Nowhere to go but up (on a lift)
Never buy one of anything,” says Jim. Sage advice as we tow an empty trailer behind us. It’s autumn: yellow, rust, and red leaves cling to the trees like a loose tooth. Backlit by sun they flood the landscape; lanterns warning of winter before dropping their leaves to the ground. Autumn is a beautiful death signaling the not so beautiful end of riding season. Off to bed each night with fingers crossed, I wish for one last ride above freezing temperatures. Long johns and wool socks at the ready, I stuff myself under multiple layers before giving in to the cold. The presence of bikes on the road is decreasing, slowly outnumbered by chains of four wheelers. Trucks emerge from the woods cloaked in camo and safety orange, boasting recumbent trophies of game on the back.
We’re also on the hunt and swap one of these last cold biking days to search for treasure on Prince Edward Island. Responding to an online ad designed as a steal, we bounce over red dirt roads toward the possibility of a new Airhead. Acres of farmland lie baren on either side of us, while folk signs painted, ‘new potatoes ahead’ dot the landscape like mile markers. Boasting a successful yield of the Island’s main crop, their contents stand bagged and ready for sale at the end of driveways; an honor system ripe for buyers.
A popular tourist destination in the summer, the population here swells to capacity with trailers and campers longing for beach days and Island time. With the season officially over we appear to be the only outsiders as we stop for fuel and top up on more offers of ‘new potatoes ahead.’ Traffic slows here on Sunday, where congregating at church or family homesteads for dinner maintains its position at the end of week program. Pictorial houses sit comfortable on acres of land, with neighbors parceled out in friendly seclusion. Lawns tame and laundry hangs, revealing the working fashion of plaid shirts and blue jeans beside white bed sheets starched on the line. We find our house from the ad and back our trailer into the driveway. Our seller is waiting outside. It’s likely someone saw us at the gas station and tipped him off, seeing as we aren’t locals. Either that, or we’re right on time.
Inside the garage is meticulous, and our host is easy going and honest. Cars and motorbikes mingle, hoisted on lifts or standing in various states of ready and repair. My prize is parked in front of the bay door, seatless but ready to ride as she kicks over on a cold start.
Rescued from the chopping block I survey the makings of my new bike, a BMW R50/5. The engine case has been painted black, along with the clam shells, handle bars, original tank, front blinkers, transmission, and anything else that catches my eye and his air sprayed aim. Under pure intentions in the attempt to cover up perceived faults, the slide carbs are also coated with a silver paint job. It feels like there’s more to be undone than done. I learn that the owner’s designation for the bike was an operational day ride for the Island, my immediate goal is to get her back to bare.
Moving on, I scan for what isn’t here. Among the missing parts, along with the seat, are a rear fender, pipes, handlebar switches and wiring. A hole has been drilled into the headlamp giving the impression the bike has undergone a frontal lobotomy. The rusted inside ring won’t make the final cut. I’m left with a bike frame containing a beating heart, bookended by a new set of tires.
Cash is exchanged for the bike project, paperwork signed, and we roll her into the trailer, securing our steed with tie downs. Small drops of gas seep into the floorboard, leaving their mark to mix with the hauntings of projects that came before this one. Stopping 600 meters down the road we check the bike for strap adjustments, and replace the one that somehow snapped in two. Secure again we carry on and stop at an empty beach to stretch our legs and fill our head with lists of replacement parts and possible fixes.
With nothing figured out but a plan to push forward, the wind directs us back to our truck. Leaving the sand behind we head toward the bridge spanning the Northumberland Strait between Prince Edward Island and mainland New Brunswick. We pay the fee to leave but not before we stock up on provisions of roadside potatoes and giant squash. We celebrate another holiday in a non-traditional fashion. This year, instead of a turkey for Thanksgiving dinner our home will receive another motorbike.
Under the careful watch of our neighbors, we arrive at our place to unload our new addition. Until we shuffle the garage the bike will remain outdoors, facing weather it’s been acclimatized to. Circling around and surveying our lot we pick away at the faults and psyche ourselves up at the potential. The goal is to get real greasy under a long restoration with the best possible outcome of a new Sunday drive. This will be the winter project performed under snowfall, up on a lift to keep the dream of spring riding alive. “Never buy one of anything,” says Jim. Looking back at the empty trailer, I’m already imagining the next one.
