It had been TWO YEARS! When the suits in the tower threw money at me and dragged me kicking and screaming into the city, I sold my bike. It was an old Yam XJ 650, and it knew every back road in the Four Corners region. They told me I'd die if I brought it among the hordes, so I sold it to a drooling bumpkin friend who soon wrecked it, and he almost died.
Anyway, for TWO YEARS I moped in front of a computer, reading about other folks trips to Alaska, the new bike reviews, the techniques and joys of motorcycling in general... 'til the love of my life could no longer stand my melancholy (It's my story!!), and gave the tentative okey dokey for a purchase. Her only requirement was that I NOT use it as a daily commuter in the city, that I always use a helmet, and that a windscreen, king and queen seat, and sissy bar be purchased for her comfort (she'd evidently been doing a little research on her own!).
I wanted a fuel injected, shaft driven, faired sport tourer. I got a stripped Legend. It was the first bike to pop up in the ads that remotely fit what I was after. (Did I mention it had been TWO YEARS?) It was cheap, I loved the way it looked, it was cheap, it was owned by a meticulous engineer who bought a Trophy, it was cheap, it fit me like old Levis, it was inexpensive, I'm a Triumph romantic, and ,well, you get the picture. I drove it, I bought it.
I assume everyone here knows the Legend. With it's blacked out engine, lack of chrome, slightly low slung posture, quiet pipes, standard fender, etc, Some would call it plain. I think it has an understated elegance. I've ridden since I was a kid (except TWO YEARS), I'm not a rally sheep, don't dress like I raid ships-at-sea for a living, do most of my own maintenance, and prefer riding to polishing, so the style suits me from a practical side... But forgive my vanity, I really like the way it looks,too.
I visited the local Triumph dealer, PJ's, seem to be great folks highly recommended, and overheard a bit of conversation referring to my Legend as a "ladies" bike much the same way Fat Boys frown on sportsters. So be it. I respect any lady who rides it because, fellas, this is one hell of a motorcycle for my purposes.
I woke up Thursday after four hours of post graveyard shift log sawing and suspected something was "up". Coffee and bacon smells at noon is not the norm. Neither is a beautiful lady in leathers impatiently thrumping her helmet, pursing her lips toward the garage. I got the hint.
The triple fired right off. I had put a new battery in because according to the seller, it had been (you guessed it) at least two years. The octogenarian neighbors waved, and we purred off into 70 degrees, sunshine, and a little afternoon adventure.
If you are familiar with Albuquerque, you'll know the type of riding we did. Bosque cottonwoods among old territorial style houses along Rio Grande Blvd to Corrales with it's kitchy shoppes and restaurants to winding neighborhood roads on the west side, dropped into downtown to cruise Harley Central, South on old '66 (4th) to Barelas where we ate at the restored Red Ball Cafe (I love breakfast), then along Isleta where we stopped and spoke with the folks restoring the ancient Martinez Hacienda.
Now, as you may already be aware having read this far, I may have been just a touch rusty concerning my riding skills having not been on a bike for... awhile. The navigator tapped me on the shoulder and pointed to the old Isleta mission church in the distance. We were pretty well on the turn when she tapped, and I should have gone on past, turned around, and safely cruised that curve after a good scoping.. but I didn't.
I signalled, mapped the curve in my mind, leaned and countersteered toward my imagined apex, and smiled a little because, after all, this is motorcycling. On the other side of the hill, full-boring into the turn from the other side, the dark man with the gray mustache was probably smiling, too, in his restored baby blue Chevy pickup.
I knew I could maintain my lane. I wasn't so sure he could. So, mid turn I counterinstinctively grabbed some brake. No, we didn't high side, but we could've. Instead, we drifted. Now that normally wouldn't be a big deal, but what had looked like firm surface at the outside of the curve was cobble size lumps of asphalt cleverly placed to simulate actual road surface. And what had appeared to be shoulder was actually an 8" dropoff three feet from the edge of an arroyo which was just as advertised and which could have swallowed us.
Much like Arlo Guthrie in his motosong, I'm here writing, so obviously, I didn't die. The rear wheel shuttered across the cobbles, dropped onto the shoulder, caught on the gravel, slid along the cliff until I was able to deweight and hop it back onto the pavement.
The truck man hesitated, looked back, wiped his brow, very gently eased his truck onto the highway. For a few seconds, we were silent. From the look on her face, I thought my lady was about to help me understand what I had almost just done (like THAT was needed). I kept my helmet on. Then she cracked a twisted little smile and started giggling. I, most grateful, didn't ask.
Later she told me that a vision had entered her mind, of a guardian angel half faint at the thought of us visiting a church, lapsing in his duties. Works for me.
We drove through the swamps along the river to Los Lunas, put tracks on the Luna Mansion parking lot, thought better of it, and drove to Belen. Belen is restoring their old Depot, installing a museum complete with the old formal dining rooms ("separate for coloreds" still in the drawings), lunchroom (now train museum), and vintage Harvey Girl accomodations upstairs. I love trains. She loves people. They were ready to kick us out.
We rode to Bernardo refuge and watched the remaining cranes for a bit, then crossed the river and followed the Camino Real back toward town at sunset.
We ramped up to the Interstate just to see how the bike would do loaded. I'm 180lbs, she's um slight, and her purse is about 50lb. The Legend didn't notice. Between 85 and 90mph just to keep up, I still had a quarter turn of throttle, though it felt like I needed another gear. Roll on to pass was more than adequate. I whooped and hollered a bit, I'll admit. A stiff poke in the ribs shut me down. Probably some leftover from the slip earlier...
We got to urbania in time for the last of the evening rush, 50 to 10 to 30 to 10 to 60.... and found that the Legend refused when nudged homeward. Instead, North to Bernalillo and the Range restaurant, which by the way, has the best authentic northern New Mexico cuisine I've had in TWO YEARS!
I know, It's not Alaska. And I know, I should have died. But, nobody else had posted... and it's spring... and I have a motorcycle again.
It snowed a few inches a couple of days later. Snow closes the town down. But when the streets are clear I'll start commuting every day. I usually wear a helmet, and doubt I'll go the sissy bar windscreen route unless one turns up on this forum cheap.
Ride well and often, yall.
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