Eurocycleguy
Hero member
- Location
- Chicagoland-USA
Something I have tweaked for awhile, probably never be where I want it.
Motorcyclist Anonymous
By Larry L. Pepper
My name is Larry, and I am hooked; not on drugs but on gas, grease and gears. I’m a motorcyclist, but not your average cyclist. I’m into the hard-core foreign stuff – BMW, 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.Motorcyclist Anonymous
By Larry L. Pepper
It all started about forty years ago after I had dropped out of college. You see, I was young and knew it all. Jobless and broke, hoping to use my mechanical skills, I applied for work at a garage and they hired me! At last a light at the end of my tunnel of my 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 goggles 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.
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 on the east coast nearly 3000 miles apart; and here I was stuck in the Midwest. 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 rein over me. Next came two more Italians, left at my doorstep by another wretched addict like me. “Good luck, brother whoever you are.” The beautifully cast parts were swaddled in old newspapers from another day and another town and were lovingly packed in cardboard baskets. Like abandoned infants these Italian “babes” would require all of my attention and resources so they could be reborn again.
After many, many months of acquiring new and used parts, filling folders with sales receipts and paper scraps scribbled with names of possible dealers I realized that these Italian beauties were users, experienced users, and I was the “usee.” I knew I had to do something “But what!” I gathered up the shreds of my self-control and secretly developed a plan. My plan was simple I would go cold turkey: I would collect all of my beautiful pieces of Italian engineering, tie them up in burlap bags, then I take these bound sirens out of my garage far from my home and I would leave them, bury them, something! On this last part of my plan was unsure of what I what exactly I would do but then I remembered a nearby creek called “The Boneyard.” Local legend has it that the Boneyard got it name because many years ago Indian bones were exposed along the edge of the water. Now I would add more bones to the creek, only this time it would be Italian bones not Indian. Then I would be free, I hoped.
As I steeled my resolve and gathered the collection of exotic European handiwork, my hands trembled, and my vision blurred. I wrapped the castings in new newspaper and put the pieces into the 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 that sealed the bags but I stopped and told myself “Remember Larry you knew this would not be easy, you have to be strong.” I picked up the heavy bags and slung them over my shoulder the pieces inside clunked, clanged and scraped together sounding like muted cries. As I trudged towards the “Boneyard” a light snow began to fall and I sarcastically thought “How appropriate.” The snow muffled all sound of the terrible deed I was committing. As I walked towards the creek those beautifully shaped castings became awkward irregular edges that dug deeply 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. I left my bundles by the door and I pushed the glowing doorbell button; then I quickly, quietly ran away through the silent snow.
Several months passed without any relapse and Spring did indeed arrive. I was feeling better and my life was adjusting to a new “normal.” 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 car at the side of the road, I was enraptured. The bike’s sensuous body, wrapped in a glistening black, beckoned to me. This siren called me, whispering in my ear, she said “Let’s go. Just you and me, come on I’m ready.”
All these months without a tremor, I thought I was cured of my addiction. As I sat there in my metal coffin staring, slack-jawed, desiring, wanting, needing that bike, I realized I had only been in remission. I also realized that the siren was lying to me, it was not just her and me; it was her, me and the monkey. That damned grinning Monkey was sitting on my shoulder and whispered 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 bike and I realize that I probably always will. I have decided to learn to deal with my shame and 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.
must have been a serious fucken fridge