A
Anonymous
Guest
With half-shell in tow, my friend Tim picked me up at the suburban Ottawa train station.
I noticed, even on the back of his GS750, there was a slight chill in the air. Autumn falls hard in Canada's capital, and winter was definitely around the corner. We went to his beautiful girlfriend's economically, yet stylishly decorated high-rise apartment. Nice digs for a Carleton University student.
Bronson Pizza was the first thing ordered. (On student speed-dial, of course.) Tim then filled me in on the facts, as he knew it about the motorcycle I had travelled so far to purchase. After the briefing, he called the seller, and arranged a time when we could see it the next day. Years have clouded the details of exactly where, when, and even from whom I bought my first GS.
Beers flowed that night, as we reminisced about our previous University years- all two of them. He, being four years my senior was quite concerned that my ride back to Windsor, Ontario would be totally illegal. I, of course was indestructible, and above the law at 22 years of age. I noted his concerns, and ignored his urging to not buy the bike. There would be other good deals out there, but I couldn't wait.
Hung over, Sunday we went to the east side of Ottawa to buy the bike. I brought $400, and my Kawasaki licence plate with me.
The seller was a long-haired, somewhat greasy fellow with a fat common-law, and two screaming children. He explained that he had taken off the Vetter fairing, and put the stock headlight on it. The plastic headlight housing was cracked, but attached solidly.
He explained that it was a 1979 Suzuki, but the ownership was registered as 1978. It was burgundy with an after-market Canadian Tire firebird sticker on the tank. Pretty flashy, in a trashy way. I didn't care about anything he said. I was fixated on my purchase, and had been since I had first heard of it. Not the best way to enter negotiations.
With no haggling I gave the seller my $400, and, having only ever bought a vehicle from a dealer before, I didn't have the foggiest notion on how a person to person vehicle transfer should occur.
The seller said, ?You don't need me to sign over any ownership. Besides, I lost that piece of paper anyways.?
I thought there was something amiss with this situation, but he seemed nice enough, so I said, ?OK.?
I slammed my improperly registered plate on the bike, and my friend and I rode, for the first time ever, our GS750's in proper formation, back to his apartment.
Celebratory drinking transpired, and it was heavier this night, as his girlfriend was not around. And of course, we gorged ourselves on more Bronson Pizza.
The next morning, head pounding, liver throbbing, bowels in horrible state of repair, I smoked an Export ?A? Light while drinking a cheap instant coffee. I dreaded the ride I was about to perform, yet I was excited at the same time. There was a light drizzle emanating from the overcast sky, which I was sure would let up at some point in my at least eight hour ride ahead of me.
Thinking back now, I definitely would have done it differently, or not at all.
I noticed, even on the back of his GS750, there was a slight chill in the air. Autumn falls hard in Canada's capital, and winter was definitely around the corner. We went to his beautiful girlfriend's economically, yet stylishly decorated high-rise apartment. Nice digs for a Carleton University student.
Bronson Pizza was the first thing ordered. (On student speed-dial, of course.) Tim then filled me in on the facts, as he knew it about the motorcycle I had travelled so far to purchase. After the briefing, he called the seller, and arranged a time when we could see it the next day. Years have clouded the details of exactly where, when, and even from whom I bought my first GS.
Beers flowed that night, as we reminisced about our previous University years- all two of them. He, being four years my senior was quite concerned that my ride back to Windsor, Ontario would be totally illegal. I, of course was indestructible, and above the law at 22 years of age. I noted his concerns, and ignored his urging to not buy the bike. There would be other good deals out there, but I couldn't wait.
Hung over, Sunday we went to the east side of Ottawa to buy the bike. I brought $400, and my Kawasaki licence plate with me.
The seller was a long-haired, somewhat greasy fellow with a fat common-law, and two screaming children. He explained that he had taken off the Vetter fairing, and put the stock headlight on it. The plastic headlight housing was cracked, but attached solidly.
He explained that it was a 1979 Suzuki, but the ownership was registered as 1978. It was burgundy with an after-market Canadian Tire firebird sticker on the tank. Pretty flashy, in a trashy way. I didn't care about anything he said. I was fixated on my purchase, and had been since I had first heard of it. Not the best way to enter negotiations.
With no haggling I gave the seller my $400, and, having only ever bought a vehicle from a dealer before, I didn't have the foggiest notion on how a person to person vehicle transfer should occur.
The seller said, ?You don't need me to sign over any ownership. Besides, I lost that piece of paper anyways.?
I thought there was something amiss with this situation, but he seemed nice enough, so I said, ?OK.?
I slammed my improperly registered plate on the bike, and my friend and I rode, for the first time ever, our GS750's in proper formation, back to his apartment.
Celebratory drinking transpired, and it was heavier this night, as his girlfriend was not around. And of course, we gorged ourselves on more Bronson Pizza.
The next morning, head pounding, liver throbbing, bowels in horrible state of repair, I smoked an Export ?A? Light while drinking a cheap instant coffee. I dreaded the ride I was about to perform, yet I was excited at the same time. There was a light drizzle emanating from the overcast sky, which I was sure would let up at some point in my at least eight hour ride ahead of me.
Thinking back now, I definitely would have done it differently, or not at all.
