Banged up as hell, first time I saw him. Scratches and bruises all over. Half mud soiled. Strings of plastic tape passed up as bandages. A nasty scar cuts across his face, a souvenir from a particularly ugly memory.
“Practically new that one,” the trader was saying. “Bought it just a year ago, give or take some. Barely used it. Check the milo. I’d say a little over a thousand miles.”
Black as night. Bad as he may look he had something about him, like some ancient duelist refusing to die, a sense of unbreakable dignity. Proud. Stubborn. Defiant to the core. Beneath that broken body, there was strength that cannot falter, freedom that can never be stilled.
“Very well-maintained that is. Nothing modified. Get ‘em cleaned and that’ll be as good as new.”
I let myself another long wandering look. I nodded my head, agreeing to the bargain. The trader had a big grin wide across his mug. Inside, I let myself a smile as well. I walked over and stared at my purchase up close. Scarred face. Broken frame. I placed my hand gently on the throttle, felt the rubber beneath my skin. A black Honda Wave Alpha. Banged up as hell. It was the best motorcycle I’ve ever seen, better than all the rest. For this one, this one is mine.
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July 2006
