AmSnow.com is now SnoWest.com
Paul followed my lead into the overgrown gravel parking lot. I got off my bike and proceeded to inspect the old SLs.
The first thing that struck me was that these things had been sitting there a long time. They were weathered and the motors were long-since locked up. The second question I had was "why?"
Certainly an old SL351 is not the most coveted collector's piece in snowmobiling history, but a pretty rare find nonetheless. And to have two old SLs sitting side by side seemed rather odd. Surely a collector would have at least heard of these and tried to nab them. Perhaps the owner drove too hard a bargain.
Upon further inspection I realized that I was standing in front of the old Yamaha dealership where these sleds were probably originally sold. A faded dealer sticker on the engine of one of the sleds confirmed this.
The dealership was comprised of a pretty small pale beige metal building with three overhead doors of varying size and color across the front. No big fancy showroom windows, no neon, the walk-in door didn't even have a window in it. Still screwed to the outside of the building underneath the roof overhang was a faded old plywood sign with a barely visible "Yamaha" painted diagonally across the face.
My mind rolled and instantly I was taken back to scenes from yesterday.
Imagine walking in the door of this establishment in the winter of 1970. No heat-sensing door chime to announce your presence, just the cold rush of air into the poorly heated space and the relentless slam of the heavy metal door. Where was the cute, blond receptionist/greeter with a wink and smile? That hadn't been invented by some marketing consultant yet. Your nostrils would flare at the smell of Hills Brother's Coffee, 80W-90 gear oil, and the leftover aroma of 2-stroke exhaust. No clean cut salesperson in an embroidered polo shirt and khaki pants. No satellite radio system piped in with some heavy metal dirge churning away, but rather the sound of Conway Twitty snarling from an old AM radio in the office. The owner and salesman is out delivering a sled to a customer, but Wally the mechanic can help you. Hell, he sold just as many sleds as the owner did last month.
Man, have times changed.
Oil-stained, uneven concrete floors and green berber carpet with battery acid holes have been replaced by shiny terrazzo and ceramic tile so clean you could eat off it. Mechanics are barricaded and hidden away in "Service Departments" for fear that someone might actually try and garner some free advice from a $75 an hour asset. Stores require cleaning companies to come in on the weekend just to keep the place presentable. And little metal buildings have been replaced by gleaming boutique stores, filled to the rafters with shiny new toys.
Do I want to go back? I don't know.
It's just that sometimes I think it would be fun and a hell of a lot more interesting to prop an arm up on a greasy workbench and let Wally sell me a new sled. No robotic salesperson, no finance and insurance department, no mirrored delivery area, just a free cup of Hills Brothers and a calloused handshake from Wally.