Motorbike shops were as common as soup stands in a city where rush hour was a congested knot of two-wheeled traffic. The first shop owner circled the bike twice, beeped its horn and sadly shook his head. Private citizens were forbidden to own a bike larger than 150cc, he told us. Jay's 450 would need a custom rack, several sizes larger than the Russian 125's or German 100's that clogged the streets. He directed us to his brother in old Chinatown.

The second shop had no rack, nor did the third, fourth, or fifteenth. I no longer needed to apply my sagging mental resources to translate for Jay. I simply watched the mechanic's hand creep out, almost of its own accord, and answer on his behalf. If he held it palm to the ground and wiggled it then the outlook was grim, no matter how long he told us to wait or who had the keys to the storage shack. But the potential information went well beyond a simple no. Did the callused fingers flutter like a butterfly's wings or roll gently like a wallowing buffalo? Did they hover below the shoulder or, heaven forbid, careen about at ear level? One hand held medium height, twitching like a heartbeat, meant Honda racks were unavailable in the immediate vicinity or perhaps anywhere in the city. Both hands held away from the body and jerking spasmodically were clearly pointing at Thailand and the United States.

By mid-afternoon even Jay was willing to adulterate his Classic Machine with a simple welded rack and had gone so far as to procure a couple of curved bars. The first shop owner turned them over mournfully and shook his head. They were the wrong shape. There was no place to weld them. He gripped one bar and tried, unsuccessfully, to bend the sturdy metal. They weren't nearly strong enough, he said. And his men were busy, it would take at least three days.

We made the rounds, again. By now even the unflappable Marlboro man was beginning to flap. At last we returned in defeat to the first shop. Five days, he told us. We argued.

One week later, we were ready to go.