A Lifetime of Experience - The Windfall

[UberGoober]

I bought my first motorcycle in 1986, shortly before I turned 20. It was the first big purchase I ever made entirely on my own. I was able to buy the bike because, for the first time in my life, the stars had aligned themselves. I had finally worked myself into a full time job at Schuck’s Auto Supply, a job that looked like it was going to last for a while, and because I received a sudden and unexpected $700 windfall.

As I have mentioned before, in the two years after high school graduation I drifted through life without any real purpose. That isn’t to say I was unsuccessful at everything I had turned my hand to, I had excelled in a 9 month program in shipping, receiving and inventory control at a local vocational school, but when that program ended and I found myself back in the real world I had been lost. In the months that followed, I had failed to find and keep any kind of a job for more than a couple of weeks. Eventually, at my father’s insistence that I either get a job or go to school, I wound up in Junior College.

When I finally landed a part-time job at Schuck’s, I was determined to keep it. Within a month or two, my efforts were noticed and I did so well that they offered me a full time job at another store 20 miles away. It meant I had to drive a lot further but, since my Nova was in good shape and good on gas because it only had a 6 cylinder engine, it was not a problem. Still, now that I was finally bringing home a regular paycheck, my mind was soon full of new ideas about all of the things I could buy. At some point I pondered a motorcycle, probably to save gas, and despite my sordid history with them, added it to my list.

It was about this time that I stumbled on to a way to make a lot of cash on the quick. My friend Rick had been out partying with a group of new friends, and when he had driven one of them home he discovered to his amazement that his new friend’s little brother had a 1969 Chevelle SS in the driveway. Rick’s new friend told him that his younger brother hated the car and had recently gone out and bought a Camaro. He added that his brother had no idea what he was going to do with the Chevelle, he didn’t think it could be sold because the brakes were shot and there was no way he was going to put the money into fixing it just to sell it. Rick repeated the story to me, and I saw the possibilities.

I went right over and checked out the car. There it was, as described, a 1969 Chevelle SS in dark blue. It was not in the best of shape, the paint was faded and scratched and the interior was in tatters. It had obviously led a hard life, enduring all kinds of abuse at the hands of its owners. The worst sacrilege had come when someone had pulled out the 396 CID big block and replaced it with a 327. At least the factory 4 speed was still there.

I spoke to the owner. He was, as Rick described, also the owner of a recently purchased Camaro and he had no interest in the big old Chevelle. The boy’s parents’ had purchased the car for him, presumably for him to fix up since it was in such rough shape, but he had been unenthusiastic about it. To make matters worse, had run the car into a ditch when the brakes had suddenly quit working. That incident had convinced him he was better off getting something else and now that he had, he was now eager to be rid of the old beast. The car was in rough shape I knew, but I felt him out to see what he was willing to let it go for – the answer was just $500. I thought I could work with that.

Despite my steady $3.50 an hour job, I didn’t have $500, but I knew where to get it - Tim Hahn. Tim Hahn was a good friend to me when I was young. Its odd he took an interest in me, after all he had been my brothers’ friend when they were all in high school and was about 8 years older than I was. A welder by trade, Tim was a handy guy to know and could either fix or make anything that you wanted. For side money he went around buying unwanted cars and trucks from people’s back yards. During my high school years he often let me ride along to keep him company while he scouted them out. It was always a lot of fun.

On those trips Tim taught me the tricks of his lucrative side business. It was simple, you just drove through the back alleys and looked for cars parked in odd places. A layer of dust on top and a patch of tall grass underneath were sure signs that a car was unloved or unwanted, just waiting for someone to come and take it away. While finding cars was easy, it took skill to determine what you were looking at and to assess its value. The secret, it turns out, was not to look at the car as a whole unit, but rather as the sum total of various parts.

Tim wasn’t motivated by a love of cars. He was motivated by a love of money and almost all of the cars he bought were trucked home and promptly parted out. On a few rare occasions, as in the case of a stunning 1966 Impala SS we found and he bought for next to nothing, I was able to sway Tim so that he sold a whole car, but in most cases he was quite pragmatic and stripped cars so bare that only the frame went to the recyclers. I knew right away that the Chevelle would get his interest and so I went to him to see if he would partner with me in my purchase.

(Photo Caption - A magazine photo of a 750 Spectre. My bike was the 550, but photos of the 550s seem to be rare and the colors on this bike are right so I used it instead.)

[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.