"Hello. My name is Joe and I am a bike-aholic."

I’m sure that there are more severe addictions rampant throughout society and I mean to cast no aspersions on those that truly suffer the consequences from any of their own personal demons. However, I am confident that I also need a twelve-step program. Seriously. 

Three weeks ago, I had no thoughts of owning a Commando except in some vague “winning the lottery” context and I was quite content with my Triumph project that never makes progress, and the new-to-me BMW.  I have no lack of garage fodder. I also figured that I had maxed out the Kitchen Remodel Good Will account, as well. Then, I got that damned email from Tim Stahl saying he knew someone willing to sell a Commando “cheap.”

I phoned the owner and got directions.  I took my digital camera. Perhaps, I could buy this bike, then resell it and raise some cash for the stalled project bike.  This is purely a peek for business purposes not for personal use, I tell myself...cool and logical.

  I never pass up a peek at a private bike sale and this was also a divorce sale. Against my better judgment, I tossed my checkbook into the camera bag and set off.

  I got lost a bit in  new housing and  I wandered down cul-de-sacs, built-up with high-end tract homes until I saw the driveway.

This has to be the house. The garage door is open and I can see the bike from the rear...the pea shooters are aimed skyward, the narrow bars have that insouciant droop to them like the wings of a WWII Corsair.  This is the 850 Interstate model.  

As I walk up the drive, I instantly regret having brought the checkbook since this bike projects an appeal similar to that of cocaine in the ‘70’s...somewhere, somehow, something as good as sex is just gonna have to be involved.

It’s done up in bright-assed Corvette Yellow, an obvious repaint but a fine job, the decals are clear-coated. The chrome is decent, as is the seat and engine patina.

I introduce myself to the owner without taking my eyes of the machine. I try to keep my face noncommittal but I fear that I’m failing badly. I sense a gaze of loopy consumerism is on my face. I’m goofy-eyed like a high-school boy seeing his first unbuttoned blouse.

This is neither good for my here-to-fore firm resolve or any pre-perceived bargaining power that I thought I might have had. And I brought the damned checkbook

I sit on the bike, lean forward into the bars, and lay my chest near that Exxon Valdez-sized Corvette Yellow  Interstate tank. Big capacity, hence the Interstate name. This was the Continental ground-gobbler of its day…”24 liters of premium, please. Then get the hell outta the roadway.”

From the cockpit, the bars are low/narrow wind-cheaters. The clocks look fresh and the headlight brightwork is nice.  The tires on the two 19 inch rims are period rubber.

No individual part stands out as a new replacement. The bike is detailed well and shows an even patination.  I pull the timing plate off and see a Boyer electronic ignition.

The owner starts it and I rev it while it’s on the center stand. I squat beside the motor listening for oddnesses. We waltz together, the bike and I, the center stand leaving 4-inch scrapes on the concrete whenever I blip the throttle. Above 3000 rpm, the vibration ceases and the bike is steady. This, I’ve been told, is a good Commando sign.

It’s unregistered and uninsured so I’m not gonna get a test ride. But its beauty can not be denied.

The owner retrieves a three ring binder with his shop records/expenses over the life of his 6 year ownership. We trace the lineage of the bike. It’s an original San Diego bike first owned  in Lemon Grove. This man is the fourth owner and the clock reads 17K miles.  Paul Lima, of GP Motorcycles, was the second owner.

He hands me a glossy postcard showing a very similar machine with a 3 year old child sitting on it.

“Wow, just like your bike,” I say.

“It is my bike. That’s the change-of-address card I made when we moved to this house three years ago.”

I pocket the card to show Ellen.

It is a divorce sale. He elects to keep his Fat Boy and sacrifice the Norton.  It’s to be the next owners gain.

I stand behind the flashy Yellow Harlot and feel the pop-pop-pop of the upswept pipes as the bike idles. I ask the price. He says, “What where you told?”

I tell him what Tim said he might take, and he slowly and silently agrees.

While the muffler pulses ruffle my checkbook, I write a deposit to be redeemed the following weekend, with the total to be rendered in cash.  

I snap a few pics and write the serial numbers down for research.

I search the ‘net the next day questioning the Commando folks on Brit-Iron about foibles or blessing for the 1973 850 line. All reports come back positive. I call Paul and pick his brain.

“Wow, I remember that one...that was my first modern bike,” says Paul. “Erin used to fall asleep on the back of that bike.”

Paul says the bike has had a top end rebuild at their shop.

There’s an awful lot that I don’t know about Commandos. All I know about this one is that it has Major Cleavage.

And now, it’s mine.

"My name is Joe and I have an addiction. "