My Bonneville

I have put 12 whole miles on my Goodwood Green Bonneville. What a ride! It was yet another rainy day, the skies filed with gloom and foreboding in that way that only Florida summer thunderstorms can fill the sky. In a flat state like Florida there's nothing to measure the castle in the air against, there are no mountain ranges, no forests to break up the skyline across the savanna of the Everglades, and the towers of downtown Fort Lauderdale look puny against the roiling castles in the sky that roll and reform, always more black, always promising a heavier cloudburst than went before.

In the sales office at Pure Triumph business was continuing as usual. An anxious motorcyclist perched in an uncomfortable chair across from a busy, debonair, successful salesman. A gleaming green Bonneville parked on the sales floor.

"Is that mine?" asks the motorcyclist, his voice fluting and tremulous as a schoolboy's waiting for punishment.

"Mmh-hmm," mumbles the debonair one shuffling papers. "Sign here, and here and initials for the DMV."

I could have signed away my kidneys in that moment had Jeff been a stereotypical south Florida surgeon in search of a donor. As it was he started writing slowly on a cardboard temporary tag.

I was staring at the gleaming green lump parked decorously in the shop window.

"Do you suppose I could go for a quick ride?"

"It's yours..."Jeff said with a slight note of puzzlement, he was dealing with a moron obviously. But lucky for him a moron armed with enough cash to pay for the lump.

I went out onto the showroom floor to get some relief from the paperwork and I stared in awe at this gleaming brand new speedometer with 0 miles on the clock.

A tall thin t-shirted firefighter (judging by his brand stamped on the cotton on his chest) was wandering around. He had white hair a white beard and he looked a like a professor of Economics looking for fun. He commutes 45 miles each way on freeways and wants Power."Nice huh," he said looking at the puny Classic Triumph. "Yes" I gulped, its mine." ("I'm its" would have been more accurate). He wanted a Tiger, the three cylinder "urban street fighter" which requires a very long inside leg, which he had.

He started showing me the modifications he wanted to make on a Street Triple he's thinking about. Then he started in on what I should do to the Bonneville, while all I could think was "Shit, I own this thing." Put on some bags and ride is what I want to do but he was rabbiting on about paintwork and headlight shapes and all that stuff. I got my wish, not the bags- the ride.

Out back Nuccio held the motorcycle out to me. "Don't worry about dirtying it," he smiled. "We haven't done the pre-delivery polish yet." He held a box of fork gaitors in his hand which he will install before I pick up the bike on Wednesday. I want to protect the fork sliders from the Keys' salt air. Plus the black rubber belows on the fork legs look retro and cool.

This bike oozes cool, which is a bit awkward as I don't. However in riding around urban Fort Lauderdale I learned a couple of things about it. It doesn't vibrate one bit at speeds up to 60 mph and car drivers won't stand a chance if I want to pull ahead. The engine is responsive and I feel totally comfortable and in control with my feet tucked under my hips and my arms in a totally natural position on the modest width handlebars.

I got back to the store with clouds still threatening, one compliment in my wake, one envious stare from an on duty cab driver ( my freedom on a work day or my gleaming ride I'm not sure), and no signs that this is not the perfect bike for me.

I am starting to feel better after all the heartache and searching the past few weeks. A lot better.