The Tears of Wistful Old Men

August 5, 2007

My motorcycle is too small to travel any kind of distance with Deborah on the back, but I wanted to ride some of the narrow sandy roads through the Pine Barrens, so I loaded my Triumph on the back of my truck and brought it with us..

When we rolled up to my parents’ house, the brown Oldsmobile that had been following us pulled alongside and the driver called out in a Scottish accent, "What year is yer Triumph?"

"It's a sixty-eight," I said.

"My first motorbike was a Triumph. A 1956 T100," he said. "I bought it new."

"That's a nice bike," I said, and nearly added that I bet he wished he still had it. I didn't. From the longing in his eyes, you could tell he did, and I was afraid he might cry if he had to come out and say it.

"Yer bike is a beauty," he said, and he watched as I loosened the tie-downs.

"Thanks."

"He takes care of it," said Deborah. "It's his other girlfriend."

"I understand."

After watching for another minute or two, he wished us a good day, waved, and drove away.

One thing's for sure: if you want to turn heads on a vintage motorcycle, take a bimble through a retirement community. When I took Deborah for a ride the following day, every man with an ear that still worked, cocked his head at the sound of the exhaust note, walked to the end of his driveway, and waved as we passed.

"You're like the Pied Piper," said Deborah.

Near the community's front gate, there's a pond, and on our way out, the spray from its fountain wet our cheeks. I asked Deborah if she felt it.

"Yes," she said.

"You know what that is?"

"Yeah, it's the fountain."

"It's the tears of wistful old men."