That’s the image, but…
A common phrase at bike shops: “This bike is just like this.” I bet there are quite a few people who’ve heard that.
Writing this made me think, “I should be careful about that too.” Quite sobering.
Common situations would be:
• When a used bike is running poorly after purchase
• When you don’t get the performance you expected after repair work
Is the bike really like that…?
When someone in a mechanic’s suit says it firmly to your face, you start thinking, “Maybe it really is like that…”
The details might differ slightly, but there are times when we do say “it’s just like this.” We don’t say it dismissively.
The customer is usually dissatisfied because the bike is running poorly and not performing as expected, and a dismissive comment like that just adds fuel to the fire.
Of course, after that they consult with the shop that sold or serviced it, only to get turned away coldly…
Forget it…
;つД｀)Sob sob.
That’s the story I thought about (back then).
Oh, long, long time ago.
Back in the day, I really wanted a Yamaha RZ125—a classic bike, you might say… (with YPVS).
I remember poring over every corner of the monthly motorcycle magazines. (Standing and reading in the shop.)
For my generation, the RZ125 with YPVS was already a bit of an older bike, and I remember it was hard to find used ones.
With my heart pounding, I read the magazines every month, and finally found an RZ125. I called the shop to confirm, and they said they had it in stock, so I headed over right away to check it out.
The place was way out in the corner of Ota Ward. After transferring on public transportation,
I arrived at what looked like a scrap yard? Or maybe a bike shop? I honestly couldn’t tell.
Back then, motorcycle delivery and distribution weren’t as convenient as they are now, so I could only buy from shops within my reach.
I still vividly remember being overwhelmed by the size of that shop (factory) and the sheer number of bikes.
The moment I walked in… Wow, so many bikes… It really felt like a “treasure trove”…
That grimy factory interior. Dim lighting, just a desolate warehouse crammed full of bikes and parts—a rather imposing atmosphere.
In a way, it had character and looked cool.
The air inside was thick with the unique smell of old oil and gasoline mixed together, and disassembled bikes were scattered about haphazardly. It stirred up a thrilling, exciting feeling—”Maybe there’s an even better bike in here?”—and I felt the urge to explore the shop like I was on a treasure hunt.
When I said, “I called earlier about the RZ125 you have—I’d like to see it,”
a shop attendant in a grimy mechanic’s suit responded unenthusiastically:
“Over there! That one!” It seemed less like someone who loved their work and more like someone coldly and methodically doing their job, with not a shred of passion in their manner.
When I saw the actual RZ125,
“It’s ten times rougher than the photo…
I thought to myself, “This is way too beat up. Is it really okay?”
Just to be sure, I asked, “Does this engine start?”
The attendant went, “Uh, yeah…”
and reluctantly pulled the bike forward. “Kick it a hundred times!” (the attendant said).
Of course it didn’t start… not even a sputter.
The attendant told me, “Yeah, it won’t start right now,” but… “Right now?”
When I asked if this bike could actually be made rideable in its current state,
he answered, “If you buy it, it’ll definitely be rideable,” and swept up in that momentum, I signed the contract and we were done for the day.
A few weeks later, I got a call (well, a phone call) saying the bike was ready for pickup whenever I wanted. Thrilled, I grabbed my helmet and gloves and headed over to collect it.
The RZ125 was gleaming with wax, the tires shining bright, all set and ready to go on the shop floor. I picked up the paperwork, and with barely a send-off,
the attendant said, “Well then!” and went back to their cold, methodical work.
Well… “Well then?” But anyway, it’s pickup day—never mind that, let’s just enjoy the ride home.
When I started the engine, there was an odd amount of white smoke… Something didn’t seem right. Maybe it’s just because it’s old?
I’d ridden an MBX50 and an NS50F before, so I felt a bit uneasy about this, but the joy of finally riding an RZ125 drove me to race down the industrial road heading home.
The throttle response was terrible. It felt heavy, like the choke was on, and the engine wouldn’t rev at all. Eventually it stalled several times on the way, and I had a rough time getting home.
I figured it was just because the bike was old and had just been brought back to life, so I waited a few days to see if it would improve, but it didn’t.
When I told the shop that the bike was so bad I could barely cross one ward of Tokyo,
they gave dismissive responses: “You’re not opening the throttle enough,” “You’re riding it wrong,” “The two-stroke oil you’re using is bad.”
I’d expected something like this to some degree, but honestly, I was like, “Are you serious?”
Not giving up, I kept calling to report the problem, and they finally said, “Bring it in,” so I managed to limp that sluggish RZ125 over to the shop for a diagnosis.
They said, “Yeah, it’s just like this. It’s old, you know.”
When I insisted, “But as a vehicle, that doesn’t seem right,”
they said, “Yeah, let me take a look. Just leave it here.”
“Leave it here?” Well, if they’re going to fix it… I guess that’s okay?
Thinking, “Honestly, I don’t want this anymore. I don’t want to deal with this shop anymore,” I trudged home by public transportation, feeling dejected.
Then, a few weeks later (way too long),
I got another call saying, “It’s done, come pick it up.”
With a bad feeling in my gut, I went back to the shop to get the bike. Like on pickup day, the bike was out front, but it was still dirty from the work. The cold, methodical service felt so sad—”nothing more, nothing less.”
In the end, when I asked what the problem actually was, the attendant said…
“Yeah, we swapped out the engine, and that fixed it.”
Huh? Really? Um…? So that’s it?
Even though the result was the same, if the process had been smoother, I think the whole experience would have been much more pleasant and satisfying.
*How you handle things matters, I thought.
That’s a story from the 20th century. (A true story.) ( ；∀；)
