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Thursday, November 18, 2010

The runner that never was

As I figure out how to change this goddamn page layout, I am reminded about how sticky things you thought you liked might get. A 'friend' one urged me to pick up an old Royal Enfield Bullet 350 that he had. He needed the money, he said. Sure, it was a fine old thing, dating back to 1954 or thereabout. As everybody who's selling a used motorcycle does, he told me that he had paid a packet to get the engine running. I didn't buy the latter but I picked up that bike anyway.

'Running' is a very subjective word used to describe an engine's condition, I realised. If it turns over on its own power for a second, that too after kicking it a billion times, it's a 'runner'. I still told myself, no, this bike's going to be a dream deal. Pulling out the gas tank just proved that I had been had. A crappy weld job held the steering head in place with plates tacked on to hide the hideous cover up - like white bandage over a festering sore.

I took comfort in the fact that people were selling crappier bikes for more. I could get my money back, heck, even make a profit. No such luck. The bike stuck with me like bloody herpes and many prospective buyers came and went, none wanting to get infected. Ultimately, she went to a bike dealer who sold her off for double of what he paid me. Just goes to show that when you're passionate about your goods, you rarely make a profit selling them. Oh, and that fiend I was telling you about, I got to know he bought a Merc just after he sold the Bullet to me. Ah well, lesson learned.

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