Sell my Royal Enfield? No, never!

 The man asked me "is it for sale?" 

The answer sprang to my lips: 

"No, never!" 

My own answer surprised me. 

I've never considered my Royal Enfield to be the last thing I would hesitate to sell. I know it's just a machine. 

It's unusual, but not unique. Many thousands like it exist. It was not an expensive investment, like jewelry. 

I've never even given it a name. It's just "the motorcycle."

I like it. I'm emotionally attached to it.

But look: I'm 75. I will be parting with many material goods all too soon. Its turn will come.

So, my answer, in the moment, was a surprise to me. But there was a bit more to this interaction.

I was in the driveway, unpacking the car from a two-night camping trip in the Everglades. A kayak was still on the roof of the car.

The guy pulled up in the fanciest looking cream colored SUV I've ever seen. It literally glowed with lustrous paint and shiny metal, and must have cost a fortune. We live in a "nice" neighborhood, but this vehicle established a degree of economic well being out of character with my old Camry.

I didn't recognize the man, who was dressed in fine sport clothes that expressed a degree of economic well being out of character with my sweaty T-shirt.

"I see you have a motorcycle," he said, smiling, through the rolled down passenger window of his SUV.

This really surprised me. The motorcycle was in the garage, at least 30 feet away, and just a shapeless heap under multiple old sheets I throw across it to keep the dust off. How could he even see it?

"What kind is it?" he asked. I had to repeat "Royal Enfield" twice. He wasn't familiar with Royal Enfields.

"Who makes it?" was the next question. Rather than repeat "Royal Enfield" uselessly, I replied that "they're made in India. It's an old British bike. They never stopped making them in India."

"What does it look like?" was the next question. This was getting a shade odd. He wasn't directly asking to come in and have me show it off, but close.

"It's a naked motorcycle," I said. "This one is old looking. You can see them on the Internet," I said, maybe too warily. But he wasn't put off.

"It's a collector bike?" he asked.

This was getting odder. "Well," I said, with a shrug, "I collected it. It's a 1999. Nothing special."

That's when he asked "is it for sale?"

My answer, "no, never," said emphatically, seemed to end things. He wished me well, and drove off.

I know I behaved badly. I'm normally flattered and friendly when people ask about my Royal Enfield, as they often do when they actually see it. If this guy turns out to be a neighbor I just didn't recognize, I will be embarrassed.

Funny thing is, I have been on the "other side." I wrote recently about spotting a Royal Enfield in the parking garage of the condo where we stay when we visit Washington, DC. I left a note on the door of the apartment corresponding to that parking space, suggesting we get in touch.

I never heard back. Maybe the guy freaked out, same as I did. If so, he would have responded by clutching his Royal Enfield to his heart. Just like I did.

What America needs: More sidecars!

Fred's 2016 Royal Enfield Bullet 500 with Cozy sidecar.

 Reader Fred Lenk, of California, likes motorcycle sidecars, and thinks you might too: 

I've been following your website for some years, since I got my own 2016 Royal Enfield 500 with sidecar. 

Interesting, in California, a three-wheel vehicle, such as an outfit, requires the same driver license as anyone driving a four-wheel vehicle. 

Remember, our former governor, Arnold Schwarzenegger, crashed his outfit, but wasn't cited for driving without "a motorcycle license." Here's why: 

Post World War II, several European countries exported three-wheel cars to the U.S. and California. You know about those.

So, Mr. Sidecar, Doug Bingham, was able to convince lawmakers in California that since three-wheel cars don't require motorcycle licenses, three-wheel motorcycles don't require "motorcycle licenses."

I began riding outfits in 2008 because my employer forbade me from riding my three-wheel human powered push trike with trailer on the job. Trailer pulled my tools.

I repaired computer networks and teachers' computers for the local school district. I could pedal to all the schools to fix stuff. Some bean counter got worried about insurance, I think, and I could no longer pedal on the job.

I had some time to research a new transportation solution, and read about Gov. Arnold's problem. So I found a motorcycle outfit.

I had previously ridden motorcycles. Funny, on the way home driving the outfit, I suddenly learned I had to be very careful making a right turn (left turn in England). The Velorex car went airborne on my heavy Kawasaki 1400.

Lucky I still had my old motorcycle skills and could correct.

I wore out that Kawasaki motorcycle in a couple years, and bought my Royal Enfield 500 with "Cozy" car already installed. I can't drive the 500cc Royal Enfield on 70 mph highways, but it's perfect around town with a sidecar for shopping errands.

Fred's sidecar outfit stays off the Interstate highways.

I know all the slower backroads to get anywhere in the county at slower speed.

I'd like a freeway-capable outfit to drive 800 miles to a Northern California home. Maybe a new BSA 650 Goldstar outfit might work if the BSA ever make it to California.

Maybe a new Royal Enfield 750 might work. But even those engines would be working at their maximum on our California freeways. 

I think it would be great if some American motorcycle manufacturer besides Ural (assembled in Kazakhstan) could figure out simple technology to make sidecar motorcycles again. 

That's what Fred wrote, but it occurred to me to ask why a tricycle motorcycle, Servi-Car style, might not do? Tricycle conversions are available for powerful, full-size U.S. motorcycles. His response went farther, dealing with tricycles whether the two wheels are up front or behind the rider:

As far as trikes (Delta one front/two rear, as opposed to Tadpole two front/one rear), I found they're like driving a sidecar, with two tricky turning directions. Maybe that's why I've never seen them racing in any situation like dirt, grass, paved roads.

Tadpole trikes are much more controllable in turning situations, and have at least twice the front wheel braking ability.

Finally, a sidecar hauls a lot more stuff when running errands around town or strapping on an eight-foot-long 2x4!

The goofy cars we used to want to buy

Dad thought the AMC Pacer was the Car of the Future.

 My Dad and I never talked much about cars. We weren't on the same automotive wavelength — until we were. 

A family man and a sales representative who racked up 50,000 miles a year, he wanted a fast Interstate cruiser that rode smoothly. He needed plenty of room for the family, and a big trunk for sales brochures. 

I wanted a MG. Two seats would be plenty for me, and I longed for responsive steering and a manual gearbox. And, oh-my-gosh, real wire wheels! 

I got my MG, and quickly learned how to double-clutch, and how to judge my speed without having any working instruments on the dashboard. 

In retirement, my Dad did consider down-sizing. In a rare moment of communication he told me that an American Motors Pacer really appealed to him. He considered it "the Car of the Future." 

He was wrong about that.

As the Pacer became a universal joking matter he gave up on it and purchased a different car: a Chevrolet Citation. This was one of the so-called "X cars," whose many faults would lay waste to General Motors' reputation.

The Vega: Its motor melted down, its body dissolved into rust.

But by then I had beaten him to the punch in purchasing a maligned GM product. Married, and in need of cars that ran without being push started, I had given up on MGs and purchased Chevrolet Vegas. Not one, but two in a row.

The Vega was a peculiar car, with its self-destructing aluminum block motor racing against its quick-rusting steel bodywork to see which would send it to the junkyard first.

Dad and I didn't learn our lesson right away. Dad fell for the hype that the real Car of the Future would be GM's Saturn.

His loaded Saturn didn't need to be driven to wear out; it fell apart in the driveway. You'll recall that the Saturn's bodywork was plastic. The outside of the car didn't rust. Instead, the interior of the car dried up and cracked into powder from exposure to the sun.

The 1991 Chevrolet Impala/Caprice looked good to me.

Meanwhile, I lusted for one of the ugliest GM cars ever: the 1991 Chevrolet Impala. Its bulbous dirigible body looked to me like the Car of the Future.

I couldn't afford one new, and none were available used yet, so I got a GM Credit Card, which earned points toward the purchase of the General's cars.

Of course I realized that, while my purchases were racking up GM points toward my dreamed-of Impala, GM was raising the price of the Impala to wipe out my incremental gains. There was just something about having the GM card, and the goal it represented, that appealed to me.

Then, one month, we were charged a late fee on the GM card, and my wife angrily cancelled it — wiping out my points in the process. By then I was — almost — grateful, as the blimp-like Impala had turned out to have no future appeal to anyone.

Eventually both my Dad and I would give up buying cars we actually wanted and just buy Japanese cars. This was a sort of spiritual surrender, akin to finally admitting that baldness is real.

No man ever said "Oh Boy! I'm going bald."

Few men have ever said "Finally, I own a Camry!"

Dad is gone now and, in my old age I no longer worry about what might be the Car of the Future. No need.

For entertainment, though, I enjoy looking back at the Cars of the Past. My friend Doug almost daily shares with me Craigslist ads he finds for emotionally appealing cars he knows neither of us will ever buy.

He came up with two today.

The first was a Ford Thunderbird, a "retro-bird" of the early 2000s, designed to appeal to guys our age. The price was low and the photographs showed it in the seller's man-cave garage.

Only two-seats and a tiny trunk, but it takes me back.

Doug wrote:

"The Pabst sign and Viet vet (license) plate are clues in this case. A younger and more intrepid buyer could take advantage (of the low price) but younger people apparently have no interest in these cars. That's the problem with nostalgia: you have to remember what it was about in the first place."

The second find was a heartbreakingly beautiful Jaguar S-Type, at an unbelievably low price. Another retro car, the Jaguar S-Type was evocative of the time-honored Jaguar Mark II.

Doug wrote:

"You could buy this Jag with change from lunch at McDonald's and throw it away along with the wrapper from your burger. Really, there'd be no need to worry about fixing anything. The only question is: Would you even get a week's amusement out of it?"

There was an extra note of nostalgia to that Jaguar: the dashboard odometer was broken, the seller admitted.

Of course it was. A younger me would have smiled in recognition.