I didn't sleep. Not a wink. Outside in my Phoenix garage, under a soft cotton cover, sat Bertie. My 1978 BMW R100/7. I'd rebuilt him from a rusty skeleton. I knew the sound of his valves better than my own heartbeat. Now, because of a job I couldn't turn down, I was sending him away on a truck to Seattle. It felt like sending a kid to summer camp in a foreign country. What if they didn't understand he was fragile? What if they strapped him down too tight, or not tight enough? The phrase motorcycle transport made me think of big metal crates and forklifts. This wasn't shipping a box of books. This was trusting a stranger with a piece of my soul on two wheels.
The Phone Calls That Made It Worse
The next morning, I started calling. The first place sounded like a boiler room. "Yeah, we ship bikes," a guy said, chewing on something. "We'll throw it on a pallet." Throw it. I hung up. Another company had a price that was suspiciously cheap. My buddy Dave, a mechanic, warned me, "Cheap means they cram it in with washing machines and hope for the best." I pictured Bertie next to a dented refrigerator, vibrating for fourteen hundred miles. I was spiraling. How do you find someone who cares? I wasn't just looking to book auto transport; I was looking for a foster parent for a mechanical family member.
Salvation in a Pixelated Forum Photo
That's when I went down the rabbit hole of the Airhead Owners Forum. I posted a question, my words tinged with panic. The replies didn't come with ads; they came with stories. Guys named Pete and Carl who'd been there. One user posted a photo of his own bike, strapped snugly inside a gleaming white enclosed trailer, looking cleaner than the day he bought it. "Use an enclosed auto carrier," the caption read. "Find a broker who gets it." They talked about brokers like they were wise village elders. The advice was unanimous: Pay more for the enclosed trailer. It's not a luxury; it's a necessity. The road grime alone on an open trailer would break your heart.
Sandra, the Voice on the Phone
I called the broker the forum recommended. A woman named Sandra answered. Her voice was calm, like a librarian's. She didn't rush. She asked me questions no one else had. "What's the exact model? Is it currently running or is it a non-runner? Can you send me three photos from different angles?" She explained she was a matchmaker. Her job was to find my bike a spot in a small, specialized trailer owned by a professional carrier, not a giant cross-country rig. She was looking for a driver who treated his truck like a rolling sanctuary. When she said, "We'll treat him like our own," I believed her. For the first time, the process to book auto transport felt like a plan, not a gamble.
Ray and His Rolling Cathedral
Sandra found Ray. He called me two days later. "I hear you've got a fine old Beemer," he said, his voice a warm Southern drawl. He told me about his trailer—a climate-controlled, air-ride suspension "rolling cathedral" he used only for classics and high-end cars. He described his soft nylon straps and wheel chocks. "We'll blanket her. She won't even know she's traveling." The morning he arrived, he was exactly on time in a spotless truck. He did something that sealed the deal for me: he wiped down his own gloves before touching the bike. We filled out a condition report together, noting every tiny stone chip I already knew about. His care was a quiet promise.
The Longest Week and a Text Message
Watching Ray's taillights disappear down the street was one of the hardest things I've done. For a week, I was useless. I checked a tracking link Sandra provided, watching a little icon crawl across a map of the Southwest. Then, a text from a Nevada number. It was Ray. "Stopped for the night. Bertie's snug. Here's a picture." Attached was a photo inside the dark trailer. A single work light shone on the bike, still wrapped in its padded blanket, strapped securely in a sea of empty space. It looked peaceful. I saved that picture. It was the moment my knots started to loosen.
The Seattle Garage and a Handshake
Ray pulled up to my new place in Seattle in a drizzle. He backed the trailer right to the garage door. When he opened it, the bike was exactly as he'd left it. We did the condition report again. Not a new mark, not a new smudge. He helped me roll Bertie into the dry garage. "Give her a good ride when this rain passes," he said, shaking my hand. I tried to tip him. He shook his head. "Just take care of her." The relief was so total it felt like a new kind of tiredness. The journey to book auto transport had been a journey in trust, and it had landed right here, perfectly.
How to Ship Your Heart on Two Wheels
So if you're staring at your bike, dreading a move, listen. Don't call the first flashy ad. Your machine isn't a commodity. Find your tribe online—the forum for your brand. Listen to their hard-earned advice. Find a broker who asks for pictures. Demand an enclosed trailer. You're not just paying for miles; you're paying for the driver who sends you a photo from Nevada to say goodnight. The right way to book auto transport for a motorcycle is to find the people who see the soul behind the steel. It costs more. But the peace of mind, the first time you kick the engine over in your new city and hear that familiar rumble, is absolutely priceless.
