The Theft: A Dakota and Two Buells

Last month I bought my friend's mom's 1998 Toyota Camry with 55,000 miles on it, so I put my 1996 Dodge Dakota pickup with 124,000 miles on it up for sale. But meantime, while me and the Camry were out for dinner one night, the Dakota was stolen, right out from under the driveway! Now, mind you, the Dakota wasn't just a pickup, it was a member of the family. My dad bought it a year old. (He just has this thing against buying brand new vehicles–unless you count his Smart Car, but he's mellowed with age). Then I bought it when my Celica was rear-ended and totaled. So I became the girl with a pickup. I learned there was some mystique about that–a woman whose only (four-wheeled) vehicle was a truck. But I needed it because I had an Enfield. The Enfield's got a 100-mile-radius-curfew, you might say, because that's the longest distance I was willing to ride on the back of anybody else's motorcycle when it broke down, to go get my truck. And the truck helped my friends move. It hauled stuff and provided shelter at Burning Man. It carried books to motorcycle shows and literary conferences. I loaded my mountain bike in it to trailheads. And it was just cool to be the girl in the truck.

If they didn't find it in 15 days the insurance company would give me the cash. Best case scenario? Well, I got a lump  in my throat considering what it might be going through. A joy ride, a drug deal, a chop shop? It wasn't easy to contemplate. But they did find it, five days later, on the side of the highway with a flat tire and no stereo. I'd bought a stellar stereo a couple of years before, it even had an iPod connector though I'd never used it, preferring local radio even through Bakersfield where you only get hard rock, religion, and Rush Limbaugh.

I'd been ready to sell it–swap a fat wad of cash for my utilitarian family member–but theft? That was another story. I went to the tow-yard to claim it. The dash was all ripped apart, the interior was like, totally muddy (it had been raining for weeks), and everything out of the back was gone except, weirdly, the snow chains. I'd been carrying around my big bag of camping gear to put it in my storage space, and hadn't gotten around to it, so the thieves scored a Bibler tent, two expensive sleeping bags, a sleeping pad, two MSR stoves, a roll-up table, chairs, and a bunch of other gear I'd spent years putting together for the perfect camping or backpacking kit. That, my renter's insurance paid for.

Triple A got triple A's. They had it towed to a body shop where they welded the exhaust back together–the thieves had only managed to saw the catalytic converter a little way through–they realigned the tires and repaired the dash, putting new facings on it all the way across. They even replaced the worn transmission mounts so the radiator didn't clank against the housing any more. They washed it and gave it a thorough interior detail. After the $700 I'd put into it before I sold it (tune-up, new front brakes, etc and etc and etc), it was better than ever. But it needed a paint job and a new radio.

Here's my ad on craigslist:

I got a call from Dale in the 650 area code just south of me in Silicon Valley. He said he was driving his stuff back up from here to Ontario and he didn't care about the paint and he never listened to the radio anyway so could he come see it.  Yep, I said, do you know where Pt. Richmond is? Nope, he said, I don't know the area at all. Berkeley? I asked? Well, sort of, well no, he said.

Calling back he had his buddy punch my address in his GPS and said could they ride up on their motorcycles to see it that afternoon. I'd been washing my BMW K750 in the driveway, and when they arrived I waved them up. Bruno nearly rode his Buell Ulysses through the door into my cottage and Dale maneuvered his little red Buell Sport Single behind him. They took off their gear looking at the BMW, the hell with the Dakota yet, and introduced themselves, Dale in a charming Canadian accent. In their 50s, I guessed, but who knows, and beautiful new bikes, expensive gear, and undaunted by their ride up Highway 880 in commuter traffic, probably the worst motorcycling highway on the west coast barring any freeway in LA.

Bruno spotted the 2010 BMW Owners Anonymous booklet on the arm of my sofa and identified me further as a member of the tribe, he has a couple at home and one stored in Germany for his trips there. It wasn't long in our conversation that I realized I was being visited by a couple of extremely hardcore vehicle travel dudes–motorcyclists and pilots. I'd come to find that Dale owns a dirigible manufacturing company, of all things.

We sat down and had tea. It was a beautiful warm day today and the sun was coming down toward the San Francisco Bay. They agreed that I'd found the perfect secret Bay Area spot.

Bruno's phone rang and he started speaking in Portuguese while I took Dale, the buyer, to look at the Dakota. I knew I was going to buy it as soon as I found out you're a motorcycle person, he said, before he reluctantly took it for a test ride. I joked that he could keep driving and I'd keep the Buell, an even trade.

After goofing off some more enjoying the view and talking about roads–they'll make the Highway 1 to Mendo ride, maybe go up to the Lost Coast (Bruno on the Ulysses and Dale the highway), turn inland and enjoy the redwoods, and I recommended paying the more-than-worth-it $20 to get the Pashnit.com maps) we got down to business. We made the transfer, taking good care because he had to get it over the Canadian border, so an official receipt as well as the title transfer was necessary–loaded the little bike–it's a serious bike but only weighs about 350 pounds–into the truck, and they set to leave.

Bruno led the way on his Ulysees with Dale following in the Dakota. I was sad to see it go but I knew I couldn't have asked for a better home for it and was glad to have connected to these two people with whom I know I'll have a lifelong connection.

Bruno and Dale: Enjoy the ride!