We step into the lair, just outside of Kansas City. I shouldn’t be here. I’m drawn to this place like a moth to a light bulb. I am weak. Nothing good can come from this place. I should leave but I don’t.
I see her, but avoid eye contact. You know the feeling. I don’t want to be seen. I didn’t come out here to see her. I didn’t even know she would be here. Or did I? I’m not looking at her. I won’t. I do a good job of sliding past her but feel her reach out. Not in front of my wife, I say to myself. My hands are clammy.
My beautiful wife Tina and myself get the grand tour. Upstairs, rows of kewl collectable motorcycles. Vintage iron from way back. Some stuff I’ve never seen before. Some stuff I’ve owned before. Memories come flooding back. Hey, there’s an old Moto Guzzi G5 like my dad used to have, and a Yamaha 100 like my sister Carol used to ride, the one she poked a footpeg through her shin, still sportin’ a scar to this day. “Oh my goodness, look at that Gilera 200, Tina loooook!” Tina smiles that smile. You know the one. The one that says, “Why couldn’t he just play golf”
Tina quietly mentions that I am sick and already have six motorcycles. The owner, Mike tells her that if I am sick, I only have the sniffles, because he has hundreds more motorcycles. Tina looks a little nervous. Mike takes us outside and shows us even more motorcycles. It’s more than my brain can comprehend. He takes us through his shop and we see a beautiful Moto Guzzi V7 Sport, waiting for its owner to come pick her up. The owner arrives and thumbs the starter button. The V7 rocks to life in a basso profundo! It’s too much! Must leave now!
The tour is over. We have inched and conversed our way to the front door. I see her again but do not respond. She winks at me but I am strong. I slip past her, paying her no attention. She has no control over me.
Just when I thought I had gotten past her, something snagged my shirt. As I pulled back, I realize that I have caught my shirt on one of her handlebar grips. I can smell her perfume, an intoxicating mix of forty weight Castrol and 93 octane gasoline. Ok, ok, I’ll come over and stand beside you. I’ll just stand here and look, no harm in that. I keep my hands firmly in my pockets. I squat down to get a better look. She’s a 1980 Moto Guzzi CX 100 LeMans. I used to date her cousin years ago, a racy little 850.
She’s kept herself in pretty good shape over the years looking toned and fit, big, voluptuous cylinders, slender seat, her body, wrinkle free and a stunning red colour. She’s sportin’ a new set of Pirelli shoes.
”Uh, hey, Mike, like uh, what would you have to have for this one? Not that I’m interested really, just curious”. “I’ll call you with some figures” Mike says, writing down my information. I’m not getting her anyway, so it couldn’t hurt.
“Sophia” I say to myself. Yeah, her name will be “Sophia”
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