The tale of the KLR650 buying disaster

"What? I'm sorry!" I yelled in return while frantically cranking the window down in the cab of my rented U-Haul truck. The megaphone on the Secret Service SUV blared more instructions at me as the police officer in front of my truck cleared traffic so I could get away from the nation's capitol building and back to a road I was apparently allowed on. My two friends in the cab with me started to voice concerns about my navigational skills.

I took multiple deep breaths, started spitting a lengthy stream of expletives, and tried my best not to completely lose my mind as I directed a 15-foot box truck through traffic with D.C. cops, Secret Service agents, and my two friends yelling at me. For anyone wondering what it's like to drive a truck through the D.C., I do not recommend it.

The story begins with wanting a motorcycle

I'm a mechanical engineering student at The George Washington University (go Revs!), in downtown Washington. Back home in sunny California, I ride a Kawasaki Ninja 400. I got into motorcycles thanks to my dad and his Triumph Bonneville, and got my motorcycle license at age 17. Motorcycles have been my favorite method of travel by far since. After one semester away from riding, I missed it enough to start hunting for a winter deal.

While listening to my calculus professor explain the meaning behind some wacky math theorem, I found a pretty good deal on a 2014 Kawasaki KLR650, with reasonable mileage, no damage at all, not even a scratch, for $3,000. I quickly did some mental math to see how damaging this would be to my life savings, and then decided that it was an acceptable amount.

I replied to the listing with the classic "Hello, is this still available?" and thought of little else but adventure riding for the rest of my day. An indestructible, cheap, and cool-looking dual-sport was just what the doctor ordered to keep seasonal depression at bay during my first real winter outside California.

After messaging back and forth on Facebook about the KLR650, I learned a few things. One, the bike actually was in fantastic condition. Two, it was unregistered. And three, the man selling it spoke very little to no English. I decided that these were all the makings of a great adventure so I set up a day to check it out.

I needed to tow it, and since I can't rent a normal car due to my age, my options were very limited. After calling U-Haul to confirm that yes, a 19-year-old can rent and drive away in one of their trucks, I looked at their options. The pickup truck and trailer combo looked nice and was financially the best option, but no U-Haul rental centers anywhere near D.C. had pickups available. The only option was a box truck. As a 19-year-old who had never driven in a dense city like Washington before, I saw no obvious flaws to this plan.

On a crisp February Saturday morning at 7 a.m., I found myself on the D.C. Metro with my helmet heading to the rental center. I was excited. If all went as planned, I'd be back on a bike by day's end. But when the nice lady behind the counter told me I needed to call someone to verify my emergency contact number, I was at a loss. It was 8 a.m. on a Saturday morning. Literally nobody I knew was awake. All my friends were college students who rarely rise before lunchtime. I tried calling anyone I knew, but couldn't get a single person to answer the phone, proving the stereotypes about sleepy college students. The rental lady eventually gave in, gave me keys, and told me to get out of there.

Thus began the most stressful day of my college career, so far. The journey started smoothly. I quickly came to grips with the lack of useful rear view mirrors, wide turning circle, and not so great brakes. I drove down the National Mall admiring the Washington Monument, Capitol, and all the museums in the morning light. I have to admit, it's a pretty cool city to live in with all the iconic monuments scattered around. That is until I took a wrong turn and wound up, not at my friends' dorm, but at the U.S. State Department. It's pretty cool to tell my friends back home that our dorms are next door to the State Department, but not so cool when I had to make a 10-point turn in front of the entrance in a large U-Haul with suspicious security guards staring me down. With that embarrassing maneuver out of the way, I made it a couple blocks over to the dorm.

Again, it was still before noon so it took some convincing over the phone to get my friends, Leylani and Malcolm, out of bed and into the truck. I was relying on Leylani's fluent Spanish to complete the sale and Malcolm is just a great guy to have around. Leylani assumed the role of navigator while Malcolm tried his best to fall back asleep.

To be fair, there are multiple signs in front of the Capitol building that say "No Trucks," but since I am unaccustomed to having to pay attention to these types of signs, I missed them. Next thing I knew, multiple police officers were doing their best to prevent the suspicious-looking truck from getting any further. Anxiety levels rose as everyone around me started yelling. All I wanted to do was go get myself a motorcycle! I didn't want to be there in a truck any more than the police wanted me to.

The rest of the drive went smoothly. No more cops, no more wrong turns, and I got a good queue of songs going. Everyone was having a good time. We pulled up to the house of the seller and I got ready to check out this sweet KLR650 adventure bike. The seller immediately recognized Leylani as the only fluent Spanish speaker of the bunch and promptly ignored me and only spoke to her, leaving me to try to pick up pieces of the conversation as she translated. This method of discussion worked well enough and I got ready for a test ride. I put on my helmet and swung my leg over for the first time.

After a short ride I returned beaming.

"This is the happiest I've seen you, man!" Malcolm exclaimed. I didn't realize how much I missed simply riding a motorcycle. After some deliberation I shook the seller's hand, handed over the cash, and got the title and keys to the KLR.

The plan falls apart

Back on campus, I found a dirt parking lot and a construction site where I could ride the KLR around a little, which only made me more excited about going exploring on it. But after seeing firsthand how large the police presence is in D.C., I decided not to risk it until I got insurance and a plate.

Parking on campus is a ridiculously expensive $300 a month, for a motorcycle that doesn't even take up a whole parking spot. So I did what I assume any 19-year-old would do and found a spot where I could stash it, chained up and covered with a tarp, hopefully unnoticed by security.

The DMV went about as well as always. The lady at the desk asked for my D.C. driver's license and I showed her my California one and explained that I was a college student. She said sorry, but she couldn't help me and was about to press the button to call up the next person, but I refused to lose that easily. I asked what she was talking about and she explained that in D.C. you need a D.C. license to register any vehicles, and that unlike some states, D.C. doesn't give any exceptions to students. She said that I can't register the motorcycle in D.C. because I don't have a D.C. license. I can't get a D.C. license because I don't live here permanently.

My hope steadily dissolving, I came to the conclusion that the only way I could register the motorcycle was to register it in California. Only one issue with that plan. California needs to see the bike in person to register it. And California is 2,500 miles away.

Feeling deflated, I walked down to the Georgetown waterfront to call my mom, who suggested I should just cut my losses and sell the bike I had just bought. I sat by the river pretty bummed out for a while trying to think of any other option to keep the motorcycle, but in the end, she was right. There wasn't much I could do. I should just sell it, recover what cash I could, and move on.

I walked back to my dorm, took a bunch of pictures of the KLR, which I had hoped would go on my Instagram, but were now listed on Facebook Marketplace for $3,500. I played my guitar for a while with visions of what could have been adventurous camping trips, exploratory missions to dirt trails, and walking into class with a motorcycle helmet in hand.

I don't know what the future holds, but the memories of that test ride and my brief ride on dirt are enough to keep me going for now, until I can find a way to ride here full-time.