Here's what happened.
I'd finally convinced my parents that it made a world of sense for me to spend my meager savings on a mechanically reliable motorcycle rather than a mechanically questionable, inexpensive automobile.
My father had easily warmed to the suggestion that he could use the motorcycle when I had to borrow his car. He'd owned a motorcycle when stationed in Honolulu as a young sailor. I'm sure he wanted to re-experience the fun he'd had back then. Also, in addition to the newer family car, he had an old Ford that he used for work. One way or another, the two of us would have enough wheels to satisfy our needs.
My mother, bless her heart, was not at all convinced of my plan's worthiness. But she acquiesced.
Within a very short time, I'd located the perfect motorcycle. A friend of a friend had recently rebuilt his 1959 650 cc Triumph Trophy and put it on the market.
My father and I took a ride to the guy's house to inspect the bike. It was gorgeous. After rebuilding the engine, the owner had repainted the gas tank and fenders with gold metal-flake paint trimmed in black. He'd also painted the frame black and added a touch of pin striping here and there to set things off.
When the owner started the engine, I almost swooned. I can still hear its lovely rumble reverberating through the chrome straight pipes.
While the day was bright, the thermometer outside showed barely 40 degrees. Regardless, I was ready for a ride. I'd have to go as a passenger because I was only 16 and too young to have a license to drive either a car or motorcycle. Besides, the owner was not about to let anyone but him drive his shiny-like-new motorcycle.
While the owner nearly froze during our quick ride around town, I was too elated to feel the cold. When we returned to his house, my father and I haggled with the owner over the price of the motorcycle and eventually agreed on $650.
