Headaches and reliefs: the mechanical edition

You know that motorcycle that left me stranded on HWY 99 a few weeks ago? Well, it's gone. A mechanic in Philomath went through the motor and quickly determined that there were so many problems with the bike that he couldn't fix it until winter, and even then it wouldn't run like it should. Basically, the guy I bought it from had no idea what he was doing with the bike and put a worthless old engine in it. But, he had it working well enough to get it sold.

The mechanic suggested that I should try to return the bike. I had e-mails in which the owner told me it runs well on the interstate and that "it really snorts." Forget snorting, it could hardly breathe--no compression in the carbs, the valves were bad, a brake needed to be rebuilt, and on and on. I sped home from the mechanic's shop and called the old guy I bought it from and insisted that I would file in claims court if he was unwilling to exchange the bike for the cash I gave him for it. It was a pretty nasty discussion, but he finally conceded that giving me the money back would be cheaper and less of a hassle than dealing with me in court. (I would have included an additional $500, at least, for transportation charges, registration, the mechanic, parts, etc.) I think my education in rhetoric proved to be quite practical. And then I went right to the bar.

Fortunately, I found another motorcycle on Craig's List, and we were going to drive right by the guy's house on the way back to Washington with the nonfunctioning bike. It's slightly smaller than the Honda cb750, but it fits me nicely and runs well. The young guy I bought it from rebuilt it a few years ago after it was smashed by the previous owner, and he's done a great job with it mechanically and aesthetically: a custom paint job with Audi paint, and lots of chrome. I assured him I'd be right back for the bike after I exchanged the first bike with the original owner in Washington.

The scene of the exchange was tense. Josh and Robert took the trip with me in a big truck from Enterprise. I backed the truck into the guy's garage and we unloaded the bike with the help of my friends and a big guy who was surely there to make certain I/we didn't try anything shady. I handed Henry (the owner) the title, and he handed me an envelope with cash that I counted quickly. As I stepped to leave, Henry couldn't stop himself from giving me advice: "I suggest you buy a bike from a dealer. There's nothing wrong with this bike. You know, a dealer won't let you test drive a bike out on the highway, either--most people won't. You pull this again and you'll get your ass kicked."

I stared at him for a few long seconds. I wanted to tell him how lucky he was that I didn't take him to court for additional charges. I wanted to tell him what a terrible mechanic he is, and how he threw this bike together haphazardly to make a quick buck and he should be ashamed of himself. I wanted to tell him that he was wrong, that most people, including dealers, will let you get a bike on the road before you buy it. I wanted to tell him that I drove a bike just an hour ago, one well maintained by a good person, and that I was going to turn this money right over to him for a legitimate piece of engineering. I wanted to tell him how much sleep he took from me, and how I struggle to trust people.

Instead, only: "Take care, Henry." And we drove off to pick up the bike below, a 1978 Honda cb550.