Levi and I set off (at 2 in the morning) for the historical Sun Valley, Idaho; facing grave dangers with nerves of pure steel - the kind they cord tires with.
Now join us for Part 2 of:
The Harrowing Tale of the Old Ugly Truck in the Valley of the Forbidden Sun!!!
***
The agreement I had made with the owner of the bike was that I would call him when I was 'close' so he would know to expect me. This agreement was reached on the previous Friday, just before he gave me the directions.
The marvelous Sun Valley, (or the Sun Valley area of Wallace, Idaho - whatever it is...) was carved into a deep and sharply twisting ravine that must have been formed by some pretty awesome geological forces. Mountains jut almost straight up everywhere you look, and a network or rivers wound its way between them. Any directions that one could receive on how to get anywhere in the Sun Valley area are bound to be deeply intricate. As an example, my directions were something like:
Go to the third stop light after passing the gas station. Turn right. The road goes to the left. Then, the road splits. Stay on it. Go past a yellow house. There'll be like three bridges while you're driving. Somewhere in there is a stop sign. Don't turn after the curve to your left. Go over a hill. Two bucks will be fighting on your right. Wave. Look for Lincoln street -it's around there somewhere. Turn either left or right after that. You'll get to another street. I live on the next street after that. If you get to a dead end, you went too far.
Mystically, I found it (I've since realized such things can only happen in spectacular Sun Valley), but I got so involved in following the directions that, before I knew it, I was already there. Even more mystically (and this part is absolutely true), he was waiting for me when I got there - like Hannibal Lector when Jody Foster first comes to interview him, only he looked more like the wild 60s love-child of Moses, Albert Einstein and that Keystone bitter beerface guy. He was in his 70s, dressed in pajamas, with a white afro, sipping a cup of steaming coffee. I got out cautiously.
"I thought you were gonna call first," he shouted in his morning voice across the distance.
"So did I."
"Hippy Dave" turned out to be a pretty cool old guy. The bike didn't look too bad either - from what I could see under half the cover. It was kinda dirty, but looked like it had been kept inside most of its life. Dave said it hadn't been stored outside for long. He had gotten it on a trade for some dental work he had done on a guy or something (that's a joke, but doesn't seem far enough from whatever he meant by 'work'), and he was just lookin' to trade it for somethin' he might want a little bit better (the ad mentioned he was lookin' to trade for a "rotariller, gen, gun, CASH works..." He had mentioned over the phone that the 'mufflers were shot,' and he wasn't kidding, but on the bright side, the exhaust appeared to offer most of the appearance of a complete and legal exhaust system, without any of the harsh, noise canceling effects.
He invited us inside for a minute before he showed me the bike. We talked. He watched some local news on his computer and sipped at his coffee. We hung out... He offered Levi some juice in a little bottle, and then talked to his old dog that would bark if you stood up too fast. We chatted for 10 minutes. Levi explored. I waited - for him to do whatever he hadn't done yet. It turned out what he hadn't done yet was mention he was waiting on me.
Outside, it was barely bright enough to see. The sun was well below the tall half-bare mountains that surrounded the place, even though it was half past 6. The celestial name Sun Valley, it turns out, was just a mean joke.
Dave had left the petcock on the night before on accident, and it had flooded, as it tended to do (he had forgotten to mention over the phone). He cranked it once or twice (with the make-shift starter button he had also forgotten to mention), but it wouldn't start. Supposedly the battery was new - it wasn't a day over a year old. Certain it would start, the old man hopped on (picture this: SantaMosesHarley) and started kicking away. If I could have had only one picture of the whole ordeal, it would have been of that...
To my amazement, on the second or third kick, it actually fired up. It didn't idle great, but it was surprisingly smooth. It was too early and too cold, and I had Levi with me so I didn't want to take it for a test drive, but it was more or less what I was looking for, and I planned on going through it, so I wasn't too worried about how it rode - at the moment anyway. I would've taken it for the price he was asking even if it wasn't running.
We shook hands, signed paper work, exchanged "CASH" (because it works), and then it came time to load her up. That's when I noticed that the clutch handle was bent. Then I noticed that the gas tank had a big dent right on the logo on the clutch side. Then I noticed that the front brake caliper - the one the previous owner had just had repaired (oh, he might have forgotten to mention that over the phone too) - didn't want to release, making it pretty hard to push up a board and into the back of the truck.
We did get it loaded up finally, and cinched down. I thank him, cinched Levi down, and then went to Hippy Dave to shake his hand and bid him farewell. The old man looked at the bike with a knowing glance, then looked at me and smiled.
"Ride the wheels off it," he said tenderly as he shook my hand, his eyes glistening a little. "Rebuild it, then ride the wheels off it again."
I told him I would.
To Be Continued... Again...
And the crowd says..."we want more!!!"
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