I’m lousy at selling bikes. Or, more accurately, I have a hard time selling bikes. Some people swap bikes like hockey cards with no brand or model loyalty, as if they’re in a race to try everything before they die. That’s not me. I do sell bikes from time to time, but I prefer to have my teeth pulled.

By inclination, I’m a bit of a hoarder, but that tendency is tempered by my economic circumstances, space in my garage, and my belief that unless a motorcycle is in regular use, it’s about as valuable as a perforated innertube. I have little interest in “collections.” Try stamps—they take up less space. So when the time eventually arrives when I need to change something in my stable, or find I’m simply not using a bike enough to justify keeping it, I find myself a paralyzed procrastinator.

信用卡诈骗罪r the rather exotic 1974 Moto Guzzi 750S I’d resurrected from twenty-five years of abandonment in someone’s heated basement. It had taken almost nothing to get it road-worthy again. New tires, a new seat—because the original seat pan had completely rotted—and a little carb and points cleaning, and the bike was running perfectly and ready for some proper road miles. I strapped on my camping gear and rode that bike as far as the road goes along the north shore of the St. Lawrence River. By the time I was home after that four-day, three-thousand-kilometer blast, I was almost crippled.

I’m a firm believer that it’s just as important to adapt your body to your bike as to adapt the bike to your body, but the 750s was designed for a gibbon. It simply wasn’t made for my relatively well-proportioned six-foot, two inch frame. It was too long a reach to the bars. The footpegs were too far forwards. After anything more than two or three hundred kilometers, my back and buttocks would be complaining. Yet, I persisted.

Eventually, after five or six years and many more trips, I found I was riding it less and less, eventually working myself into the state where I could contemplate selling it. My buyer already had a collection of interesting and valuable Italian motorbikes which would be perfect stable-mates for the Guzzi, so we arranged a lunchtime meeting at the half-way point between our houses. We’d meet, swap bikes, and ride enough to see whether he was eager to part with a not inconsiderable amount of cash. With only 948 Guzzi 750S models ever made, it was a rare beast.

But I chickened out. About half way through the three hour ride to our meeting place, I decided I couldn’t sell. It was a lovely day. The bike was running magnificently. My body was holding out. Why on earth would I exchange such a wonderful, charismatic machine for tawdry cash? Over lunch, I bailed on our arrangement. Fortunately the potential buyer was enough of a bike nut that he understood, although I suspect he was a bit miffed.

几年,多公里后,我试过了again. I advertised it, and almost immediately had a buyer, which set me arguing with myself once again. Should I? Shouldn’t I? This time though, I managed to go through with deal, and you know what? I’ve barely thought about it since. Why did I spend so much time agonizing about whether to sell, only to find I didn’t miss it at all?

I’m in the same dilemma now. I’ve been considering selling another of my bikes. A few years ago I bought one of those massive road-couches you see plying the highways every summer, thinking it would be perfect for two-up tours with my wife. Nope, not a Gold Wing. This is a low-mileage, well maintained 1986 Suzuki Cavalcade 1400, with a smooth, powerful V4 motor and vast and comfortable seats. It’s grotesque, in that over-chromed, bloated, styled-like-an-American-car-from-the-sixties way, yet I found that once it was moving, I really enjoyed riding it solo. It was powerful, plenty fast enough, handled far better than something weighing about the same as a small elephant has any right to, and glided along the road like an old Cadillac. Yet, when fully loaded with gear and my wife on the pillion, it felt too heavy and insecure. Every low speed maneuver had to be planned carefully in advance. Completing a U-turn on a narrow road reminded me of the three-point turns which used to be a key skill for driving a car in Britain. And the Cavalcade doesn’t have reverse, so I would have to paddle that hefty bike backwards with no mechanical assistance. Finding a place to park where the bike wouldn’t immediately drive the side stand into the ground required observation and forethought.

But here’s the dilemma. Each time I go into my garage, there it is looking shiny and purposeful, crying out for me to crank it over and head for the West Coast. I sit on it, sinking into the broad, soft seat. The handlebars are exactly where they need to be. The wide, rubber-mounted footpegs are perfectly positioned for all-day rides. I slide back onto the passenger seat and imagine what it must be like to sit there like a queen, as we glide along the highway, cruise control holding a steady speed for hours at a time.

Suddenly all my anxieties about narrow roads and low speed maneuvers vanish. I forget about its unholy appetite for petroleum products. How can I sell this bike? To find anything remotely as comfortable and luxurious would leave an enormous hole in $30,000 yet I bought it for pocket change. I wander back into the house. I don’t think I’ll write that advertisement. Not today. Perhaps another day.