For Richer And Even Poorer
For richer and even poorer
VLEANINGS
OVER THE PAST 26 YEARS, I WOULD ES timate that upwards of 100 people have said to me, "I'm surprised your wife lets you have a motorcycle." This statement is occasionally made by men, but most often, I'm sorry to say, by rather well-dressed, conserva tive women whose husbands stand in the background looking as if they've been hit across the side of the head with a 2x4. More than once. Aside from the dismal connotations of the word "lets" in a marriage, I al ways find this statement more amusing than offensive. Why?
Well, for one thing, my wife Barbara had her own motorcycle when I met her-a Benelli 150-but there's more to it than that.
Let me explain, begging your pa tience here for a short tale. Late one winter afternoon in 1973, an old Econoline van with ladders on the top dropped me off at the corner near my house in Madison, Wisconsin. My fancy new journalism degree had failed to get me a writing job anywhere in town, so I had taken up the rain gutter and downspout trade.
Our crew had been out on the roof tops all day, installing rain gutters on a new housing project in the town of Sun Prairie, which had much more prairie than sun, and a stiff north wind raking across the plains. "Nothing between us and the North Pole but a barb-wire fence," as the radio weatherman said. We wore hooded parkas on the job, but were pretty well frozen.
I crunched through the snow to our place on Chandler Street, where Barb and I rented the top floor of an older house. Yellow light shone warmly from the upstairs windows, meaning Barb was already home. She had a "real job" (i.e. in her chosen profession), working as a physical therapist at the nearby Madison General Hospital.
On the way in, I noticed an old red Chevy pickup truck parked in front of our house, with a camper on the back. The camper was one of those homemade deals, with a roof of real wood shingles. It looked like a trapper's cabin on wheels.
While Barb and I made dinner, I mentioned there was a strange truck out front. Barb was silent for a mo ment, then said, "I know. I borrowed it from someone at work. We have to use it to pick up your birthday present tomorrow." She smiled cryptically.
That night a blizzard hit, and I lay awake listening to the wind and snow howl against our windows, wondering what kind of gift required a truck. Our only car was a rusted-out 1968 VW Beetle with almost no cargo space, so the gift could be just about anything larger than a necktie.
Toolbox? I needed a good toolbox. I was still storing my tools, at that point, in something that looked like a fishing tack le box. And smelled like it, too. Maybe we were going to Sears for a new Craftsman tool chest that didn't reek of bluegilk
I hoped she hadn't spent too much. We didn't have much money. It was a time of "justs." I was just out of the Army, we were just married, and I had just finished my last few semesters of college. Barb was still paying off her own student loans.
How poor were we? We were so poor I didn't even have a motorcycle. My parents had sold my Honda CB 160 when I was in Vietnam. I'd been trying to save for a bike, but had made very little progress-almost none, actually-what with rent and groceries. My Bell 500TX helmet and Buco leather jacket hung in the closet like silent remonstrance.
In the morning it was still snowing and drifting, but we shoveled our way to the truck, then shoveled out the truck as the first snowplows went by. I got behind the wheel of the pickup and said, "Where to?" "Take Highway 18 out of town."
Hmmm. Not the way to Sears. Too bad. Spinning our tires and drift-busting down the highway, we pressed on through the dark morning, half blind from blowing snow. Past the outskirts of the city, through the towns of Verona and Mt. Horeb. Whatever we were pick ing up was way out of town.
When we passed Dodgeville, 37 miles from Madison, I was advised to press on, westward. Suddenly, I knew where we were going.
"We're headed for Prairie du Chien," I said.
Barb smiled.
Prairie du Chien, a Mississippi river town, was famous (among guys like me) for having a large-volume Honda dealer ship called Stark's Sporting Goods, which undersold nearly all other Honda dealers. It was, perhaps, not very loyal for buyers to go out of town to buy bikes, but at Stark's you might pay $869 for, say, the new Honda CB350 I'd been lusting after, when the same bike was $969 every where else. And you have to remember that $100 in those pre-inflationary, post student times meant as much to most of us as $1000 might now. Huge difference.
As we slid onto the drifted main street of Prairie du Chien and headed down to ward the river bridge, Barb said, "Why don't you park over there?"
Sure enough. Stark's. A red Honda sign glowed in a dim halo of light. Inside, mixed with fishing lures, hip boots, rifles and shotguns, were rows of new 1973 Hondas. And one of them, pulled out from the row, had a tag on the handlebars that said "SOLD: Egan."
It was a Honda CB350-first year with the disc brake-in a beautiful dark green. I looked at Barb, who was watching my face to see if she'd done the right thing. "How did you do this?" I asked quietly. "I saved a little every month in the credit union at work." Back in business, after three years without a bike. Reborn.
Almost 10 years later, Barb bought m yet another motorcycle for my birthday An elaborate set of clues led me to a gleaming black Kawasaki KZ 1000 MM parked in our neighbor'~s garage. Another quiet wish fulfilled, unexpectedly.
Anyway, when someone says, "I'm surprised your wife lets you have a mo torcycle," I never get annoyed. I just re flect for a few fond moments and reply, "Yes, I am too. Every time."
Peter Egan
