Text: Christian Neuhauser • Photography: Christian Neuhauser

For years I've known I would someday get around to buying a classic bike. My heart told me it would be a British bike. And since finding one is no longer a problem - what with so many auctions going on and sites like cycletrader.com now commonplace - I didn't really have any excuse for not looking around at least. So, I decided to follow my heart and explore some of the Internet offers.

And then one dreary Sunday afternoon...

Raindrops hammer the office window as I compare a 1972 Norton Commando and a 1978 Bonnie. Their identical pricing doesn't make the decision any easier. The paint and chrome favors the Bonnie, but for some reason the Norton looks more desirable. I postpone my evaluation for a moment and venture upstairs to discuss it with Christa. Bad timing.

"Why on earth would you want a stack of old iron?" she asks.

Not quite the show of support I expected from my cherished mate, it reminded me of the laconic response I got from an elderly American lady I once met in Austria when I proudly showed off my 1972 Corvette: "Who buys an old car with dirty carpet?"

Maybe it's a woman thing or some non-gender specific OCD thing, but it doesn't deter me from the quest. Back in the office, I pick up the phone and call the Norton owner. Joseph launches into a detailed history and honest assessment of his bike. The only owner, he tells me he has always taken good care of his "baby," but admits that the head should be done and maybe the tires aren't the best anymore.

When I ask about riding the bike down from the greater Detroit area to Winston-Salem, he starts to laugh and says, sure, if I can spare 10 days or more for the ride. "Okay, here's something a Norton novice or a guy in hurry needs to know. You shouldn't do more than 150 miles a day," he recommends, "and you can't ride 6 hours with a full open throttle." That's an eye-opening admission that would affect my plans for doing a story on the way back. I thought I could jump on the bike and do the distances that I usually do. So, we leave the subject open with the understanding I would make a decision and call him back the next week.

Time to give Vernon in Kansas City a call. No one picks up. I try the cell phone number. Same result, but I leave a voice-mail message. Something of a psychological nightmare follows. In my heart, soul and head, I've decided - I'm already riding the Bonnie, and I'm just waiting for a call. Nothing on Sunday, Monday, Tuesday. Finally, on Wednesday, there's a sonorous voice on the other end of the line. Vernon apologizes; he was in the hospital for his knees. They're the reason he's selling his bike. He can no longer kick it without pain. The second owner of this British beauty, Vernon soon sets the hook a little deeper by zipping a batch of digital images my way. The bike is a beaut and she appears to be in excellent shape. Two weeks later, I'm flying to Kansas City, anxiously anticipating a rendezvous with this online match, the object of long-held desire.

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