A new year… – column

The autumn of 2023 lasted until 2024. And so you trudge through fifty shades of gray in a desolate landscape. I'm on my way to my brother's garage. There are a few of my motorcycles sleeping there that could no longer find a crib in their own stable. So the good intention for 2024 was: A few bicycles have to go. I decided that four pieces should be an acceptable minimum. This meant that three selected pieces could be put up for adoption. And the first to leave? That would be my beautiful Triumph Be trident. One from 1991. A 750 at that. It is already extremely rare and will be worth a fortune in a year or so. I had advertised the machine before. Because he and I don't like each other.

The kind of British Green lacquered beauty and I are not very compatible. Something that causes more relationships to fail. But mindful of the Laws of the Internet, I had only gotten responses from people who apparently hadn't gotten their medication and had one hand wiggled out of their straitjacket. “You know those machines are really bad. That's why I'll give you €800 and come get that thing tomorrow.” Now I am known for buying my motorcycles too expensively and selling them for too little. That is allowed if emotions are involved. And hey, I don't care about money. Money doesn't really matter to me either. But there are limits. Someone who did show up was a nice young woman. In her email exchange she had been so enthusiastic that it had been worthy of a better cause. She communicated exclusively in exclamation points and happy emoticons.

I had pointed out to her that, with my own 1,85 meters and 100 kilos of weight on the hook, I thought the Trident was a big, bulky thing. That was no problem at all. When she rang the doorbell and I opened the door, at first I thought no one was there. I almost looked over her. So he didn't get that either. But Josee turned out to be a nice girl who realized that 160 friendly sculpted centimeters were not really compatible with her dream bike.

The man I now had an appointment with heard very old-fashioned through acquaintances of friends of acquaintances about the opportunity to get a future masterpiece for change. I sent him photos and quoted my bottom price. He had transferred that money, plus € 20 “for a good bottle to ease the pain” to my bank account.

That gesture of course said more about what I mean for the Triumph had received... But it was still neat. In the yard where my surplus of two-wheelers had found refuge was a Volvo with a motorcycle trailer. My brother - who once operated in the Flemish motorcycle country as 'The Boxer Whisperer' and then had an absurd group of friends and acquaintances, including a Flemish secret agent - but who is now completely into music & guitars and artist things, was talking to a large, bearded man. Diagonally next to it, someone was cuddling Staf between his ears.

Staf is a rejected police dog with XXXL incisors. He is the only dog ​​that did not require a dog tax, but a firearms permit. But because my brother lives quite remote, there have been no serious accidents so far. Only the mail is no longer delivered.

But that Staf let a stranger caress him between the ears and looked extremely satisfied? The parka-clad dog lover stood up and turned out to be my former visitor Josee. She came towards me with her arms outstretched. Staff followed her, wagging her tail. “I bought a Harley! A Sportster! A very low one! It's very ugly, but when I sit on it I can't see it and I can rest my bones on the ground! And what a sweet dog this is!” Triumph buyer Bart was also satisfied, but considerably calmer. Josee turned out to be an acquaintance of an acquaintance who had heard that Bart… The Triumph was charged. We went to the local staminee to celebrate life with a good glass and something to eat. Staff came along. And stayed at Josje's feet the whole time. Oh yes: I have now purchased an IZH Planeta Jupiter 350 Sport.