A few weeks back, on a bicycle ride, I and a couple of my moto friends ran into a young man riding a Husqvarna Svartpilen 401 ("red arrow" or something like that, in Swedish). Pretty bike, essentially a Huskie branded KTM now that KTM owns Husqvarna. Anyway, it turned out that he was a designer who owned a company producing bicycle carry systems, and had a hand in designing the frame of one of my friends' gravel bike. And that he had a bag specifically for that bicycle.
To make a longish story a little shorter, he joined us for breakfast a week ago, and my friend bought one of his frame bags (which are very nicely made and fitted for that bicycle). I invited him back to visit again yesterday and promised to bring Racer to the gathering, since we'd all be talking motorcycles but were all on bicycles both occasions we'd seen him.
Racer took just a few minutes prep from his ongoing slumber through the COVID-19 lockdown: Cover off, battery tender off, locks off the wheels, and a dust down to remove the unsightliest bits on the frame and swing arm. Tire pressures check fine. The fuel in the tank is only about a month old. I backed him off the parking stand and hit the starter button: the music from the Agostinis sang out instantly. Gods, this is a sweet motorcycle!
It was cold, I stayed off the freeways and took a nice little back roads path to the cafe. Marc arrived a bit later and parked next to Racer. I saw him standing there, just agog, and walking around and around it. I walked over.
"DAMN, that bike is beautiful!" I smiled.
We chatted for a bit, wandered back to the group across the street and I saw his eyes drifting back to the bike over and over again. We walked back to the bikes.
"Can I ride it? Just around the block? Please...?!"
"Sure. Just don't drop it." I smiled.
He hopped on and fired Racer up. Every head across the street turned, silent, and smiled at the sound. Marc rolled away, revving carefully, and walked back.
"Trusting, aren't you?" my buddy said. "Eh, I have his bike. And his bag. And his wallet..." I laughed. Conversation and banter carried on, and then I heard that exhaust note coming around the corner at the opposite end of the street. Marc rolled up and silenced it, rolled it back to the curb and got off.
"OMG! What a sweet bike to ride! It's just so easy, so forgiving, and it wants you to push it, punch it, soooo badly...!!!"
I laughed, "Yeah, it's a proper putt for a teenager like me." I grinned, Marc is half my age. He laughed out loud.
I took the fast way down the highway home. Racer sang, My grin expanded across my face to my ears and the top of my head cracked off and blew away in the wind.
Ah, youth!!!
G
—
No matter where you go, go there on a Guzzi.
To make a longish story a little shorter, he joined us for breakfast a week ago, and my friend bought one of his frame bags (which are very nicely made and fitted for that bicycle). I invited him back to visit again yesterday and promised to bring Racer to the gathering, since we'd all be talking motorcycles but were all on bicycles both occasions we'd seen him.
Racer took just a few minutes prep from his ongoing slumber through the COVID-19 lockdown: Cover off, battery tender off, locks off the wheels, and a dust down to remove the unsightliest bits on the frame and swing arm. Tire pressures check fine. The fuel in the tank is only about a month old. I backed him off the parking stand and hit the starter button: the music from the Agostinis sang out instantly. Gods, this is a sweet motorcycle!
It was cold, I stayed off the freeways and took a nice little back roads path to the cafe. Marc arrived a bit later and parked next to Racer. I saw him standing there, just agog, and walking around and around it. I walked over.
"DAMN, that bike is beautiful!" I smiled.
We chatted for a bit, wandered back to the group across the street and I saw his eyes drifting back to the bike over and over again. We walked back to the bikes.
"Can I ride it? Just around the block? Please...?!"
"Sure. Just don't drop it." I smiled.
He hopped on and fired Racer up. Every head across the street turned, silent, and smiled at the sound. Marc rolled away, revving carefully, and walked back.
"Trusting, aren't you?" my buddy said. "Eh, I have his bike. And his bag. And his wallet..." I laughed. Conversation and banter carried on, and then I heard that exhaust note coming around the corner at the opposite end of the street. Marc rolled up and silenced it, rolled it back to the curb and got off.
"OMG! What a sweet bike to ride! It's just so easy, so forgiving, and it wants you to push it, punch it, soooo badly...!!!"
I laughed, "Yeah, it's a proper putt for a teenager like me." I grinned, Marc is half my age. He laughed out loud.
I took the fast way down the highway home. Racer sang, My grin expanded across my face to my ears and the top of my head cracked off and blew away in the wind.
Ah, youth!!!
G
—
No matter where you go, go there on a Guzzi.