The other day, while waiting for my former roommate and her girlfriend to go to a spring training baseball game, I was parked leaning up against my bike in a pretty empty lot under a bridge. There weren’t very many folks there, maybe two or three other cars closer to the other end of the lot.
A black couple in a convertible late model domestic car pulled up next to me to ask directions to Tempe Beach Park.
“Victory? What kind of bike is that?” The driver asked. I smiled in response and told him about the brand in brief.
“Damn! That bike is clownin’.” Which I’m fairly confident is a compliment. “I love the color, man. Keep riding that Victory!” And they drove off.
A man in an orange Honda Element drove up next to me.
“When you first came through the parking lot, I thought to myself, ‘That’s not the copper anniversary edition Harley. I don’t remember them making a Harley where the whole fairing was copper.’ Then I saw it was a Victory. How do you like that bike?” My inside voice was correcting him about the fact that the color of the bike is not copper. “We’ll that’s a beautiful bike. Have a nice day.”
How difficult is it for me to not associate my value as a person with the compliments I get on my motorcycle?
Pride goes before destruction,
a haughty spirit before a fall.
How funny is it that I make so much fun of BMW motorcycle riders (full disclosure: I rode a BMW R1200c for my first two bikes) and now I’m beginning to turn into that pretentious asshole. Calm down there, kid. It’s just an orange motorcycle.