The Responsible Thing

"There are many a slip twixt the cup and the lip."

I heard that in a movie once.

Hell if I remember which one or what the fuck it was supposed to mean. But it feels appropriate somehow.

It's been a weird week.

Last week I went and looked at the Indian I'd been talking about buying.

And I walked away...

Underwhelmed.

Now don't get me wrong. It's a good motorcycle. The engine runs well. The price is fair. It needs a few things, but nothing catastrophic. Tires. The brakes feel a little squirrelly. Normal stuff for a 2017. Nothing that worries me.

But then I twisted the throttle.

And...

I waited.

That's when it hit me: This thing is stock. It's civilized. It's … responsible.

And holy fucking hell is that a strange feeling after spending so much time riding Harley-Davidsons that I've turned into monsters.

Nyx spoiled me.

Aurora ruined me.

Those bikes don't politely ask whether you'd like to accelerate. They try to rip your fucking arms off.

They're loud, obnoxious, overpowered, and completely unnecessary.

Just the way motorcycles should be.

The Indian?

It simply... goes.

Perfectly well, I might add.

It just doesn't try to rearrange my internal organs while doing it.

So I found myself standing there trying to convince myself that this was the right decision.

Because, objectively...

It is.

When I gave Dawna my pickup after our trip to Amarillo, I also made a decision about how I wanted to live. I don't really need a truck anymore. It spent more time sitting in the driveway than it ever did hauling anything. She needed it. I didn't.

That means motorcycles aren't my hobby anymore. They're my transportation.

And if motorcycles are your transportation, eventually you have to grow up just enough to own one that isn't constantly asking to commit felonies.

Nyx is my touring bike.

Aurora is my hot rod.

She was built for one purpose: making poor life choices at an alarming rate of acceleration.

She's phenomenal at it.

What she isn't phenomenal at is carrying a week's worth of clothes across two states while wearing a backpack. She isn't meant for grocery runs. She isn't meant for eight-hour days in the saddle. Hell, after about an hour she's politely informing me that perhaps I should reconsider every decision I've ever made.

That's not her fault.

She wasn't built for that.

The Indian was.

It's the steady workhorse.

The bike that sits quietly in the corner of the garage asking, "Where are we going today?"

No drama.

No theatrics.

Just...

Reliability.

That's exactly what I need right now.

And I hate admitting it.

Because somewhere deep inside me is a little voice saying, "Yeah... but what if we put a cam in it?"

Another voice is already wondering how difficult it would be to wake that engine up.

Then another one starts browsing aftermarket exhausts.

Performance tuners.

Intakes.

Well...

You see how this goes.

I've owned enough motorcycles to know exactly how this story ends: The responsible bike eventually becomes another irresponsible motorcycle.

I suppose that's just part of who I am.

But maybe...

Just maybe...

This one stays mostly stock.

Maybe this one becomes the dependable touring bike that always starts, always runs, and always gets me where I need to go.

Maybe this becomes the motorcycle I climb onto when I simply want to ride instead of trying to outrun my own stupidity.

Maybe.

Probably not, but let me believe that for a little while.

Because if you know me...

You know the struggle is fucking real.