THROUGH THE WOODS

THROUGH THE WOODS

By Duncan

I decided I needed to get off my Honda Gold Wing motorcycle and buy something that wouldn’t kill me. 

My father, a retired thirty-seven-year (37) General Motors employee, was horrified that I would consider purchasing a used Mazda Miata or a used  BMW Z3 two-seat convertible hot rod other than a General Motors product. 

“Dad,  I can’t afford a Corvette!” 

“Well, have you looked at that Solstice?”  

My father (George) was dumbfounded that his only son was going off the rails, abandoning my loyalty to his former employer. I didn’t work for Allison’s, a Division of General Motors; my father did! A Corvette was not my style, as if I knew what “My Style” was. 

It had been pumped into me by just about everyone except my fellow motorcyclists that I was going to have an accident. Did all the chatter and noise convince me I would end up dead in a traffic accident on my Gold Wing? 

“You will have an accident if you keep riding a motorcycle beyond your capabilities.” 

Let’s face the facts here. Capability is an unusual word to use here. I think we all know what our capabilities are. I had been riding a motorcycle all over the United States for eight years. Never once did I feel unsafe until I was told by people around me who were not motorcyclists that a motorcycle is a death trap. 

I was never on my mind until it began to be on my mind. One crisp, cool March morning in 2008, I pulled the bike out of the garage for a test ride. I turned to the right out of my driveway and headed north on 35 mph Kessler Blvd. The cars coming south are doing 100 mph. (Or so it seemed.) 

I stopped at the top of the hill in a church parking lot and sat there for a few minutes, thinking, “Damn, I’ve never had that feeling before.” I rode home and parked my bike in the garage. A week later, I pulled the bike out again. 

Again, north on Kessler Blvd. I pulled into the church parking lot again. I pushed the kickstand down, leaned the bike to the left, and turned off the engine to begin the thought process. Is my mind playing tricks on me? Have I convinced myself I can’t or don’t know how to ride a motorcycle? 

I admit I talked with the “Big Guy,” and he said, “You're done!” 

I never rode a motorcycle again. Yes, I rode it back to my garage. I sold the bike within a week. I received word from the fellow who bought the bike that he had an accident a few miles from his home in Tennessee. Did the “Big Guy” know it was time for me to move on to something else? I don’t think I have ever rationalized that chat to this day. 

I purchased a brand-new Mean Yellow 2007 GXP convertible made by Pontiac. Pontiac also called this model a Solstice. It was Turbocharged and had a four-speed manual transmission. I was told it was brand-new. It had 247 miles on the odometer. Someone had taken a ride in it around the building a couple of times. 

2007 Pontiac, Solstice, GXP.  My new motorcycle. 

Over the years, Mean Yellow has been very good to me. We have gone everywhere together—Florida to Arizona, Texas to Michigan. Mean Yellow is now 17 years old. The question of selling or buying something new has still not crossed my mind. 

However, Mean Yellow has a touch of arthritis. The ride is a little bumpier or not as smooth as it used to be. So, what’s the problem? With 103,000 miles, I leaned on the shocks as a problem. Who knows what this repair is going to cost? I searched online for the answer, and there are all kinds of answers to the question of how long shocks should last. The general answer seemed to be between 50,000 and 100,000 miles; the shocks should more than likely be replaced. However, some very experienced professional people offered their advice. 

“Hell, I got 350,000 miles on my shocks, and the car rides fine.” 

“Hi, I have a Pontiac Solstice GXP parked out front. Could you give me an estimate of what it would cost to replace the shocks?” 

The large man behind the counter in his company uniform looked over my shoulder at my vehicle, “We don’t work on that car; we can’t get parts for it! Sorry.” 

I found the same problem at another place. “We can’t get parts for it.” 

Now, just a minute, I know people work on old cars all over the United States, restoring some pretty shabby-looking vehicles. They can find parts for almost anything. This doesn’t sound right. Somewhere, there have got to be parts for my seventeen-year-old passion. I decided to try other places.

 

When I walked in, no one was at the front desk. I waited a few minutes, and a short, older man in a company uniform came out from the garage area. His uniform was covered in dirt and grease; obviously, he worked on the cars in the shop and covered the front desk simultaneously. 

“Yeah, what do you need?” 

“I have a … 2007 … Pontiac … Solstice … GXP … that needs new shocks.”

“Be here Friday Morning between 8:00 - 8:30.” 

“Do you have any idea what it will cost?”

“$600.00, and we even align the front end.”  

“Do you  have any idea what brand of shock you use?”   

“Monroe, say with a brand name, we use Monore.” 

“Okay, do you need my name? 

No, be here early Friday morning.”   

He turned and went back to the garage area. Well, those are the first encouraging words in a while. So, with a chest full of expectations, I found a place that would bring my passion back to showroom condition. 

Friday morning, as I promised, I walked into the shop. Again, no one was at the front desk. I noticed someone sitting behind a desk through a not-so-pristine glass office window. It turned out to be a woman. She came out and approached the front desk. She wore a company uniform and a very used company jacket. She had very long fingernails with many designs and colors on the surface of the nails. Her hair looked like it had not been washed in a while; it was pulled back into a ponytail. She wore no make-up. She had an attitude that told me she was tired of the general public. And I was “The General Public” standing across the counter. She did not make eye contact with me, and I was unsure if she would have a civil conversation.  

“I’m here to have my car's shocks replaced.” 

“I don’t know what you are talking about.” 

I turned and looked at my Solstice sitting out front and told her a few days earlier, a man from the back had said I was to be here Friday morning, and I could have my shocks replaced.

“What kind of car have you got?”  

My heart sank to my feet. I was starting the process all over again. I explained the year, make, model, and other information. She entered the information in her company computer as her long fingernails, fashioned by her manicurist, danced across the Apple-style keyboard. She then came around the counter with a clipboard and said she needed additional information about my vehicle. I watched her go to the back of my car and write down my license plate information. She came back inside and moved behind the counter. 

“I don’t think we will have your shocks, but I will check.” 

She asked for my keys, which I surrendered to her. She then wanted my email address and phone number and repeated the information back to me. 

I knew I was now on another list to receive emails about specials on services they wanted me to know about. It’s that easy to give out your personal information. It’s called evasion of privacy or just “marketing.”  

Her last words were, “I will call you when I have more information.” 

I could hear a helicopter very close. I walked to the back of the building. Across the parking lot, a helicopter was lifting HVAC units onto the roof of the new Kroger store at Allisonville and 116th Street.

   

I was impressed with the pilot as he lifted at least six units onto the roof of the new ($37M) thirty-seven million dollar Kroger store being built. The footprint will allow you to wander through 120,000 square feet of beer isles.  

This is the way the new Kroger Market Place is going to look. 

I had a hike back to the house. I assumed it was a couple of miles' walk. 

Semi-trucks were lined up to deliver construction materials, but they had to wait for the helicopter to finish lifting HVAC units onto the roof. 

I had seen enough of the Kroger construction activity. I began my walk back to the house. 

As I approached civilization, which meant more restaurants and shops, I rewarded myself after a long walk by deciding to have breakfast. I would like to compare the breakfast I cook at home with the professionals in the service industry. 

I must say that over the years, I have taught myself to cook two over-easy eggs, bacon, hash browns, English muffins, and a flute of delicious orange juice. I enjoy the process of making my breakfast. Yes, I can hear you saying … “Duncan, it’s hard to screw up a couple of eggs?”  

I entered MORNINGS, Breakfast & Brunch. I haven’t eaten at this neighborhood restaurant before. Walking the streets of Fishers gives you time to see what is going on in the “Hood.” So, I thought I would give this “MORNINGS” place a shot. I didn’t realize they had two other locations—McCordsville, Indianapolis, and Fishers.  

The place was half empty, but I was seated beside a family with several kids running around the table. I tried to figure out why the hostess sat me close to this family with children. Well, of course, it’s not what I would want; it’s which waitress is getting the next customer seated in her assigned station. Yes, sit a single grumpy old man next to three families with children. 

During my meal, one of the boys was running around the tables. He paused, placed his elbow on the edge of my table, and then began digging for gold in his nose. I looked at the family as if to say, “Are you aware of your children?” But they were totally oblivious to what he was doing.  

I was a good boy. I held my tongue and looked at my cell phone, unaware of what the kid was doing. People constantly look at their cell phones and are unaware of the world around them. This would be an excellent cover for me. We all understand that! That’s like saying, 

“I’m a better driver than most people on the road.” 

Chikis, my waitress, possessed a limited English vocabulary. But she did comprehend two over easy, bacon, potatoes, and English Muffin. 

And this is what she brought me. It's certainly acceptable. I prefer the string hash browns to the deep-fat fried cube potatoes. But, again, this is how MORNINGS presents its breakfast. 

Okay, some of you want to know. 

COFFEE:  $3.75

TWO EGGS, BACON, DICED POTATOES, ENGLISH MUFFIN: $13.50

TAX:        $1.56

TIP:         $4.14 

TOTAL:  $22.95

I had to laugh at the tip suggestions on the hand-held machine Chikls held for me as I paid the bill: 15%, 18%, 22%, now, if that's not an interesting way to handle the tip. 

I’m unsure if I was laughing at this point or if I would look like a cheap skate if I didn’t press the 22% opinion. I succumbed to the pressure of the waitress standing there, not saying a word, with no expression, just holding the screen close to my face as I completed the sale. She looked down on me like Detective Callahan (Dirty Harry). “Do you feel lucky … Punk?”

 

Okay, a little over the top. But, damn, it’s been a few days since I have paid $24.00 for breakfast. I decided to enjoy another cup of coffee. And think through what would happen to my “Mean Yellow.”  

I received a phone call from Jennifer from the muffler shop. 

“Mr. Duncan, I can’t find any shocks anywhere for your car.”