Goldwing

On a sunny day in May I drive out to Grayson, GA to have a look at a vintage motorcycle for sale. It’s a 1976 Honda Goldwing GL1000, an old school 70’s superbike, candy apple red. I bring my son along in case there’s any heavy lifting involved, and if I buy it, he can drive my truck back home and I’ll ride the bike. Plus he’s good company and might learn something. And on a further positive note, there’s always the possibility I might learn something myself. It’s been known to happen.

The bike’s owner, let’s call him Jeff, has a nice spread out in the country, with acres of lawn, and an eight car garage for his car and bike collection. The garage is as big as his house. My kind of guy. He’s a baby boomer, in his late seventies now, and bought the bike about ten years ago from the estate of his best friend and riding buddy. He’s ridden it on and off since then but these bikes are big and heavy, and it’s gotten to be a little too much for him to handle. He’s still riding, but on a trike now. 

We open up the doors of the garage, and take the cover off the Goldwing. I’ve been looking for one for a while, watching as collectors are rediscovering them, driving prices up. Looking over this one and talking to Jeff, it’s obvious it has a lot of sentimental value for him, that he and his friend had spent many a day riding it together. Sharing that thing that serious motorcyclists all have in common, the love of the form and function of motorcycles, the purposeful beauty. And then the riding experience itself, the organic pleasure of the ride, wind in the hair, of really being out in the world, at speed, on a beautiful day. This is a bike that calls for that certain vintage gear, the worn leather jacket, the goggles, the look of a WWI ace fighter pilot, climbing from the cockpit of his Sopwith Camel. 

While I inspect the motorcycle, Jeff and Jack are bonding over engineering. Jack is in school studying construction and facilities management, and Jeff is retired from a fifty year engineering career. The bike starts right up first kick, so I leave them to it, and gear up for a test ride. 

Riding out the driveway and up through the gears, the Goldwing has a retro feel and riding position, but plenty of modern power and smoothness. It is a Honda after all, and was built during that time in the seventies when bikes were becoming not just faster, but better engineered and reliable, thanks primarily to Japan getting involved and raising the bar over lovely but finicky British and Italian machines. And this was Honda’s flagship model, the most advanced two wheeled technology on the planet at the time. I’m charmed by it. This is a bike to ride down to the coffee shop on a Sunday morning, to lope along country roads, to savor that unique experience of motorcycling, riding through the Georgia cornfields and farms…

While I’ve been gone, Jeff’s wife Cindy has come out of the house to join the boys. She has the covers off a couple of her cars, a near impeccable 1965 Mustang convertible, and a 1976 Volkswagen Super Beetle painted in metallic baby blue. The Volkswagen has just won best of show at a car show up in Nashville. While we’re looking at her cars, she mentions she is cooking dinner for some friends and I ask, as I tend to do “What are you cooking?”

This leads to more food talk and she tells me she has written a cookbook. Cars and cookbooks, two of my favorite things. But then, sensing that maybe Jeff and I have some things to discuss, she turns to Jack.

“Come with me Jack. I think I have something else you might like to see.”

Jack follows the lady of the house and Jeff and I are left alone. I like the bike, but it’s forty six years old and needs a fair amount of attention to get it where it needs to be. That all costs money. And of course, as is the way with these older machines, one fix always leads to another fix, and then another after that. Having collected and restored numerous cars and bikes, Jeff is no stranger to this. I don’t have to explain it. I want the bike. And he wants to sell it to me, but we’re several hundred dollars apart.

So, what might be an awkward silence in most situations, turns into a contemplative quiet few moments with us. Over a couple of long phone calls and the last hour or so in person, we’ve become friends, and friends are comfortable with silence, and also wanting to be sure nobody feels pressured about something as relatively unimportant as bottom dollar selling price. What matters most is that everyone is treated fairly, and this well loved machine goes to a new home where it will be appreciated for what it is and where it’s been. The lives it has been a part of. 

I kneel down to have a closer look at the engine, then walk around to the other side. Kneel down again. I step back and admire the sleek seventies shape, really completely fine with just having been on it, meeting a beautiful couple with a shared passion, and riding a landmark piece of motorcycling history. For those few moments, whether I leave with the bike or not ceases to become the most important thing.

Then Jeff breaks the silence and makes me a more than fair offer that I can’t refuse. And throws in an extra helmet and motorcycle cover to boot. 

We walk back to the house and sit at the kitchen table to do the paperwork. It’s been a well spent afternoon and I’m looking forward to the ride back on this classic machine. We share some small talk about bikes, friends, and food, and as Jack and I are leaving, Cindy hands me a cookbook. Back at the truck I open it, where she has inscribed in the front.

For Jim, what a pleasure spending time with you and your lovely son. Enjoy the ride, and try the chicken pot pie on page ninety three…