Goodbye Friend
by Robert Beaupre

It is natural for humans to sometimes build emotional attachments to inanimate objects. In other words, it is understandable that we occasionally give names to cars, whisper encouragement to golf clubs, or feel a twinge of sadness when selling a motorcycle.

That last one is especially true for me. Even though my rational mind believes that it makes no difference to my bike whose garage it sits in, I feel as though I’m losing a friend when I sell a bike. I’m reminded of this now because it’s that time again: I’m selling my ’04 Honda to make room for an ’05.

My ’04 is still in fine shape, and that’s part of the reason I’m selling it. I feel a little bit better when the bike I’m selling has plenty of life left in it. If I wait until the bike is clapped-out, I worry that it will sell to some yahoo who’s only buying it to re-enact the Seth Enslow crash scene from the first Crusty Demons of Dirt. When I sell it in good shape, I figure there’s more of a chance of it reaching a better home.

I can’t say for sure where this compassion for motocross bikes comes from. But after all my bike and I have been through, it pains me to think that someone might abuse my longtime friend. I know it’s irrational, yet I can’t help it. But if I were to go searching for the cause of my neurosis, I think I would know where to start.

When I was about five years old, I saw a movie titled The Motocross Kid. At least I think that’s what it was titled (my Google search for it came up empty, and no video store has stocked it in about 15 years.) As I remember it, the film was about a young nerd (not unlike myself at the time) who inherits a beat-up YZ80 from an ungrateful racer who denounces the bike as a piece of garbage before handing it over.

What our young friend finds out, though, is that this is no ordinary YZ80--this is a magic YZ80, with a will and personality all its own (think Herbie the Love Bug meets a Japanese minicycle.) The bike of course takes a liking to our protagonist, and they’re soon on the path to motocross stardom.

Along the way, the YZ80 gets rebuilt and fitted with a huge, courtesy-of-Hollywood set of headlamps, the boy’s fearful mother wages a campaign to sell the bike before her son injures himself, and the boy trains with the bike in preparation for some fictitious title-of-titles motocross event.

Can you guess the ending? If you can’t, you’ll be thrilled to learn that the kid and his magic Yamaha beat the odds and take the championship. Afterward, the boy selflessly lets his motorcycle go to make friends with a new youngster to presumably repeat the process all over again. The End.

Cute movie? Maybe. But what wasn’t cute was the unhealthy notion it planted in my brain: my bike might have a soul. It might throw me off if I mistreat it. It might take me to a championship if I take care of it. Please remember, I’m five years old here. I had a deep faith in the Easter Bunny at the time, so the idea that my motorcycle had a soul was completely plausible.

I am now 23. My skepticism in the Easter Bunny and the consciousness of inanimate objects has increased tenfold in the conscious part of my brain. But my subconscious still holds circuitry that makes me peer out windows Easter morning and feel a pang of regret when I part ways with a bike.

There’s not much I can do about this now. I think I’ll always feel an attachment to my bikes, and that the best I can do is make sure I take care of them. You know--just in case there’s more to them than I know.

Incidentally, if anyone’s interested in my bike, it’s a CRF450R with a fresh top-end and a Pro Circuit titanium exhaust. It’s been very well cared for, and is completely ready to race. I’m asking only two things: 1. $4,850; and 2. that you’ll never mistreat it.

That's not a joke.


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