Chapter 5

A few minutes after arriving at Wyn's for the second time in three days, he asked, "How long of a drive is it from Phoenix to here?"
"Six hours," I replied.
Without batting an eye, he said, "You could have saved yourself some trouble and just bought it the first time."

But he didn't say that. In fact, if Wyn had an opinion of me making that all-day drive for the second time in three days, he didn't share it. He was stingy with his words, and so seldom said more than one sentence at a turn. I had expected him to surrender a few choice ones at my expense. Whatever he was thinking, he kept it inside.

In Wyn's world, as far as I could tell time moved slower than it did anywhere else. All was as it was the first time I was there: the sky and the dusty sunlight of the garage air, the Guzzi on its stand in the recesses, Wyn's deliberate, fragile movements,and  long moments of silence. Even his clothes were drab and earth colored. The fact that I'd driven an additional 12 hours made no difference in how he addressed me. In fact, he barely addressed me at all.

There was very little sense in reexamining the Guzzi. I was there to buy it and that was that. I'd committed to the gamble. When the time came for him to sign the back of the title and me to hand him a stack of hundreds, I said, "By driving back here, I lost my bargaining power." To that, he worked a nonexistent chaw of tobacco and drawled, "Pretty much." The atmosphere was of a place where Wyn had witnessed much over the years. Surprise for him was all but impossible.

On the contrary, by the time I left, I would be the one surprised.

We needed his wife to help us load the bike onto the trailer. Until then, she'd only been a voice from the kitchen and the smell of cigarette smoke. She shooed the poodles to her heels as she closed the screen door. She wore a pastel blue top, capri-like pants made of white linen, and brown sandles. Wyn did not introduce us so she approached unsmiling and said nothing. 

Because the Guzzi weighs well over 500 pounds, and had so many accessories on it, pushing it up the ramp was a cumbersome affair. Wyn's wife started circling. "Okay, okay, what can I do? Where should I push?" she said. As soon as she spoke, the energy in the garage doubled.

Securing it for six hours of highway travel in a way that wouldn't damage anything was a challenge. "Well...how about...this?" Wyn offered at one point. We watched him loop the strap too close to the paint. She shouldered in to get a closer look and said, "Now it'll scuff that if you do it that way." "Oh...okay," he said in quiet retreat. When he sent her to the tool chest for an adjustable wrench, she came back with a pair of pliers and a pipe wrench. But he took it in stride, and so it was a charming moment. Her calling the time to him from the kitchen during my first visit made much more sense now. It wasn't a honey-do interruption of his time, but her taking care of him.

When we had finished tying it down, she said, "This was a great motorcycle." Wyn just kind of bobbed his head. I got the sense she was talking for the both of them.

Eventually, her talkativeness finally began to wear off the hard varnish that is for some reason often protocol of male-to-male cash transactions. He was opening up. "I've been thinking about a sidecar rig," he allowed himself to say. "Those don't fall over."
"Well, I know of a Guzzi with a sidecar for sale in Seattle," I said. "You could fix it up and ride it back!"
To my surprise, Wyn seemed to be considering this. "Yeah, now--" he began.
"Oh no!" she said. "Your riding days are over."
He almost laughed. "Well," he said, "Now I use four wheels." He motioned to the MG in the driveway. They had such chemistry between them. I was wrong in thinking earlier that the MG was his most prized possession. It merely accessorized somehing he truly cherished. The car smelled fresh because it was fresh. She was right; his riding days were past and that meant their riding days were past. I believe he'd stepped up his restoration of the car so they could still take a cruise together. The atmosphere in the garage had changed as dramatically as if going from black and white to full color.

I've started asking the prior owners to stand for one last photo with the motorcycle before it goes to my home. I'm not sure of the words as to why I do this, but respect and a connection to history are part of it. The record of the event brings a closure to the moment, and to the years they've owned it. It seems like an opportunity to do the right thing. 

In the photo, they're standing arm in arm in the driveway next to the Guzzi as if posed for a portrait. Despite his Midwestern propriety, Wyn has her pulled close and his adoration of her is evident. "Look how tall and skinny you are," she said upon studying the picture. "And look how short and round I am. When did we get so old?" As I saw it, the closer they got to each other, the younger they got. I knew what I was seeing, and it was rarer than an old motorbike.