Before too long, the bro attitude and anti-social performance of the GSXR overwhelmed my milquetoastitude. I still figured I’d enjoy riding, so when a co-worker mentioned that her husband was thinking about selling his old BMW, I found the money (not much as I recall), and took ownership of nearly the polar opposite of the GSXR. It also took me out of the sports bike arms race I saw developing in my social circle.

I think the bike had been continually in service since it was manufactured when I got it around 1994. It had its share of mild battle scars, but nothing too serious. It came with two seats: a solo seat that I believe came off a Harley, and the big two up touring seat. I also came with a mammoth fiberglass front faring. I swapped between the seats, generally preferring comfort of the touring seat. The faring mostly stayed in the garage. It also came with a spare gearbox, which accompanied the faring in the garage. And the key was a metal spike. I think I got a replacement fancy key with the black bakelite tab on it, but really, it just needed a spike to start.

I rode it up to Dallas for my brother’s wedding. Turns out 26 horsepower was enough to haul a weekend’s worth of luggage, and my own substantial ass up I-35 at a comfortable yet modest pace. I met up with some of the wedding party at a bar in Deep Ellum. My sister wanted to ride on the back when we left to the hotel in North Dallas. So I tickled the Bings, give the sidestep kick, and up we Central Expressway we flew. Or crawled. With my brother and his rowdy groomsmen in the car behind me, I had the throttle pinned when I noticed the the blinking amber lights of the 18 wheeler behind me indicating it intended to occupy the space I was using to chug up the freeway. So I pinned the throttle even more, hunched over, and got in the trucks line of sight. Postponed the tragedy for another day.

The bike was a joy around town, like riding a flatulent rhinoceros. Or a flatulent rhinoceros beetle. The floated around, bapbapbapping up and own hills, and over bumps. The heavy Earles-forked front end and the ancient springs in the touring seat rolled over potholes and speed bumps like a slug over a stone. The barely adequate brakes was the only let down.

I wasn’t alone in thinking it was a cool bike. I remember pulling up to the old Black Cat on 6th. As I walked up to the club, the doorman said “nice bike” and let me in without having to pay cover.

The only off-bike experience I had was making a right turn onto Yeager from north bound N. Lamar coming back from lunch. The aftermarket handlebars decided to let go, and snapped between the risers, and I did a slo-mo tumble off the road. I finessed it back to the parking garage, and was able to rig something up to hold the bars in place on the way home.

It was a shaft drive, so I delayed my lessons in chain maintenance again. I did oil changes and valve adjustments and cable lubrication. It was a joy on this simple machine that was designed for maintenance. I remember marveling at how the throttle cables worked. It did have some chronic problem (I can’t recall what, exactly) and sought professional help. A friend was working at a machine shop run by an ex-pat kiwi up in Round Rock. The kiwi’s hobby was running his unfared two-engined Kawasaki at Speed Week in the Bonneville Salt Flats. I looked him up a while back, and he still held a record there. He fixed it, and I chugged home a happy customer.

The BMW was there for me when I was having my Jacob wrestling with God moments, my brain disjointed from my soul, and when I felt lost. I stumbled down from my upstairs apartment on Shelley Ave to the covered parking where the bike was one morning and saw a kitchen knife and a coil of rope placed behind the BMW’s back wheel. Today, I might see it as misplaced items, but that morning it was an augury of unknown meaning. A week later, in the morning as I saddled up the BMW, I turned on the headlight and saw a dozen pairs of eyes staring back at me in from the hedge. I stared back at Mamma Raccoon and her children before they vanished into the neighbor’s yard. This also meant something, but I still can’t figure it out. I’m sure the universe is desperately trying tell me thing to this day, but I am blinded by my own self to notice.

I think I sold it back to the man I bought it from, and bought it back from him, and then sold it finally to a third party. I’d like to ride one again, maybe own one. Sure, I click the “Watch the Listing” when they come up for sale, but the /2s that survived all seem too clean, too fancy, and kinda ridiculous, all cleaned up. /2s are like jeans, and my taste is for an honestly worn comfortable pair rather than bright blue denim, creased and cuffed.