Who’s riding that there Moto Guzzi?

Estimated reading time: 5 minutes

Who’s riding that there Moto Guzzi?

It wasn’t the first time I’d heard that question. The difference was that this time the question wasn’t directed at me. Even so, I replied that I was the pilot of the Moto Guzzi V7ii Stone parked outside a Waffle House on a cold January morning in north Georgia. But the interrogator’s attention was fixed on my dear man who was sitting across the table from me. And who was now staring at me in utter disbelief.

Southern education

Long before I moved to Nevada, my dear man came to visit me in Georgia. He brought along his trusty Kawasaki KLR 650 so we could get in some riding time together. He’s a lifelong westerner with no experience in the Deep South so part of the riding experience would be a bit of cultural education. That education had to include Waffle House. Of course.

We set out on this crisp winter morning with a short ride in mind. We only had just enough time to pull off our gear and settle in over a hot cup of coffee when two men pulled into the parking lot. They got out of their pickup truck and sidled towards the restaurant, eyeing the motorcycles. Before reaching the door, they veered off and began slowly circling the bikes like a kettle of vultures—scrutinizing, nodding, faces stern.

Predictions

I sighed heavily and looked at my dear man. He looked back at me quizzically. I said “This is how this is going to go down.” I proceeded to predict the conversation we would be having with these men which would include ignoring me. He chuckled, thinking I was joking.

The men eventually walked in and quickly puzzled out that we were the riders. It was a pretty easy conclusion. There was only one other customer at a table in the far corner and we were the ones sitting in a booth with helmets and riding jackets piled next to us.

Sure enough, the men walk in and stopped at our table. “Who’s ridin’ that there Moto Guzzi?” one of them asked. To get the full effect, you have to imagine that question being asked in the thick quintessential southern accent. And you have to imagine the motorcycle brand pronunciation as “Guh-zee”.

My dear man stared at me wide-eyed. I’d predicted the first sentence with complete accuracy.

Orations

I confirmed I was the Guzzi pilot to the breakfast intruder who now towered over us sitting at our tiny, sticky table. He gave me a quick, curt glance and returned his attention to my dear man. Then he launched into his monologue.

His lecture contained all the greatest hits plus a few bonus tracks from the album I’d heard so many times before. It was no shocker he thought Harley Davidsons were the best bikes to be had. Anything else was far inferior. But the Moto Guzzi was a decent choice if you weren’t fortunate enough to get your hands on a Harley. Imagine my relief to know I’d chosen an acceptable motorcycle to this colossal blowhard of a man.

He sprinkled in a few disingenuous questions aimed at my dear man along the way. He never actually waited for a response, though. His companion stood by, listening and nodding, as the man droned on. He had a lot of thoughts on different segments of the motorcycling community. “You know, them Goldwing people ain’t very friendly,” he declared.

The crowning glory of the sermon was when he gave an acknowledgment to my dear man’s KLR parked next to my Guzzi.

“You know, them there Jap bikes are pretty reliable, though.”

Enough already

Up to that point I had just sat and sipped my coffee, largely ignored by the misogynistic orator. It was a relief from the usual scenario of being the target of the verbal siege. I was also having my fun by watching my dear man’s reaction to this experience. The “Jap” bike comment put us over the edge, though. Like me, I knew he was thinking enough-was-enough with this guy.

I also knew my dear man was taking cues from me since he was a visitor in my stomping grounds. So I made my plans to derail the “conversation.” This bonus cultural lesson had gone on too long. Before I could intervene though, the clueless man suddenly decided he was done and shuffled off to a table with his companion.

Relief

My dear man stared at me. He was in shock. Partly from being subjected to this man and experiencing the full effect of what you might characterize as a southern “good ole boy.” But he was also reeling from my prediction of the exchange.

“Not my first rodeo.” I said. I shook my head and breathed a heavy sigh of relief that it was over. “Welcome to Georgia, babe.” He stared at me, dismayed.

It was not the South’s finest hour. And not what I’d set out to show him in our explorations that day, but it was educational nonetheless.

Adventure on, friends.