The most maddening thing about buying and selling motorcycles is that it’s not the same person doing the buying and the selling.
Men have traditionally complained about women being like the sea, every changing, unpredictable, emotional, defying logic, caressing you one moment, bashing you against the rocks the next.
That is no doubt true, but thinking we are different is a delusion.
Inside five minutes, I can go from adoring Harley Davidsons …
… to hating them.
From concluding that BMW’s are the only logical choice for every single motorcyclist alive, bar none …
… and then deciding if I were seen in public sitting on one, I would die of shame.
Living inside my head I have a wild child, a safety-conscious boy scout, a teenager who just wants to be accepted, an artist who jumps for joy at the sight of a glorious paint job on a swooping piece of sheet metal, and a snarling, drooling beast begging for somebody to start something.
Complicating matters further, is the memory of perfect moments that we are perennially seeking to relive.
Plus the fact that we never stop changing. One year we care about following our bliss, the next about announcing our presence with authority.
As if that’s not enough, there’s marketing. Do you feel uncool? Let us sell you a motorcycle that will make you feel cool.
Want to be perceived as adventurous? We have just the model for you right here. Charly Boorman, watch out!
And then you have the opinions of well-meaning friends.
“A Harley?” What’s WRONG with you?”
“A BMW? What, you never want to get laid again?”
“WTF are you riding? A Ducati? You look like a monkey doing unspeakable things to a football.”
All of this, plus the wife and perhaps grown children raising an eyebrow just a little bit higher each time you go out and spend your hard-earned money on yet another decision the neighbors will never understand.
It can sometimes be too much.
While I was unscrewing the bottle cap, a black chopper with a long haired biker wearing black leathers and carrying only a round day pack on the rear fender roared past me, heading West into the sun. He cast a perfect silhouette, stretched forks, long hair trailing behind, and a slouch that would make a vulture proud.
Old Man Ramsey 
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