First published DECEMBER 5, 2008 8:02PM
Related Posts - Motorcycles: A Magnificent Obsession: there are 10 parts to this memoir. You can find them listed in the archive sidebar on the right.
I subtitle this section of this memoir: “What’s In Those Crates Anyway?
We left off in this serial comedy of errors with the two Ward Riverside motorcycles, made by Benelli of Italy, being delivered by truck to the street in front of Earl’s house. Somehow we have muscled the first crate to the ground using the hydraulic lift on the back of the truck. Thinking it would be easier to get it into the back of Earl’s pickup so we could get it into the garage we decided to unload the second crate on top of the first one:
From Part Five:
We left off in this serial comedy of errors with the two Ward Riverside motorcycles, made by Benelli of Italy, being delivered by truck to the street in front of Earl’s house. Somehow we have muscled the first crate to the ground using the hydraulic lift on the back of the truck. Thinking it would be easier to get it into the back of Earl’s pickup so we could get it into the garage we decided to unload the second crate on top of the first one:
From Part Five:
“………So the guy let down the lift with the crate to just a bit above the top of the crate on the ground. Then with him on the ground supervising us, (how do that happen?) Earl and I start shoving the crate and after a few inches it sticks. We start walking it back and forth and inching it slowly forward. It sticks again and again. So we, Earl and I and a couple of neighbor guys who were in the gathering crowd watching this botched landing with smirks on their faces all four get up on the lift gate, and, under the watchful supervision of the truck driver, I go, “OK. On three. One. Two. THREE!!”
And we all shove as hard as we can. The crate unsticks, slides forward way too far and gravity does the rest. So there we are looking at this crate, splintered and busted all to hell, laying cockeyed on the ground. Earl looks at me and says, “That one’s yours.” Well, I’m not taking that crap so I say, “Who wants a beer?” I don’t even look at the crate but just make a beeline to the fridge in Earl’s house. When I come back with the beer the truck is gone. I ask Earl, “Where the hell did he go? We need to file a damage claim.” Earl says, “I told him that, but he said that we couldn’t file it because the insurance wouldn’t pay since we were the ones that damaged it.” Which pretty well explains why he was supervising and we were doing the shoving.
Anybody tells you truck drivers are stupid, have them talk to me. I’ve got proof they aren’t.
What next? With two crated motorcycles sitting in the street, dark approaching and one bike likely a dented twisted mess, what would you do? Me, I went inside and switched to scotch and soda.
And we all shove as hard as we can. The crate unsticks, slides forward way too far and gravity does the rest. So there we are looking at this crate, splintered and busted all to hell, laying cockeyed on the ground. Earl looks at me and says, “That one’s yours.” Well, I’m not taking that crap so I say, “Who wants a beer?” I don’t even look at the crate but just make a beeline to the fridge in Earl’s house. When I come back with the beer the truck is gone. I ask Earl, “Where the hell did he go? We need to file a damage claim.” Earl says, “I told him that, but he said that we couldn’t file it because the insurance wouldn’t pay since we were the ones that damaged it.” Which pretty well explains why he was supervising and we were doing the shoving.
Anybody tells you truck drivers are stupid, have them talk to me. I’ve got proof they aren’t.
What next? With two crated motorcycles sitting in the street, dark approaching and one bike likely a dented twisted mess, what would you do? Me, I went inside and switched to scotch and soda.
Part Six:
I got my scotch and soda, heavy on the scotch, and walked out to see what damage we had done. The crowd watching the fiasco of the unloading had split. The two guys who had helped us destroy the second crate were long gone and we would not see them for a while, until they decided it was safe to show their faces to Earl.
I got my scotch and soda, heavy on the scotch, and walked out to see what damage we had done. The crowd watching the fiasco of the unloading had split. The two guys who had helped us destroy the second crate were long gone and we would not see them for a while, until they decided it was safe to show their faces to Earl.
Earl didn’t say much, more a mumble. All I heard was “turkey.” If you didn’t know Earl you would think that was what he was calling me for coming up with the lame brained idea of trying to slide the second crate onto the first. But I knew that what he said was, “I’m switching to Wild Turkey." When Earl says that it meant some serious drinking is about to occur.
He comes out in a few minutes and we both stand around staring at the splintered crate, him with his Wild Turkey and me with my scotch, serious drinkers we. When I figure he is mellow enough that he won’t take a swing at me I say, “Look, Earl, its not that bad. We can get your hydraulic jack, lift the one side of the bottom of the crates up until there is room to slide your rolling dolly under it. Once we have it of the dolly we can just push it into the garage.
Earl looked at me in complete disgust. “That damned driveway is STEEP. Did you think of that?” Well, actually I hadn’t, but my scotch thought my idea was brilliant. Time for Plan B.
“Let’s just look in the crates and see if we can get the bikes out and roll them up the driveway, then. That shouldn’t be too hard.” Now this was an idea Earl liked.
[Side bar: I need to tell you how motorcycles are normally crated for overseas shipment. The entire bike is assembled, complete. Then sometimes the front wheel is removed; sometimes not . The electrical areas, seat, lights, entire wheel assemblies and delicate areas are covered with a stretchable plastic film; and then the entire bike is sprayed with cosmoline, a sticky, greasy petroleum based product that prevents rust. The entire bike, sometimes sans front wheel, is stood upright in the crate, blocks are nailed to the bottom of the crate and stretchable cords are tied to 4 places at the top of the bike, front and rear, and fastened to the sides of the crate. There are variations on how that is done, but however it is done, most of the bike is already assembled.]
I handed Earl my scotch, which he promptly sat down in the grass, and I walked over to the splintered crate and started pulling some of the broken wood off the crate. Seeing that wasn’t going to work very well, I got a pry bar from the garage and started taking the crate apart.
Earl was helpful too. He took our drinks into the kitchen, poured another couple of ounces in each, added some ice and came back. He put my drink back in the grass, not wanting to stop me from actually working. It was about this time when I realized that this was "pay back" time. He showed me that we were still friends by freshening my drink. But he also was indicating that he was ticked off and had no intention of doing any serious muscle work. In other words, it was all my fault and I could bust my ass and he would watch. He wasn’t about to say that. But there it was.
I got one side and the top off the splintered crate, looked inside and couldn’t see a motorcycle. I couldn't believe it! Where the hell was it? And what did this crate that was shipped to us by mistake have in it? It was getting dark fast so I got a flashlight and looked in the crate again.
I got one side and the top off the splintered crate, looked inside and couldn’t see a motorcycle. I couldn't believe it! Where the hell was it? And what did this crate that was shipped to us by mistake have in it? It was getting dark fast so I got a flashlight and looked in the crate again.
There, shoved up against one wall and surrounded by packages wrapped in what looked like old rags (it turned out they were old rags!) was something with the outline of a motorcycle frame, wrapped with what looked like a roll of cotton about 4" diameter, wrapped round and round that object. I lifted it out of the box, unwound it, and it was a motorcycle frame - wrapped in rolls of 4" white cotton ribbon. Kind of like it was a mummy. The frame was RED. I shined the light in the rest of the crate and it was half full of rag wrapped things. It was starting to dawn on me what we had here. But I said nothing to Earl.
By now Earl was wondering why I was so quiet, but I just started handing him the rag packages and we laid them out on the lawn. We unwrapped some handlebars. Then a fender; and another fender. Then a seat, a set of foot pegs. At that point we stopped, looked at each other and Earl turned, not saying a word, and headed back to the garage. In a minute or two he came strolling down the driveway with a wheel barrow. He rewrapped what we had opened, and stacked what we had taken out of the crate into the wheel barrow, gestured to me, pointing at the wheel barrow. He was still pissed. I took the hint and wheeled it up to the garage.
Three loads later we were down to the bottom of the crate. Wedged into the front and back of the crate were the wheels, wrapped not in old rags, but what looked like old Afghans. At least we were coming up in the wrapping department. In the center, wrapped in rags and then shrink wrapped in plastic was this huge, heavy object. You guessed it: the unit constructed engine/transmission. This was one Earl had to help with. We grunted and groaned and eventually got the heavy steel and aluminum unit into the wheel barrow and up to the garage. One down, one to go.
This, of course, called for another drink and the sharing of some gentile opinions with one another. After all we were professional men who worked in the Executive Office of the President.
By now Earl was wondering why I was so quiet, but I just started handing him the rag packages and we laid them out on the lawn. We unwrapped some handlebars. Then a fender; and another fender. Then a seat, a set of foot pegs. At that point we stopped, looked at each other and Earl turned, not saying a word, and headed back to the garage. In a minute or two he came strolling down the driveway with a wheel barrow. He rewrapped what we had opened, and stacked what we had taken out of the crate into the wheel barrow, gestured to me, pointing at the wheel barrow. He was still pissed. I took the hint and wheeled it up to the garage.
Three loads later we were down to the bottom of the crate. Wedged into the front and back of the crate were the wheels, wrapped not in old rags, but what looked like old Afghans. At least we were coming up in the wrapping department. In the center, wrapped in rags and then shrink wrapped in plastic was this huge, heavy object. You guessed it: the unit constructed engine/transmission. This was one Earl had to help with. We grunted and groaned and eventually got the heavy steel and aluminum unit into the wheel barrow and up to the garage. One down, one to go.
This, of course, called for another drink and the sharing of some gentile opinions with one another. After all we were professional men who worked in the Executive Office of the President.
Me: “What lame brained, mother##$@^ would ship a motorcycle unassembled?”
Him: “Did you know it was going to be unassembled or were you too damned enamored with your “Red Beauty” motorcycle to notice?”
Me: “Well, hell no. It didn’t say that. How stupid do you think I am, dips&^t.”
Him: “If you KNEW it was going to be unassembled why did you order it?”
Me: “I just told you – at least I think I did – that I didn’t KNOW, you drunk bast$*@!”
At that point it was clear to both of us, even in the condition we were in, that we had drunk our way past the conversation point. About this point, having had beer most of the day and hard stuff since late afternoon, we were in no condition to have an argument. And we never really liked to fight each other anyway. So we shut up and had another drink. That was one thing we always agreed on.
Having blown off a little steam, Earl drove his pickup down to the street and shined the headlight on the second crate. He looked at me and said, “Like I said, that one there in the garage is yours.” He was obviously thinking that not only was the 1000 piece jig saw puzzle in the garage likely damaged from the fall, but the bike in this crate was likely fully assembled, like ALL bikes crated for overseas shipment are!
Well, it wasn’t. So somehow, between refills of scotch and Wild Turkey, we got Earl’s RED 1000 piece Lego set out of the crate and unloaded on the opposite side of the garage.
Just a little note: After pushing the wheel barrow up the drive with the pieces of his new bike, it dawned on me that we could have just put the pieces of the bike into the back of Earl's pickup and driven it to the garage!
At that point I was the one who was drunk and pissed off. I had been too stupid, or drunk, to think of that when he first rolled the wheel barrow down the driveway. He never, to his dying day, admitted that he did that on purpose. Like hell he didn't!
Any way, we put the pieces of crates in the back of Earl’s truck and called it a day.
I wobbled into Earl’s living room and fell down on the divan. As Earl walked by from the kitchen to his bedroom, Wild Turkey still in hand, I yelled out, “G’night, Scarlett. We’ll think about this tomorrow.”
Next: “Now, where the hell are the Instructions?”
Next: “Now, where the hell are the Instructions?”
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