[UberGoober]

Smelling money, Tim agreed to back my deal and I soon brought home the old Chevelle. Old and ragged as it was, I was quite proud of it and quickly developed an attachment to the beast. I went through it and cleaned it up as best I could. With some TLC the car soon looked decent and I spent a couple of happy weeks of driving around in a real big league muscle car. Even if it only had a 327 under the hood, the badges on the fender still showed 396 and, rough as it was, people still turned their heads when you went by. I soon decided that this car was a perfect candidate for a restoration and decided I wanted to keep it.

Tim was of an opposite opinion. Almost the minute I decided I wanted to keep it, he started to hound me about selling it off. When I offered to pay back the $500 he had loaned me, he curtly informed me that he hadn’t loaned me the money, he had invested it. He didn’t expect simple repayment, he wanted profit.

There wasn’t much point in fighting over it. I knew that Tim was right and we listed the car in the paper. A few days later a father and son looking for something they could work on together came and paid $1900 for it. The car was gone, but at least I would have a share of the profit, or so I thought.

At first Tim offered me a $100 as a “finders fee.” After all, he explained, he had put up the entire $500 for the car in the first place and, therefore, it had been his to sell. I was a little put off by this and told him as much. He had fronted the $500 I agreed, but we had been partners the money should be an even split. He considered it for a while and, after probably deciding that making an enemy out of my whole family would hurt him in the long run, he eventually decided to split the profit with me. Even though this final part of the transaction left a bad taste in my mouth, the end result was that, for the first time in my life, I had $700 cash in my pocket.

Almost as soon as I got it, that money started to burn a hole in my pocket. I knew I would have to buy something substantial and my mind went back to the list I had compiled after getting my first paycheck from Schuck’s. One night, while lying in bed just before going to sleep, the though hit me. I would spend the money on a motorcycle. It sounded perfect and I went to sleep dreaming about life on two wheels and all the gas money I was sure to save.

I knew, of course, that my parents would freak out if I bought a motorcycle and so I didn’t mention my plans. On my own, I pondered my options while I plotted how I would make my purchase. Since I knew virtually nothing about motorcycles, I started to ask around and I was soon raising the subject of motorcycles with everyone I met, including customers at the store. From one such conversation, I got one sterling piece of advice that I have never forgotten – “Buy a Kawasaki,” the man told me, “That’s what the police ride.”

Armed with that insight, I spent my day off, a Sunday, going out to bike shops. Everett is not a big town, and although there is only one huge motorcycle dealership there today, in 1986 there were three small ones. Being Sunday, however, all but one were closed. Only the Suzuki shop, an establishment that I would eventually become well acquainted with, was open. Imagine their surprise when I boldly marched in and solemnly asked, “Do you have any Kawasakis?”

The salesman looked me up and down. Knowing that he had a man of real wealth and wisdom in his shop, he did not waste time trying to sell me up to any of the other bikes he had in stock. Instead, he lead me to a lone Kawasaki that sat forlornly in the corner at the back of the sales floor. It was beautiful.

The 1983 KZ550F Spectre was not your ordinary motorcycle. With its stepped saddle and pull backed bars it looked the part of a cruiser. Its heart, however, was that of a racer – the same venerable 550 CC in-line 4 cylinder engine that was making a name for itself in the 550 GPZ racers. With a black and red tear drop tank, gold anodized metal wherever normal motorcycles of the era had chrome, and gold Enki mag wheels sporting raised white letter Dunlop Qualifiers, the Spectre was exactly the kind of bike that set my muscle car loving heart aflutter. If I could not have a Chevelle SS, at least I could have this I decided.

I spoke with the sales guy and made my offer. We dickered for a while and eventually settled on a price of $1050. I put my $700 cash down and financed the remainder, plus insurance, and wound up owing about $800 to be paid over the next two years.

A day later, I was back at the shop to bring my new ride home. Well not my home since I could never tell my parents I had a bike, so I took it, after some discussion, to Rick’s house where I hid it in his mom’s barn. I rode the bike out of there for a week or two until I eventually realized that I couldn’t live my life that way forever, so one sunny afternoon, I brought the bike home and wheeled it around the back of the house to the patio.

My parents were shocked, of course, but more over the fact that I had tried to hide the bike rather than just owning up to it like a man in the first place. My father, it turns out, had ridden when he was in his 20s and was not all that upset at my purchase. Looking over the bike, resplendent in black, gold and red, he nodded his satisfaction. After checking out my nifty helmet, he decided I was good to go.

And go I would, for the next 25 years on a whole variety of bikes, but never another quite so beautiful or quite so new.