Sold the Indian FTR tonight. Got my full asking price. Cleaned it up, had a full tank of gas in it from the last time I rode it. Kid called Jack, a UPS driver who lives west of Charlottesville. Gave him everything—saddlebag, oil change kit, parts, Cruztools kit, service manual, original tank panels, all of it. I’m sure I’ll find something else later, so I got his address so I could box whatever it is up and get it to him. He didn’t negotiate, he was really hot to get the bike and I set a reasonable price. He paid with a cashier’s check through his credit union, which was a little weird on my end. I had to call them and give them info off the title—I’m sure they were verifying it didn’t have a lien on it and that it actually existed.

Facebook Marketplace for the win, I guess, even though I had to field a couple dozen “I’ll give you $6,000 cash for it, can come get it tonight” messages. Yeah, I bet you would give me six for it, you daffy bastards, it’s probably worth twice that much. It’s nice to not be desperate to sell and have the luxury of plenty of time. It’s one time (at least) that patience has paid off for me.

I’ll call the insurance agent and go to DMV and the bank Monday to close out that era of my life. Even though I know I got the FTR as my mid-life crisis uplift and it was hard on my stinking arthritic knee the past two years, it was surprisingly emotional to say goodbye to the bike. I couldn’t watch him drive away with it in the back of his dad’s truck.

It was—IS!—a great bike. I’ll miss it, but it was also time to sell it.