Appraisal
July 19, 2006
My last motorcycle was a Harley-Davidson Sportster. I bought it new in 1989 after my employer, Stephen Sprouse, went out of business for the second time. I was given a few thousand dollars in severance and did the only rational thing for a suddenly jobless person to do: I plunked down the money on a motorcycle.
After owning it for a few weeks, the Sportster conked out from an electrical problem. I was just a few blocks from home, and the bike was still under warranty, so I didn't mess with it. Instead, I began to push it home. As I was pushing, a guy pulled up beside my on an early seventies BSA and asked what the problem was.
"I'm not sure," I said. "A short somewhere, I guess."
He looked it over for a minute and quickly realized he didn't have a clue about how to fix it. "How much did you pay for that thing?" he asked.
I don't remember exactly, but it was close to five thousand dollars, and I told him so.
"See this bike?" he said, tapping the faded red tank of his BSA. "I got it for 700 dollars. Seven hundred, and it runs great. I'm not saying it doesn't act up now and then, but when it does, it's all right there, easy to work on, simple to fix. If I were you, I'd unload your bike and get yourself an old BSA or a Triumph. Way cheaper, and a lot more fun. Sixth Street Specials," he said. "On East Sixth Street, between C and D. Seriously. Check it out."
Twenty years later, I finally did.
Since I bought my Triumph online and booked the van to go get it online, and found directions for how to get there online and found a garage in which to park it online and chose an insurance company online and filled out their web application form online, when the insurance company told me that my motorcycle was too old and rare to insure without a written appraisal from a qualified dealer, I did what I did every other step of the way: I looked online.
I wasn't sure whether Sixth Street Specials was still around or not, but I assumed that, if they were, they'd have a website.
I was wrong.
I was able to Google up a phone number, though, as well as a year-old article from Scotsman.com that encouraged me they were still in business. It was too early in the morning to call when I found the info, though, so I scribbled down the number on a scrap of paper and got ready for work.
"I can call them later if you want," said Deborah.
"That would be great."
Later in the day, I got the report: "The guy said no problem, just bring the bike by whenever you want. He seems really nice."
After eight solid days of work, I finally had a day off and, despite it being a hundred degrees outside, I covered my head in fiberglass and foam, and rode the Triumph to East Sixth Street — my T-shirt soaked through with sweat before I was even halfway there.
As I approached, I could see a guy hopping up and down, struggling with a stubborn kickstart. I nodded hello and parked at the end of a string of vintage bikes. I walked up the cement stoop and opened a steel door into a small workshop covered with photos and posters, some newer than others, but all tinged with oil. There were a couple of bikes in various states of repair, a few engines on the floor, and engine parts on shelves. In the middle of the room was a work table covered with nuts, bolts, and gears. Two guys were lazing around, shooting the shit.
"Don't worry," one of them said, lifting a beer bottle. "I'm the only one drinking — and I'm just a customer."
I smiled and shrugged, and explained why I was there.
"Ah, yes, the appraisal," said the other guy, with a Scottish accent that, after reading the article in The Scotsman, pegged him as the owner. "Well then, let's see whatcha got."
I followed him into the blistering furnace outside and waited as he gave my bike a walk around. "It's a beauty," he said. "Very original. You don't see these too often. Not in this condition, not this complete. Very nice motorbike, indeed. So then, how much do you want it to be worth?"
