I Miss My Moto Guzzi T3

There’s nothing left of her but Whitworth wrenches, a few sockets, and one bad picture.

A "hardship tour" to Korea meant a yearlong dry spell from riding, but I bought a sporterized Moto Guzzi T3 from an Oklahoma City dealer scant weeks after signing into Fort Sill. The red 850 came with a hand-laid monoposto tail, a factory race fairing, and clubmans, alongside which I bolted Raask rearsets, Grab-On grips, Pirelli Phantoms, and any other Racers Supply goodies a private's pay would cover. I also harbored a four-speed Z-28 and a '68 Chevy pickup in those days. Despite her double fistful of antique ignition parts, the Goose proved more reliable than either four wheeler.

Upon transfer to Fort Stewart, Georgia, my C-10 got swapped out for a half-ton Dodge and the Guzzi for an RZ-350 piney woods touring edition, complete with the battered Eclipse tank bag off the T3. Then I left the army, drove to school at Washington State, unpacked two duffels of worldly goods, and found myself bereft.

In those pre-Craigslist days, our search engines were gray columns of classified ads. No pics, no texting, no email—just a number to dial at an inconvenient time from a handset wired to the wall. Eventually I contacted Bruce in Spokane, who had the bike of somebody’s dreams.

Rolled into the eastside sun, all gleaming pipes and voluptuous alloy cases, it bulged from its frame like a by-Goth Brit lass gone pub-crawling in a little black dress. A 1952 BSA A10 Golden Flash pared down to jockey seat, drag bars, spool, girder, and a Flintstone brake, she fairly stank of British dignity, street cred, and bad gas. Panting through her chrome pancake of an air cleaner, she blasted virago's vengeance out of Hooker headers ending at my sneakers. She was trashy, flashy, and beautifully timed—a GI Bill check bulged my jeans.

Light, quick, and nimble as she was, nothing horrible ever happened on the Beezer. Sure, she didn’t always stay in her clothes. One header popped free of its cylinder nut halfway home from Asotin. While the blue flames barbecuing her exhaust valve helped light our way home, I held the flopping header up with the melting sole of my brake-side Chuck Taylor.

For reliability she was no Guzzi. The 40 or so gut kicks required to wake her up were a fine substitute for army PT and kept our neighbors educated and entertained, but I knew that mag would spark. The Amal carb might spark too, but I was a volunteer firefighter. I loved that loud, ridiculous, high-maintenance bitch enough to overlook her cheap betrayals. Every time she fired off, I thought, “Take that, George Michael!”

During Rush Week an entire sorority in fringed white cowgirl boots marched straight into the road, singing the song of their people. Briefly considering my “brakes”—a steel paddle bearing against the rear tire’s polished tread—I defaulted to saving lives with loud pipes while slewing frantically betwixt a hundred swishing miniskirts. They scattered like doves. Once again, nothing horrible happened.

Descending the collegiate food chain from dormie to housemate to trailer trash, I squired that Beeza around with perfect loyalty until the day Biker Butch stopped in front of our pink princess home to watch me pound her plungers back together with a 24-inch pipe wrench and a shovel-handle drift.

“Hey, you wanna trade that?”

“Only bike I got.”

“I got a ’69 International with stock racks and overloads.”

I paused. My Ford had blown a tranny as Fords are wont to do, and I was weeks behind in psycholinguistics. “How’s it look?”

He shrugged. “Runs.”

Best damn truck I ever owned.