gavinshearer.com

« Storm 84, Comets 71 | Main | iPhone Guided Tour »

June 21, 2007

Casting My Shadow

So there's this lunch I had in my early twenties that's been on my mind lately.

I was sitting in a seafood restaurant (of the generic, moderately upscale, white tablecloth/cloth napkin/watery martini variety) with an Internet service customer of mine, a really great guy who owned a local boat brokerage. He had recently received a lead through his Web site that had turned in to a sale, and he was ecstatic (this was 1995 - it was a big deal then). So he took me to lunch to chat, get to know me/our business a little better.

So the conversation is hummin' - he's a great conversationalist - and then, after I've been strip-mined for all kinds of information about the emerging Internet industry, I decide I want to turn the tables and learn a bit more about his business. So I ask him, you know, what it's like. The boat business, I mean.

He smiles, leans forward over his gigantic shrimp cocktail, shoots up an eyebrow, and said to me in this avuncular, semi-conspiratorial voice, "Gavin, m'boy, there are two great days in the life of any sailor: the day you buy it, and the day you sell it. Everything in between is is headache."¹

I've always remembered that moment, partially for the delivery (really, you had to be there), and partially because that sentiment - the joy of getting, the headache of the having - has been one that applies to any number of areas in my life.

Like motorcycles.

Regular readers may know that I bought myself a shiny, brand-new Honda Shadow motorcycle last summer. The purpose of my purchase (aside from all the usual "Girls Love Guys Who Love Motorcycles" reasons) was to spend the summer of 2008 going on a road trip across America with my father.

Here's the thing: I never really loved the bike. I bought it, rode it home, rode it around on weekends and to work and to Game Night, rode it with Elaine on the back, rode it along scenic views (yes, including the damn Viaduct), and ... never fell in love with the machine. Liked it plenty, admired it, had fun in brief flashes while riding.

But more on that in a second.

Instead, I used the second half of 2006 to fall in love, which meant that I now was taking a nice, long honeymoon in 2007 that wasn't part of the original, 2008 road trip. Riding across America the long way (which is the way we were doing it) is about 12,000 miles, and when you like to ride 300 miles in a day, that works out to a solid 40 days off from work. With stops for roller coasters, general resting, maintenance, yadda yadda, that's five weeks out, plus the weekends and occasional national holiday you can sneak in. And there's no ability to shrink it.

So two weeks for the honeymoon sorta pushed out the road trip. 2009 won't work (Dad's got other stuff going on), so now we're looking at 2010(!). And suddenly, it's all a little too insubstantial and intangible, and I'm back to looking at this motorcycle in my garage, and I'm realizing that, much as I love my father and love the idea of being Dennis Hopper to his Peter Fonda, there's just no way it makes any kind of sense to hang on to this bike - the bike I don't really love - for an extra three years on the off-chance we actually pull this thing off.

So I talked to Elaine, who counseled me to ring him up and talk to him about it (I'm marrying a smart one), and I do, and Dad's all thoughtful and considered, and without a whole lotta debate our 2008 Road Trip Across America has become Two Weeks In London And France With A Stop At Disneyland Paris.

(Which, on balance, is a way better time for everyone.)

Now, back to the question I left hanging, above: why didn't I love the bike?

Well, I'm pretty idealistic. And for me, often times the idea of something is the thing that I'm really in to, rather than the reality of the thing itself. (I assume this is true for other people; if not, the guys with the straitjackets will be coming 'round later, I'm sure.) And with the motorcycle, I couldn't tell in advance if it would be something I bought and loved (I mean, I sure loved the idea), or something that I bought and, eventually failed to integrate into the rest of my life.

I bought it, of course, and then quickly found out how limited the motorcycle was for my lifestyle. A few notes:

• In my mind, the motorcycle was a kind of Freedom Machine - throw a leg over, rev the engine, and off you go. In reality, I spent a good 20 - 30 minutes getting suited up in the boots, armored pants, jacket, helmet, and gloves I needed to protect myself on the road. This stuff is hot, too, which means that on a warm summer day, you're, uh, warmer.
• Wearing all the armor also means you're not wearing much in the way of street clothes underneath. You (may) have jeans on, but you certainly don't have much in the way of a light jacket, say, or something that would allow you to drive downtown, lock the bike, switch clothing and then go see a movie without looking like RoboCop when you walk in the theater. To keep your stuff on the bike and safe from thieves, you need saddlebags.
• (The existence of saddlebags also necessitates time to plan for your day and pack accordingly. See my first bullet.)
• Saddlebags sound great, but they come in two flavors: hard or soft. Hard ones are bolted to the bike; soft ones are usually just canvas or synthetic bags you throw over your back seat.
• Hard bags have locks, are generally waterproof, and would provide some modicum of security to anything locked in them. They also happen to be installed in exactly the same place where Elaine's legs go when she rides with me (ergo, the bike is now a one-human-only transportation device) ... and they look dorky as hell.
• Soft bags are optional (you can leave 'em off), but they can also be stolen, so you have to take them with you when you go shopping or whatever. It's a drag. They're also not waterproof, so if you want to commute to work (as I tried doing), you better make sure the weather is sunny and staying that way.
• (On the sunny: I live in Seattle.)
• Work is its own set of problems. While we don't have a dress code at work, per se, I do try to make more of an effort than not. So now riding to work means a change of clothes, plus laptop, etc. More planning, more logistics. The bus is easier.

You get the point. Surprise, surpise -- the bike was parked a lot. I couldn't use it to ride to Greenlake to go for a run, couldn't use it to get to Storm games (I'd practially need to buy an extra seat at the Key for all my gear), and eventually found it used as vanity point-to-point transportation (or a Sunday pleasure ride for me and Lane).

It was also a powerful reminder for me, Mr. No Car Guy, that cars are more than transportation or status symbols. They're also mobile storage lockers (and private phone booths, and private karaoke parlors, and...). They've got the space for you to stash your stuff - away from prying eyes if necessary. They give you the ability to come to work in slacks and a semi-nice shirt without everything being wrinkled.

Bikes have none of that.

So we move, the bike goes on Craigslist, and within a few weeks it's found a new owner, a guy who knew exactly what he was looking for in a starter bike, found it, and was a total delight to work with.

And here I am, down a few hundred in taxes and normal "drive it off the lot" loss, happy and feeling like, well, the day you buy it and the day you sell it are the two best days. And it was fun while it lasted, but this one definitely goes into the "loves the idea of" category.

1 - His next sentence was, "And I'm in the business of buying and selling boats, which seems like the right place to be in an industry like ours." Which is pretty shrewd, but totally ruined the flow of my paragraph, and thus, here it is, a footnote.

Posted by Gavin Shearer at June 21, 2007 8:59 PM. Posted to Misc.

Comments

Post a comment

« Storm 84, Comets 71 | Main | iPhone Guided Tour »