A
Anonymous
Guest
Part 1.
I?ve got the key in my hand. The ?D? shaped fob. The Suzuki ?S? embossed in the middle of the dark rubber handle. There is a familiarity with the shape and mass of my new-old key that brings a smile to me. It?s a GS Key thing I think. Other keys don?t feel this way. Other keys feel small to me. This one feels sharp, bold, and new.
I?ve just bought a new old bike. It?s a 1978 Gs 1000E. It?s a beautiful bike. It?s black and it shines like a jewel. Her prior owner is a pilot and an aircraft mechanic who has owned her since she was uncrated in ?78. She?s never seen rain or snow for that matter. I?ve seen both, in the saddles of her cousins, a ?77 GS 550 and an ?82 GS 850G. I?ve seen mud, and sand and many other ruinous conditions on my motorcycle adventures. I?ve been around, and she hasn?t yet. This key feels brand new to me.
I have another key. It has the same familiar shape. The ?S? on her handle is nearly worn off. The black rubber ?D? is worn and hard and brittle with age. She belonged to my 550. Her shaft is worn down to the copper. She used to pop out of the ignition from time to time, though I never lost her. She turned up on the blade of someone?s windshield wiper, weeks after I was sure that I had lost her. It was a lonely few weeks when I thought that she was gone. It was a testimony to my faith that she reappeared. My 550 key meant the world to me. I was twenty- something and my life was no more complicated than my need for my friends and my need for my freedom of movement. My GS was my constant companion. Of all of my freedoms then, I loved this key most.
My 850 key is around here somewhere. It?s in a drawer. It?s lost in piles of old photographs and tourist brochures from the places we went. ?Old 850? is on a leather fob that smells like a dog and curls just right around my index finger. I?m not worried about finding her at the moment? she was always there when I needed her?. I?m sure she will always be that way.
I don?t own those two old bikes anymore? but I still have keys. The new owners have the spare keys? the mint keys? the keys I didn?t use? and to my knowledge after thousands of miles, both bikes are still in service.
So, I?m not so upset, and I understand why I have a brand new-old key to my new-old GS 1000. And I understand why the original owner says that He can?t find the ?other? key to give me. Somewhere in the night, the key denied me is rolling in the fingers of a man dreaming of the times passed by. I honor him as I admire my oldest key ? and my newest.
It?s a GS thing...
Joseph
I?ve got the key in my hand. The ?D? shaped fob. The Suzuki ?S? embossed in the middle of the dark rubber handle. There is a familiarity with the shape and mass of my new-old key that brings a smile to me. It?s a GS Key thing I think. Other keys don?t feel this way. Other keys feel small to me. This one feels sharp, bold, and new.
I?ve just bought a new old bike. It?s a 1978 Gs 1000E. It?s a beautiful bike. It?s black and it shines like a jewel. Her prior owner is a pilot and an aircraft mechanic who has owned her since she was uncrated in ?78. She?s never seen rain or snow for that matter. I?ve seen both, in the saddles of her cousins, a ?77 GS 550 and an ?82 GS 850G. I?ve seen mud, and sand and many other ruinous conditions on my motorcycle adventures. I?ve been around, and she hasn?t yet. This key feels brand new to me.
I have another key. It has the same familiar shape. The ?S? on her handle is nearly worn off. The black rubber ?D? is worn and hard and brittle with age. She belonged to my 550. Her shaft is worn down to the copper. She used to pop out of the ignition from time to time, though I never lost her. She turned up on the blade of someone?s windshield wiper, weeks after I was sure that I had lost her. It was a lonely few weeks when I thought that she was gone. It was a testimony to my faith that she reappeared. My 550 key meant the world to me. I was twenty- something and my life was no more complicated than my need for my friends and my need for my freedom of movement. My GS was my constant companion. Of all of my freedoms then, I loved this key most.
My 850 key is around here somewhere. It?s in a drawer. It?s lost in piles of old photographs and tourist brochures from the places we went. ?Old 850? is on a leather fob that smells like a dog and curls just right around my index finger. I?m not worried about finding her at the moment? she was always there when I needed her?. I?m sure she will always be that way.
I don?t own those two old bikes anymore? but I still have keys. The new owners have the spare keys? the mint keys? the keys I didn?t use? and to my knowledge after thousands of miles, both bikes are still in service.
So, I?m not so upset, and I understand why I have a brand new-old key to my new-old GS 1000. And I understand why the original owner says that He can?t find the ?other? key to give me. Somewhere in the night, the key denied me is rolling in the fingers of a man dreaming of the times passed by. I honor him as I admire my oldest key ? and my newest.
It?s a GS thing...
Joseph
8)
