You Got Me a Triumph?
Larry left his guitar in Pittsburgh, since it’s not an easy task to carry a guitar a thousand miles on a motorcycle, especially with hamsters residing in the tour pack.
I’m not sure either of us realized that what I loved most about Larry was his ability to sing.
When we got to Florida, the focus was entirely on his real identity: motorcyclist. He was thrilled to be in weather where he could ride every day of the year, where everyone he knew owned a motorcycle, and where all he had to do to was keep his motorcycle running.
I am guessing Joe and Dave were paying the mortgage, since Larry did not have to go to work anywhere.
This meant that he spent the vast majority of his days sitting next to his bike, which always required some kind of work. There were small metal things all around him on the ground, and his beer – unlike mine – grew warm in the sun. Sometimes his friends would stop over with their bikes, and they would all stand outside staring at them, talking about what they were going to do to fix them.
I didn’t recognize the lack of music as a problem in my life, but I knew I felt left out.
One day, bored out of my skull, I asked, “What am I supposed to do while you’re fixing your bike?”
“You can start fixing up your bike!” Larry beamed.
“My bike?”
“Yeah! The Triumph in the backyard is for you!”
“You got me a Triumph?” I asked, incredulous. Other than Harleys, the only brands of motorcycles accepted by the hard-core biker community were Indians (as though they were gold), BMWs, and Triumphs. The Triumphs were British, which I loved.
“Sure I did!” Larry said. I never questioned how or when Larry had purchased a Triumph motorcycle for me, here in Florida, while we were living in Pittsburgh. “C’mon I’ll show ya.”
We walked into the backyard, and there was my Triumph.
It was black with the little Triumph logo on the gas tank, sure enough!
But the bike had no tires. In fact, it had no wheels. The seat was torn and the loose stuffing was moldy. The frame held only part of an engine, but not the part that would make it go. The Triumph had no pipes, no lights, no speedometer, and what little was still attached was rusted beyond repair. It was like a horse with no legs, dying on the ground.
“I can’t ride that,” I said.
Larry laughed, a cigarette hanging out of his mouth like always. “Well not yet you can’t! But this can be your project. This’ll be a great fuckin’ bike when we get it up and runnin’!”
He rested a hand on the moldy seat, petting it like a stray puppy, dreaming of the day.
“When are ‘we’ gonna do that?”
“Real fuckin’ soon!” he said proudly. “And you can have your own bike!” He put his arm around me, squeezed me close, proud that someday his Ol’ Lady would be riding this piece of shit down the road.
As always, I believed him.