It was the night after I sold my bike and shipped it off to its new owner, a figure in black appeared in my driveway and stepped off the murdered-out FXR I just sold. As this individual was briskly walking toward me, not one piece of skin was showing, so there was no way of telling just who this person was or what his intention could have been.
I thought to myself, “Did I not disclose anything I should have about the bike, or did I ask too much?” As the leather-covered being was still approaching, I felt my fingers tightening around the flashlight I had in my truck. As still as a viper ready to strike, I sat there waiting for any sort of greeting, whether verbal or physical.
Just as my luck would have it, I got neither as the figure was gaining ground rather quickly. It was then I knew I had to do something.
I muttered something incomprehensible to myself and sprang towards him with the D-cell Maglite in hand. I swung as hard as I could and never felt the crack of aluminum hitting bone. It was like I missed every attempt of contact I made. Figuring this was not gong to be easy and knowing I would go down swinging if I had to, I kept furiously punching and kicking my attacker until I finally pinned him to the ground. I fought to slide the smoked-black faceshield up and when I did, it was the most shocking sight I have ever saw. It was my face behind the mask. With the realization that I am my own worst enemy, I was shot awake.
In a pool of my own cold sweat I peered out of the window of my house and there was no FXR to be found. Just the loss of my favorite bike and a boulevard of broken dreams paved with good bill-paying intensions. This was the one bike I wished I never sold. I am sure all of you out there have one as well…