It had been more than 3 months since I had been on the bikes. Another 4 weeks to go, according to the doctor.
I was hungry. Somehow I got the feeling that Uncle Ernie was not going to come through with the hot dogs he PROMISED he would deliver to me.
Two days ago I’d been cleared to drive, for short periods and short distances. I dragged myself to my Toyota and headed for the Guzzi open house. I hurt some, but I didn’t want to miss my chance to see my bestest friend.
When I got there, the parking space was full. I parked in the Mexican restaurant lot and walked to the shop. Out by the sidewalk was some organization collecting for something so I pretended to be talking on my cell phone. They usually leave you alone that way.
As I surveyed the lot I realized Uncle Ernie had not arrived yet. He was on the forum, and I noted he logged off right before I left, so I figured he was on his way. Last time, he ate all the food, so I reasoned I better get some while I could
I retreated to the parking lot to view the bikes. There were probably 50 bikes when I arrived, and more were coming in.
The dealer had his inventory outside: a couple of Aprillas, a few scooters, and maybe 6 Guzzi’s. I sure hope the guy makes it.
The riders’ bikes were most interesting. There was a Triton there, a new Bonneville, quite a few Ducati’s and lots of Guzzi’s. Still no Enfield.
From time to time I pretend I have the wealth of Uncle Ernie and what Guzzi would I like to buy. While I am attracted to the new V7, I find that there are a lot more substantial Guzzi’s that are sold as leftovers or low mileage, for less money. Recently a dealer was selling just uncrated 2008 sport 1200’s for around $8,000.
But what I saw was a disappointment. The Guzzi’s had evolved into enormous hippos. Huge tanks, wide, heavy bikes. Someone had a 70’s BMW R90/6 there, and it looked tiny compared to the whales bearing the MG nameplate.
I had been there 30 minutes. The sun was shining, and I realized once again Uncle Ernie stuck me. I figured he was probably home in his pajamas with the feet in them, watching Oprah.
“Bloody wanker” I mumbled to myself, in my best Clamp accent, as I left for the long ride home.