About a week ago, we made an addition - albeit a temporary one - to our garage. When our friend, next-door neighbor, and riding buddy Tom passed away last month after a tough fight with cancer, we continued doing what little we could to make things easier for his partner Johanna. One of those things was to take care of Tom's mid-1970s Norton 850 Commando while his estate goes through probate, which had been sitting in storage for as long as anyone can remember, awaiting restoration.
It's a beautiful bike, even non-running, and it's temporarily taken up the best spot in the garage and pushed the Ducs outside under bike covers.
Looking at it and fiddling with it a bit (first thing I'm working on -- dealing with the half tank of 15+ year old gas) is fun and makes me remember good times with Tom. But the coolest thing happened just yesterday. When we rolled the bike out into the yard to look it over with one of Tom's longtime friends who's first in line to buy it, my step-daughter couldn't resist the opportunity to climb aboard and imagine herself riding it.
She's steadfastly refused to ride with either me or her mom since I moved to Arizona three years ago - she and I get along really well, but she insisted that sport bikes (and sometimes, all motorcycles) scare her, and trying to include her in our trips was always a dead end. Much cajoling got her to a point where she agreed that she'd ride behind Tom (one of the smoothest riders I've ever tried to follow), but he got sick shortly after that and never rode again.
Yesterday, I asked out of habit if she wanted to go on an afternoon ride with me, fully expecting her to answer no, again.
Not this time.
Chalk it up to the Norton magic -- and memories of my good friend.
