The Hope Diamond. The Tomb Of Tutankhamen. The Amityville Horror. Notorious, terrible curses, all of them.

Well, you can add my Goldwing to the list.

Oh, I brought the curse on myself. If I had left the damned thing stock, I probably would have put 100,000 miles on her. Everyone knows Gold Wings, built in good ole Marysville, Ohio, are bullet proof. But I wanted to "improve" my bike.

A famous curse of ancient Chinese origin goes: "May Your Every Wish Be Granted."

Last fall, it became clear that my girlfriend of four years, graduating medical school this spring, would be moving outside the Tri State area to do her residency. She had pretty much set her hopes on (and was accepted to) UVA in Charlottesville, Virginia. Which I wholeheartedly supported, given the hospital's proximity to that asphalt ribbon of motorcycling Nirvana, the Blue Ridge Parkway.

Unfortunately, I wouldn't be moving to VA with her, as I'm stuck here in New York working at a startup. Dropping my career to head to Charlottesville without gainful employment would have to wait a while.

So while she started worrying about the pressures of maintaining a long distance relationship, three years of 75-hour workweeks, a new home, and long-term exposure to communicable diseases, I told her everything would be okay. Inside though, my emotions were a raging sea of turmoil and indecision, with many late nights spent seeking guidance in books, magazines, and various forums on the Internet. I just couldn't arrive at a middle ground that would help ease the separation... just what bike was I gonna buy that would make for a good ride on visits between New York and Charlottesville?

A bike with bags, that had good wind and weather protection, could do 400 miles without breaking a sweat, and still make me smile when I twisted the loud grip? I wanted the one bike that did everything well.

I have often been accused by riding buddies of having P.E.S. (Peter Egan Syndrome), whereby you acquire and sell motorcycles on a frequent, revolving basis, using the sale proceeds from your most recent, now tarnished love to finance your next two-wheeled whimsy. Friends who I don't see for a few weeks will call and inquire, "So, what are you riding these days?"

The 999 had been purchased at the tail end of a "quick, put a leather-belt in his mouth" moto-mental fit. That fit began with a KTM 950 which was superb (but too tall and off road biased) but sold to finance a Multistrada 1000 S -- lovely Ohlins legs and the Dual Spark motor (but let's face it, always a "6 beer" kind of bike in the looks department). I took the Multi to a Keith Code school at Pocono Raceway, conquering Pennsylvanian potholes (y'know - the big ones, on the track) and surprised myself at how well that bike worked there. But they don't make race bodywork for Multistradas, and I had been bitten by the track bug pretty hard, so I sold the best Ducati streetbike I ever owned to finance a leftover 2005 999.

Now this was a bike you could set up for the track. I bought rearsets, race glass, windshield, Termis ... you name it. And it was awesome there, super fast, stable, visceral, gorgeous, all the things an Italian Superbike should be. But quite like using the freeze-frame function on your DVD remote to view that Heather Graham scene in Boogie Nights, the 999 was a bike made for special, naughty moments. There was no way I was going to be able to use this bike to ride 360 odd miles one way to Virginia. After less than a year of ownership, the 999 had to go. In it's place, I purchased an attractive deep metallic blue 2007 Gold Wing ABS with Nav. It was everything I wished for.

The '07 was actually the second 1800cc Goldwing I've owned. I had a 2003, put 10,000 miles on it and sold it to a guy in Washington State. The '07 had a host of updates that seemed appealing versus my old bike - integrated NAV, vented windshield, foot warming vents, more visible instruments. Most importantly, my '03 had been a gaudy bright metallic orange, a color I chose purely to offend my riding buddies. They took to calling me "Huggy Bear" during the time I owned the bike, and when, on Halloween morning I went out to my bike and found some neighborhood kids had written "Pimp Pumpkin" in shaving cream down the side of the bike, I decided to sell her.

At least that's how I remember it.

I bought my brand new blue '07 GL from a local dealer on Long Island. I got a good price on it, enough to violate one of the mortal sins of motorcycling -- that being, "if a dealer really screws you on something, do not ever buy another motorcycle from them. Or even a can of chain lube." The dealer, a real bunch of champs, had lightly damaged a new bike I bought from them about ten years ago during prep, and didn't tell me about it. When I got the bike home into my well-lit garage, I noticed the damage and called the dealer immediately to report it. Although I had handed them a check for $10,000 literally 20 minutes earlier, the owner told me that I must have damaged it and he wouldn't even discuss it. So although I bought and sold many bikes over the next ten years, I made sure not to set foot in that dealership -- for a decade.

But this was 2006, and the deal they had on new GL1800's were too good to pass up. So I made my first big mistake with this bike, and broke my pledge. Cue the scene in the beginning of the black and white movie where the plague ship ties up to the dock, and deadly vermin scurries down the ropes into the doomed town....

And as I handed them the $20,000 check for the '07, there was plenty of congenial backslapping and the requisite mumbling of "Ride safe!" as I rolled out of their lot. Truth be told, although I had forgotten exactly why I fell out of love with my 2003, it all came flooding back five minutes into my first ride on my '07.

There was just no way I was going to settle with the fried-banana-sandwich-eating-Elvis suspension of the stock GL1800, not after coming off the '68 Comeback Special-esque handling of the 999. I was going to fix it.

After perusing the Gold Wing owner boards, the consensus seemed to be that Traxxion Dynamics had the best cocktail for addressing the GL's handling problems (short of hiring Nicky Hayden to ride it for me). They basically replace the fork internals with a much higher quality, dual cartridge setup, and rebuild/retune the rear shock. The nearest factory authorized Traxxion installer was Motovation Cycles in Maryland, so I gave them a buzz, got a quote for about $2500 (!) including an improved steering head bearing setup & a fork brace, made the appointment and headed to MD.

I dropped off my GL and the proprietor, Dan Kenney, was nice enough to let me take out his personal Traxxion modified bike for a day's ride while his shop performed the work. I was impressed. The bike steered much faster, felt more controlled yet compliant, highly confidence inspiring -- just what you expect from high dollar suspension mods. The only thing I didn't like was the somewhat tight feeling of the steering head bearings in Dan's bike, but Dan assured me that you adapted to it. One of Dan's guys had test ridden my bike and given it the thumbs up. I saddled up and headed off on the chilly ride back to New York, thankful for the GL's heated seat and handgrips.

As I made my way north, I noticed the same tight feeling in the steering head, which made the bike hesitant to turn. I convinced myself that it just needed miles to bed in, that I needed to get used to the new feel of the bike. By the time I hit the Verrazano Bridge, I knew something was really wrong.

As I exited the bridge into a low speed, left hand decreasing radius turn, the bike simply would not turn left, and stood up forcefully. It took all my might not to crash into the concrete wall surrounding the turn, I was hanging off the Wing like famous elbow-dragging 250 GP rider Jean Philippe Ruggia. This was like the stage in those exorcism movies where swarms of flies gather on your bedroom window, and the faucets only dispense thick black water - but you aren't ready to sell the house or call in the Priest just yet.

Needless to say, I was pretty bent having parted company with 2500 beans to end up with a bike that "didn't do lefts". I called Dan first thing in the morning, and he was hugely apologetic. It turns out the shop's test loop, which they have since changed, only featured right hand turns. I sure wasn't too excited about the prospect of riding back to MD, but before I could say another word, Dan told me that he was going to drive five hours to my house to fix the problem himself, and was leaving when his shop closed. When I booked the job, he had made a point of telling me that Motovation stood behind their work, but I never expected this outstanding level of commitment to that pledge.

Dan arrived at 9:00 a.m. with a truck full of tools, headed into my garage, and started to disassemble my bike. An hour later, he emerged and acknowledged that the steering head bearings were tightened beyond spec, that he had been over the entire bike and checked everything. All that was left was a test ride.

Dan had lived on Long Island years ago, left before the housing boom and all the SUVs piloted by urgent baboons showed up. I handed over my gloves and helmet, we laughed at the contrast to quiet Maryland, and he headed off. Dark clouds formed overhead, a wind picked up, and a light drizzle began as I watched the taillights shrink, driving up the street. Ten, fifteen, twenty minutes, went by. A half hour later, I was starting to get a bit nervous. 30 minutes was a long test ride. Where was Dan?

My cell phone chimed loudly, I looked at the display and saw it was Dan. I answered, "Dan ... Hey, what's up man? Where are you?"

Dan (obviously shaken): "Jim ... I've been hit by a car. The cops are here. Can you come right away?" In the background, I swear I could hear hushed, gothic chantings in Latin.

I hurried to the scene to find, thankfully, both rider and motorcycle only lightly bruised. A young woman had blindly pulled out into traffic; Dan, no doubt thankful for years of roadracing experience, muscled the GL out of the way and just grazed her. The saddlebag was cracked, and there was minor rash down the whole right side of the bike. The cops wrote everything down and told me it was the woman's fault. I rode the bike back to my place while Dan drove my truck. Dan felt absolutely awful about what happened, despite my assurances that it wasn't his fault. I was just glad he wasn't hurt.

Dan insisted that he'd fix my bike at a major discount, all I needed to do was get it down to him in Maryland. But first, the insurance company needed to look at it.

Ahh, the insurance company. They had recently blitzed the bike mags with two page spreads featuring jejune nubiles astride tricked out choppers; an ad campaign which just screamed competency. Their claims adjuster showed up, shook my hand and opened the meeting with "I don't really know anything about bikes." After circling the GL 10 or 12 times and scribbling in his notebook, he grumbled something about needing to look at a parts list, said he'd call the next day, and left. One week later, having received no call, I got in touch with customer service, which advised me to wait longer for his quote, which I did.

Another week went by, still nothing. Finally, three weeks later, I was told that the company had not been able to locate the adjuster, and were not in fact sure that he still worked for them. He seemed to be missing ... perhaps discarded in many small garbage bags along the Long Island Expressway.

I spoke to another adjuster named Chas who was helpful, and told me I had to get the bike down to a dealer for an estimate. Dan already had the parts in stock for me in Maryland, but I needed the estimate done in NY State -- where the incident took place -- so I could get the claim paid. It sounded reasonable, so I called the dealer I bought the bike from and asked for an estimate. "No problem!" they responded, between doughy chews of garlic knots -- they had this thing for garlic knots, always offering them to me when I dropped by the shop. The dealer picked up the bike from my folks house, as I was out of town on business. They gave my 63-year-old Mom some papers to sign, and handed her a numbered claim ticket stub as a receipt.

Fast forward three weeks, the adjuster calls to say the estimate was approved -- close to 3 grand. Wow, a lot for a saddlebag and some scratches, I thought to myself. I knew Dan was going to be able to do the job much cheaper, so I started to think of the farkles I could add to the GL with the leftover scratch from the settlement. Then the dealer, who still had the bike after performing the estimate, called me. "Hey Buddy!" he chuckled bubblishly. "Your bike is all fixed!"

What? I responded. What do mean it's fixed?

"It's good as new. We repaired it and you owe us 3 grand."

But I only wanted an estimate, I said.

"Hey, we don't waste our time doing estimates around here," he swinishly sneered. "We fixed it and you authorized us to do it. It was signed for. I have a copy of the work order."

I signed nothing of the sort, I retorted. I yelled and screamed and stamped my feet. I told him this was sleazy, that he should have called me. I never gave him a verbal and we never discussed it. I'd sue him, I'd tell the world, I'd go on the Internet, go on a hunger strike. I called him names, I foamed at the mouth.

I wouldn't be able to take care of Dan's offer to fix the bike at a discount. But nothing was gonna change things. Why? Because in a modern version of "no-tickee-no-laundry", the paper my mom signed had some small print, which in fact authorized them to perform a repair. Not exactly cricket, as the English would say, but we did sign it -- even if we hadn't been provided with a copy. So now I owed this dealer 3 grand.

Maybe I'm paranoid, but I swore I could hear he and his minions laughing in the background as he told me they were going to start charging me a storage fee of $25 per day. Their laughter was unsettling, mocking my impotence. The speedy, helium voices conjured visions of slaves dwarves from the movie Phantasm, who, just like the champs at this dealership, were all stubby and had eyes that were too close together. They had my damned bike... I had to go back and get it! But first I needed 3 grand.

I called the adjuster Chas, who was surprised at how things transpired, and he promised get the check processed within a week -- and tell the dealer to drop the storage fees. Once the dealer knew he was getting paid, everything cooled down and I made nice. Three weeks went by, no check. Highly frustrated, I called Chas again to ask for help. Where was my money? Turns out the curse had struck again. The woman who processed claim payments in this area had taken a leave of absence for "personal reasons".

"The same reasons that make you write messages to aliens in your own poop on the office wall?" I asked Chas. He shuddered knowingly and apologized that my paperwork had gone into a black hole.

"Man," he said. "You sure are having some bad luck with this bike. You might want to think about selling it after you get that claims check."

I thought about it. Could this bike be cursed? Seems like it had been giving me nothing but aggravation almost since I bought it. But none of that had been the bike's fault, I told myself. It was just a series of mishaps and people not following through. This is like the point in the horror movie when the audience is literally yelling at the screen "get out of the house, moron!" My girlfriend agreed, sell it quick, she said, it's bad luck. I asked my brother, who showed me how to ride, what he thought about the bike being cursed. He told me straight up that I should sell it right away, before I hurt myself on it. But I wasn't convinced. A cursed bike? Mumbo jumbo.

So the dealer finally got paid, all $3000 dollars worth of list price parts and labor to fix my lightly damaged Gold Wing. He told me he'd have it cleaned and ready for me to pick up at 11:00am, so my girlfriend drove me to the shop.

It had been months since I had seen the bike, and I was excited to put the bad luck behind me. We arrived to the dealership at 11:30, and the manager seemed surprised to see us. He put his garlic knot down, wiped greasy hands on his button down shirt, and shook my hand, which stunk like garlic all day. I faintly remembered the Christian myth that said that when Satan left the Garden Of Eden, garlic arose in his left footprint, onion in his right. I signed the release papers, feeling slightly defeated, but with acceptance, and a slight smell of sulphur in my nostrils.

"One second," he said, "We're just getting it ready." They rolled my GL around front, and it was dripping wet. It had been shot with a hose, not dried. The repairs looked to have been done properly -- for 3 grand, I hoped they were. Stubby the Manager slapped me on my back and said "Good luck with it", then walked back inside. I fired up the bike, and the idle leaped high in response, settling down after a minute or two. I pulled in the clutch lever, and kicked her down into first.

Right away, the engine died.

I tried refiring her, but it just cranked and cranked. Then I saw the gas gauge. It was below "E". She was dead empty. My girlfriend watched in puzzlement as I hopped off the bike and started pushing it. Luckily there was a gas station next door. I could have asked Stubby for a splash of gas, but there was no way I was going back inside that dealership ever again, not unless I was carrying something with a 30 round banana clip.

There was a slight upgrade into the station, which seemed as surmountable as the north face of Eiger, pushing the 800 pound GoldWing up to the pump. It was hot and I felt stricken. I was wearing all my gear but thankfully not my helmet, as I put the GL on the sidestand and sang breakfast. I looked at my refection in the puddle of cheerios and coffee, and it seemed to be saying, "Are you done with this bike yet, sport? Or do you need a little more bad luck?"

I reached over to the gas pump, dipped my ATM card, and the LCD display replied "PUMP OUT OF SERVICE".

OK, that's it I said. I'm done. This Blue Bitch has to go.

I sold the 1,000 mile bike pretty quickly on Ebay, pricing it so low I felt like I was giving it away. But I was glad.

I had a new bike on order, a 2007 KTM 990 Superduke. I decided to look at the whole affair in a "glass half full" kind of way. Maybe I just wasn't meant to stop riding performance bikes just yet. Maybe the whole thing had happened just to teach me a lesson, to be happy with that I have, a lesson about gratitude. The KTM was quite a contrast to the GL. I sure wouldn't be riding it to Charlottesville. I decided I'd just drive my truck instead.

The Blue Ridge Parkway isn't going anywhere. The 990 SD is snappy and angry and goes on her side so fast, I'm going to put knee sliders on my asscheeks just to be safe. And it weighs about 387 pounds less than a GL1800, so despite the fact that it's bright orange, I should be able to easily outrun those kids with shaving cream next Halloween. My Nightmare on Elm Street was over.

EPILOGUE: Everyone who's ever seen a horror movie knows that there's never a happy, safe ending. Jason comes out of the lake and pulls the girl out of the canoe, Michael Myers gets shot and falls over, then sits bolt upright, picks up the knife & starts chasing you again. And so it is with my bike nightmare, apparently.

This morning, I went out to fire up my Superduke, which has only 400 miles on her. Birds were chirping, the sun was shining, and under my shiny new motorcycle was a puddle of thick black goo. Motor Oil. I dropped my keys in shock, threw my head back in anguish, and a scream came forth from a primal place, deep within my heart....

End credits roll.

(Note: As the story above is 99% true, some names have been changed to protect the guilty.)