Old Iron: Alphonse

I bought a bike.
It's not brand new because I wouldn't want that. It's old, it's seasoned, and it's mine.

Old motorcycles are blessed things, aching for just a little love and attention now and again. They buzz and rattle some, but are from a simpler time in life. They're honest. They speak to me in a voice only those who appreciate mechanical things can hear. When they run, you hear the internals working, and it's a pleasing sound that resonates in a subtle vibrato of  geared music. Points instead of a solid-state ignition, no complicated fuel delivery, and the simplicity of a chain drive. There is a hum that meanders within the soul of those willing to listen.

My heart is leaping with anticipation of getting some miles under those tires. I can't wait to feel the wind in my face, see the road passing beneath my feet, and the sounds of the world all around. A convertible give you some of that experience, but it can't match the sheer freedom that a motorcycle provides. It is an experience that must be savored, not rushed. Feeling the machine working beneath you is, in some ways, similar to riding a horse, but without the animal trying to scrape you off on every tree just because it's fun. And minus the poop. Lawd, do horses poop.

There's a special place in my heart for old iron, as you all know. But I will forever say that old machinery was built to be serviced rather than replaced, and that is something that I truly enjoy. In a disposable world, these things are sacred. You have to understand the mechanics of the machine, and be willing to dive in when something breaks.

I'm willing.

Are you?