A new addition to the household.

More about Asheville, next time, promise.  It’s a story worth telling.  But now, I’ve got an itch.  Sorry, writers’ prerogative.

The weekend that I was to have the great honor and pleasure of welcoming Anna Cecile to the family with a visit to my brother’s house (in the greater Richmond metropolitan area) turned out to be the weekend that I did “it” again.  Well, not exactly it – I told her beforehand this time.

A little prologue.  In 2001, I became enamored of shopping for motorcycles online.  Ebay, Cycletrader.com, and Craigslist hadn’t really arrived on the scene yet – certainly not in or near Danville, Virginia.  So one fine day, I saw the perfect bike, and I bought it.  Found it in dealer inventory in Rhode Island, I think, fresh from the crate (NOS) with 125 miles on it – not even broken in.  The delivery fee was less than 400 clams, it was a great deal on an essentially new 1996 Yamaha Virago 535, red v-twin cruiser with a nice windshield, and a fringed Mustang seat with pillion and backrest.  I didn’t tell my wife what I’d done until the bike was due at my house the next day.  “Honey, I think I did something bad,” was how I started the conversation.  I’d been muttering about doing so for some time, I have friends who ride, and I thought I was quite coordinated enough to do it quite well.  I’ve always been very athletic, good eye/hand coordination, and my last moving violation was in 1987 when I was 47 in a 35, and probably should have been thrown in the clink considering how much alcohol my girlfriend and I imbibed that night.  She was fresh in AA for (not alcohol) substance abuse, and I was out dining fancy and drinking with her, all the eve the both of us barely able to keep our hands off each other.  And who could blame me, as this young lady had a gafurchin like a lima bean in a tiny little hoodie.  Indeed, the guilt sort of straightened me out in a lot of ways for a good long while.  But I digress.  This little bike was so pretty, the 50-year-old lady next-door mentioned to me that she thought it was “beautiful”.  I recounted said encounter to my raconteur brother-in-law and he views her attention to the bulbous curves and gleaming metal between my legs as a come on:  “Yeah, I think she wants to fuck ya.”  I’m telling you, this guy has dragged in some nice talent to the annual Thanksgiving dinner at mom-in-laws, he knows something about what motivates women.

I will tell the full tale on another occasion, but suffice to say for now that I had an accident with the beautiful motorcycle wherein an elderly lady could not keep herself from running me down right in front of my house one evening in November 2001.  I purchased said motorcycle in September 2001.  Neither the accident, nor the bike purchase to begin with, was exactly how this was supposed to have gone down, but no use any of us crying over spilt Chopin.

Now, on with it.  So about Tuesday, I spied an ad on Cycletrader.com – an online motorycle and motor sports vehicle classified service.  A lot of dealers put their used inventory up online here and it will sit there until somebody looking for one happens upon it, and boom, dealer hasn’t put in much work to try to sell it.  That is how I found the pristine Yamaha.  This time, after 8 years of thinking about it, and after reflecting long on my accident and the lessons I learned, I’ve been yearning for, searching for a Honda VFR 750 in the 1993-1997 (version 4, FV) era.  I was emailing people and calling about bikes from California to Maine to Michigan, to the panhandle of Florida, trying to find just the right bike.  The right one popped up only 35 miles from home, and it had all the right stuff.  I called the guy, a private owner (!), and we chatted about the bike.  He offers to email me some photos, but I told him we were so close I’d just come by and see it in person.  He seemed to like that.  He had a no-haggle deal – you pay the price, or you add an extra $1000 to the price and try to haggle him down.  So on Friday I pulled out $2400 in cash from the bank, and had some walking around money, bitches.  I went to see the man about the horse, so to speak, it was a fine steed as advertised, and he agreed to ride it to my house for me, since I haven’t been on a bike in 8 years, and I wasn’t licensed or insured.  I gave him an extra $100 and a ride home for his trouble, he seemed to enjoy the last ride on his VFR, at one point on the highway he blasted past me going at least 90, so that I could see it accelerate like a scalded dog, and so I could listen to the aftermarket D&D slip-on can.  So it’s mine, mine, mine all mine now, and can I just tell you – this is one helluva machine.  I’m hoping to have some really good times aboard that bike, and to stay safe and keep the rubber side down.  I’ll tell you about my plans for riding safe in a future blog.

I promise I’ll tell you about Richmond next time.

Sleepy kisses, KM


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