The One That Got Away. A FHJ short story.

Seems as though everyone has a story like this. I'll share mine with you. When I was a teenager we used to visit a family friend's ranch. My dad called it the Ponderosa. It was pretty exciting to a boy that grew up in the city to experience some "country livin." The thing about the ranch that excited me more than anything was the little Indian Scout that leaned up against the tack room wall. To me it was the most beautiful bike in the world. It was small compared to the big twins, but she was sure fast. Or at least I thought so. The red paint had faded some over the years, but it was an original color for sure. There were even a few streaks of gray primer showing through where the paint had worn. I used to climb aboard that little bike and ride it around the Ponderosa. I thought I was pretty cool. I also thought I really knew what I was doing with the shifting and clutching. In reality I probably looked like a fool trying to ride that Scout. It was the same thing year after year. It was like that bike was just waiting for me. Even after not seeing her all year she would always start right up for me. Just a little gas, a little priming and BAM we were off and riding. Seems like that all I did when I was there was tinker with that bike. I did truly love that little bike. Now enter my stupidity. When I got to be around eighteen or so the trips to the ranch weren't as frequent. At eighteen you don't want the family trips and you know pretty much everything there is to know, so you strike out on your own. I had a plan. I thought it was a good plan, but these things seldom are. I was going to get me a big twin Harley. The owner of the Scout had offered her up to me for little more than a song, but I respectfully declined. As much as I loved that Scout, I was concerned that it just wasn't right for me. After all to be cool I needed a big twin and it had to be a Harley. Sure Indians were cool, but Harleys were where it's at for a young man. So I passed and left the Scout behind. I knew I was going to miss her, but I had to stay focused on my goal. Over the years I had many bikes. Some good, some bad, but never any as good as that little Scout. I kicked myself in the ass a lot over the years for not buying that bike. I tried to find one like her but never could. Flash forward twenty years or so. I was at a show looking at the bikes and you'll never guess what I saw. It was my little Indian. she was standing in line amongst all the other bikes, but she looked great. No restoration for her, she looked just as good as she ever had. An original Indian Scout. There was a little more Gray showing through the red paint but other than that she was the same. Now I know your asking how did I know it was the same bike. We'll a feller can tell these things. Plus I had memorized the serial number so long ago. 3333. How can you forget? Well I asked the owner if he'd sell her and of course he said "no." I made an offer and again "no." I took a few pictures of my long lost friend and moved on down the line. The moral of the story for me is this. Who cares what others think. Do what you want. If you want the little Indian Scout get it. Don't spend your life regretting that you passed on a good bike just because you were concerned it wasn't right for you. Just cause the other guys are riding something else, doesn't mean you have to.

Another completely made up story from the mind of FHJ.