these months without a tremor, I thought I was cured of my addition. As I sat there seated in my metal coffin staring, slack-jawed, desiring, wanting, needing that bike I realized I had only been in remission. I also realized that this siren was lying to me, it was not just her and me; it was her, me and the monkey. That damned grinning monkey sitting on my shoulder and whispering in my ear.
You can probably guess the rest of my story; as it has happened many times before and will again. I now own another European motorcycle and I realize that I probably always will. I have decided to live with my shame and that I must consciously remind myself to hold my head up in public.
As for the monkey, I have bought him a studded black leather collar.
