Dirty Ed, my best buddy at Autoville, sold me his R50/2. It was a decision that molded the next ten years. The frame of the Beemer was black, and the tank was rattle can blue. Eddie called it The Bruise. And bruised I was, after wrecking it. And after rebuilding it, and then blowing the engine, and rebuilding it again, I quit the VW shop and went to work for Cycle City, a BMW motorcycle dealership.

For me it was the golden age of turning wrenches. I had found a home. Here’s a snapshot of my family:

Fritz, the owner. Tall and Teutonic, black hair, black brows, black eyes framed with black glasses. The ultimate gearhead.

Mrs. Fritz, blonde and petite. She kept one eye on the books, and the other on Fritz.

John, the parts man. Avuncular, with a damaged leg and pronounced limp--a memento of an unpleasant experience in Belgium in the late autumn of ‘44. He had the parts book in his head.

Dan, the shop foreman. A short guy who stood by the dutch door of the service area, at a lectern which held the schedule. Dan, grinning broadly, liked to boast how his twin gats could cover a football field in seconds, from his station aboard a HUEY.   

Ray, a mechanic. A graduate of Metropolitan Delivery Service, which operated a fleet of BMW mounted couriers. I could write another story about Cheryl, who also rode for Metro. Ray went on to become a cabinet maker.

Pete, a mechanic. A hulking country boy, from somewhere down county. PG County, astride DC, was indeed country. At his home one evening, he got me high and gave me a headset, and put on a new album. Linda Ronstadt, round my door, the leaves are turning. Oh, that face on the album jacket.

Kevin, a mechanic. Pleasing two women is difficult, so Kevin asked me to go out with April, May and himself. We heard some music and went back to their place to get high. Kevin went to bed with April and left some coke for me and May. She had dark hair and dark eyes. She could have been named June. It was bitter cold, and a long two-wheel ride home. She asked, is there anything I can do for you? But I had not been able to find a way to talk to her, really talk, so I bundled up and left. I had an Air Force style jacket with a fur collar, so the ride home was really not that bad.  

Others, including a two-stroke guy, a part timer whose hobbies were wine, reds, and larceny, and an old guy with a push-broom mustache and a Texas drawl, who uncrated and assembled the new bikes. Of course in every bike shop there is some kid who works for peanuts, whose responsibilities seem to be doing burnouts and wheelies on customers’ bikes the length of the parking lot. 

One time, after we finished a couple of tune ups, Kevin challenged me to a race. Jamming down Suitland Road, we heard a siren. We flew back to the shop, and Kevin made it up the ramp and out of sight before the cruiser came around the corner. Not me. It hardly made a difference, however, because I had already racked up enough points for revocation, with several to spare. A whole nother story.

All day the radio played WHFS, where all the disc jockeys were freaks. On the late afternoon show, artists like Jesse Colin Young, Lowell George, and Leo Kottke would drop in and perform.

By that time the mechanics were usually stoned. Once I ate some hash for lunch, which seemed to have no effect. I was assigned to overhaul the engine of a dinky little two stroke. I got the engine ready to pull. Disconnected the cables, linkage, exhaust and drive chain. Finally I removed the mounting bolts - but I had neglected to disconnect the fuel line. As the engine swung to and fro from its little rubber hose, dribbling gasoline, it left glittering tracers in its path. That might have been the only time I was too stoned to work.

Even so, I had become the ace BMW guy. So it was fitting that I got the new R75/5 from a highly regarded customer, who complained about a wobble above 100 mph. There was something about Beemers that was inherently unsteady at high speeds. I think it might have been something to do with the axial rotation of the crankshaft. I checked out everything I could think of associated with stability: wheels, tires, steering bearings, alignment. Then I put on my jacket and helmet and took the bike out for a test ride.

It was a moonless, late autumn evening, already dark. I got on the two-lane leading into town, where I could open up the throttle. Rush hour traffic was streaming toward me, but the inbound lane was clear. At about 125 mph, I took my hands off the bars--no wobble. At that instant, a few hundred yards ahead, an oncoming car pulled into my lane to pass, nearly blinding me. In a nanosecond I whipped the bike over to the right. All I remember is slinging gravel, plowing through bushes, then slowing down and finally stopping on tall grass. Miraculously I was upright, and the bike was intact.

It’s only after the event that you feel the residual adrenalin, your trip-hammering heart. The next morning I rode back to the site, and realized I had passed between two closely spaced signposts. Like Odysseus shooting the treacherous straits, my own Athena had guided my path. She has intervened several more times since.