In 2013 I was trying to convince my folks to move closer to me, and bought a car that would be large, comfortable, easy to get in and out of with a large back seat. I also wanted something fun to drive.
Consider others?
Obvious alternatives at the time were some sort of Charger, or a Chevy SS. The Chevy SS wasn’t that much more, and there was a Peacock green one nearby. In retrospect, I probably should have looked closer at it. Chargers were everywhere, and I didn’t dig how their jibs were cut.
What was it like to buy?
Pretty wretched experience, but a typical Ford dealership thing. I really wanted a green one, but couldn’t find one in 300 miles. I found a deal on a black one, took it for a test drive, and did the horrendously long deal. The last time I did dealer financing. I don’t enjoy negotiating – it bores me. It took forever, but I finally drove it home, ploughing through I-35 like a slick black steam shovel.
Was it fun to drive?
Sometimes. The 3.5 Ecoboost V6 is really a great engine, and was plenty to move the beast down the road. Handling was acceptable. It never felt squirrelly, nor did it beg to take corners at speed. The big let down was the antiquated transmission, which felt pokey in anything but sport mode, and even then, it was a bit pokey.
It was a great road trip car. Though the front seats were snugger than you’d expect for a car of the SHO’s girth, it was comfy, quiet, good enough stereo, and seats that would heat, cool, and message your back end.
The Ford often wedged itself into a spot in the Texas Oncology garage. Like most black cars, stunning the first half hour after cleaning.
It was by a considerable measure the largest and widest car I’ve owned, or will ever own. Parking was a hassle, especially with the wide doors. On surface roads, I felt like I was taking up a lane and a half, ready to clip mirrors with oncoming traffic. Most of that is likely that I spent most of my adult life in hatchbacks, but the Taurus was portly.
Memorable drives?
I made plenty of trips to Midland to visit the folks. It’s the Austin – Burnet – Llano – Brady – San Angelo – Sterling City path that was burned into my neurons since the late 80s. The Taurus was made for the trip, with the creature comforts and adaptive cruise. That route is best run starting out from Austin around 3:00 pm on a Friday afternoon. As the sun goes down (before you hit the Permian Basin proper) you seen the blooms of halogen lights illuminating small town high school football games between the seas of cotton. Then you hit the big darkness once you turn on 158 at Sterling City, with flares of gas released from deep underground and tumbleweeds messing with your highway hypnotitude.
My wife drove it the first leg out of Fort Worth in the snow. She said it handled fine.
The SHO came equipped with the self parking party trick. I only used it a couple of times, but once was with my in-laws in the back seat, so it was cool in the dorkiest way possible.
How about them recalls?
My gosh that thing was being recalled over and over and over again. Like some other Fords I had, it was a good idea, pretty good drive train, but was just stapled together wrong. Beside the recalls, the b-pillar light up touch pad that lets you get in without your keys? The SHO decided to eject that piece while I was barreling down the highway, but the piece still hung on by its power line, whacking itself to death on the rear door. I got flashbacks to that malfunction when I saw the new Mach-E has the same gizmo. Man, I think it should have just stayed on the Crown Vics and Town Cars.
Branded with both Sony and Microsoft. Sounded pretty good though.
Any diecasts?
Well, of course. I’ve a couple of Hot Wheels of the black Taurus, and a bigger one that was a tie in to Men In Black III.
Any regrets?
Not really, sort of. My dad made fun of the car the first time I drove it to see them in Midland. Maybe he was just a GM guy, maybe the wheels did look a little ridiculous, maybe he decided he was never going to move, and that he was going to die in Midland. And he did. It’s complicated. And not entirely the Taurus’ fault.
Replaced with?
Having learned little about Fords, my post-chemotherapy present to myself was a 2017 Ford Focus RS.
Overall, not bad. As I write this, they are number 3 in the nation in baseball, runners up in volleyball. And with boring regularity, swimming champions.
Poorly timed action shot, or side effects of the vaccine?
Tuesday night, the Baseball ‘horns powered through their second COVID vaccinations to snag a victory from not really rivals University of the Immaculate Word (they were the Cardinals, but I was disappointed their mascot was a bird and not, you know, a cardinal). I had not been to UFCU Disch-Falk Field before, and baseball in the late stage pandemic was slightly trippy. I’m not a fan of crowds, so a Tuesday night non-conference game against a opponent with a losing record with limited seating and a rain forcast was my ideal visit to the Disch. It did get spooky, at times, and it only increased in the later innings as intermittent rain thinned out the already sparse herd.
Kinda Kreepy Kutout Fans
Of course, the event began and end with “Texas Fight” (from my time at the University, pretty straight ahead ditty with the message “FIGHT FIGHT FIGHT”) and the more controversial “Eyes of Texas.”
Yeah, my heart was not at all in the “Eyes of Texas” for all the reasons you can read elsewhere (here’s the official account, the Texas Tribune coverage and a recent Texas Monthly article). I lean toward the Grits for Breakfast approach to resolution of the issue. I mean, it’s a nursery rhyme with creepy lyrics performed in black face. It hurts people when you sing it. It hurts the athletes when you sing it. If this is the hill you want to die on, it isn’t about the song. At the ball game, it had a sniff of white grievance, a smell that thoroughly turns my stomach, and after four years, and not get used to.
You now know the history. It is bad. Pick something new. Here’s where I can help.
As a service to my University where I learned a lot, and is full of terrific folks, I offer the following playlist AS A STARTING POINT. My criteria were songs about Texas, songs by or performed by alumni, and songs performed in proximity to the University. Change some lyrics and pick a tune, just not, y’know, “I’ve Been Working On the Railroad.” If nothing else, I’ll be singing one of these songs when everyone else is singing that other song come the time.
“A State of Texas” – Old 97’s “I’m living in a State of Texas and Texas lives in me.” Extra points for “the eyes of Texas are smiling on me.” Yeah! Smiling is a much better condition for eyes than the menacing “upon.” And I know the Old 97’s guitar player has a degree from UT.
“Screw You, We’re From Texas” – Ray Wylie Hubbard (one of the Central Texas Three Named singers). As mentioned by Grits (see link above). Replace the names of honky-tonks for UT sports venues, and musicians for athletes, with highest honors for Earl Campbell and Vince Young. Sing along chorus and we are done. Not musically sophisticated, but hey, we’re talking about “I’ve Been Working on the Railroad” so the bar is lower than some homespun Texas metaphor describing low things.
“That’s Right (You’re Not from Texas)” – Lyle Lovett. Qualifies for sing-along chorus, and good attitude (“Texas wants you anyway”) but may be disqualified since Lyle is an Aggie. That’s a bright crimson line that we dasn’t cross.
“We are the Cowboys” – Willie Nelson. Because it’s Willie. Until the University President commissions a new tune from him (hey, he did one for Taco Bell, and I’d wager he’s got a couple dozen in his back pocket right now), this recent Nelson performance may have to do. Truncate a couple of verses, and sub “Longhorns” for “Cowboys.” I like the sound of “Longhorns are average, American people. Texicans, Mexicans, black men, and Jews.”
“King of the Hill Theme Song” – The Refreshments. After a long ball game, no one wants to hang around. At 30 seconds, this is the traffic beating option with the only word you need: “Woo Hoo.”
“Killer Lifestyle” – Pong O.k., hear me out. It’s pretty cool, got a good riff. Authentically Austin, with only a dash of University.
“More Man” – The Meat Purveyors If you want to go the schoolyard taunt route, “more man than you’ll ever be and more woman than you’ll ever get” is hard to top, appropriate for men’s and women’s teams (Hookem Texas Volleyball!)
“Big Ass On Fire” – Pocket Fishrmen. Obvs.
“Porque” – Grupo Fantasma. I really want to sing this after a disappointing Horns football season. Along with 98,000 others. In a big stadium. (Beatles is cheating, so it has to be this arrangement, in Spanish)
“True Love Will Find You In The End” – Daniel Johnston. I remember seeing Daniel selling his cassettes on the Drag as I trudged down from the Communications Building to G/M Steakhouse down toward MLK. Did he work at the Burger King at the Dobie? Maybe. “Don’t give up.”
“The Ballad of Charles Whitman” – Kinky Friedman. So not really. But Kinky got his BA at UT the same year as the events described. (But bullet holes in buildings from the Whitman shooting were pointed out to me by a passerby on one of those same walks on the Drag.)
“Me and Bobby McGee” – Janis Joplin. She went to UT, and Kristofferson was born in Brownsville, so it’s got the Texas propers. And I remember when the Horns went to the Freedom Bowl after losing the Southwest Conference Championship, so the chorus can have some historic import. And sing along chorus no one needs to remember the words to.
“Fun Fun Fun” – The Big Boys If you want your cake and eat it also, listen to the end. It’s not all about fun, but mostly.
“Row Your Boat” – The Casting Couch. A song about grad school, an experience that isn’t explored enough in the pop idiom. Also, UT adjacent players, including my wife.
“You Don’t Love Me Yet” – Roky Erikson. This is personal, because I feel that UT doesn’t love me. Yet.
BONUS TRACK
Ok. Gotta throw a bone to wealthy alumni. (No, I don’t. STUD PONY! KICKING IN THE STALL!)
The warm low notes, and expressive tone. I grew up listening to a recording of Verdi’s Requiem with her voice. And all mezzo sopranos remind me of my mom.
Correctly labelled as “motorcycle.” With the Norman Hyde M Bars.
I had gone to see the doctor about my persistent shoulder pain. The pain was persistent, resistant to my usual ibuprofen therapy, and made riding my 2001 Triumph Daytona 955i painful. He injected me with cortisone, which I took to mean that I should buy a different motorcycle. So, I went to Lone Star BMW, and traded my Caspian Blue rocket on the more upright Triumph Bonneville T100.
At the time, the T100 was distinguished from the base Bonneville by a larger engine (865 v. 790 cc), a tachometer, spoked wheels, and chromed engine bits. I picked the black/red variant, and motored home.
Pretty much stock, as was the cat at that point. (The cat had significant body work done later)
Triumph still cranks out Bonnevilles, with this year marking another generation with more power, sophistication, and refined looks. My T100 marked the beginning of the “new” Bonnevilles, but the end of the 20th century core motorcycle components. My Bonneville has two Keihin carbs – plain old bowls, needles, and jets mixing that sweet stochiometic air and fuel in pure Venturi style. It’s also air cooled, using the Bronze Age technology of air moving over fins to maintain an optimal (or thereabouts) operating temperature. So retro that electronic ignition seemed an unnecessary concession to the future. Personally, I find more romance in rejetting carbs than in setting point gaps. I took a test drive of a Royal Enfield Bullet around that time, which made the Triumph seem like a Hayabusa, and yet, kick starter and point were part of the package.
My Bonneville is such a friendly bike. It doesn’t want to kill me, it just wants to help me ride my ride. Avuncular handling and analog fuel delivery make it flexible but not demanding. It’ll go around corners just fine, and cruise on a freeway (not too fast) with only the requisite amounts of drama. It’s also a great platform to change all that.
Memorable moments include a trip to the Three Sisters and staying by the Frio River near Leakey. It did it’s job, didn’t miss a beat, and went fast enough.
Somewhere near the Frio. Yes, I bought a jacket to match my bike.
In the 15 years I’ve owned it, I’ve added Triumph Off Road exhaust (the stock exhaust is heavy and wheezy), rejetted the carbs. I added panniers (The Sixty8 briefcases style bags – real cool briefcase looking cases) for commuting. Bought some M-bars, bar end mirrors, and a center stand from Norman Hyde.
I neglected the Bonnie for a while, and it repaid me by refusing to start. I diagnosed a failed crank position sensor (well, not the first time, but eventually), and gave it a good carb scrub, and ripped out the airbox and added pod style filters. I replaced the fork seals, adding fork gaiters while I was at it. it still needs a new chain and sprockets, and could use some rear shocks, but maybe with next month’s paycheck.
Recent likeness (like yesterday)
It’s a good canvas, and the Bonneville responds to kindness, and is kind.
So, as I wait in the online queue for a vaccine, I’ll start the story of the car I’ve owned the longest, and have the most emotional investment.
First, the prehistory. According to the Museo Storico of Alfa Romeo, my Alfa Romeo 2000 GTV (115.01) was built in Milan on April 24, 1972 and delivered to Englewood Cliffs, New Jersey. The exterior color was Biancospino, a bright white named after a flower. The interior is the much more prosaically named Tessuto plastificato nero, or black vinyl. When I sent the query to the archivist, I added my engine number. Alfa folklore was that the factory didn’t match engine numbers with chassis, so there is no “matching number” Alfa of this vintage. I had searched the engine number against the best estimates, and it did match the range for a 1972 USA GTV 2000. I asked the Alfa archive to verify, and they said that the engine was not the one matched to the chassis when the car was built.
I don’t have records of its first two years, but it was sold in Alabama in May 1974 with 9,084 miles. Not much from second owner, but the third owner bought it sometime between 1979 and 1982. There’s a receipt from International Auto Parts in December 1982 for oil seals, radiator hose, filters, and bearings, then bushings in January 1983 from Graffeo’s Imported Cars. Some paint in 1983.
And then 1984. Pistons. Liners. Valve springs. Upper and lower timing chains. Driveshaft balancing. Radiator repair. All from familiar Alfa vendors of the 80s (Centerline, Ereminas, IAP), but no shop bills. A tell tale July 4 run to Bumper to Bumper Auto Parts for plastigage and make-a-gasket. An SCCA (!) discount for spark plugs. So was this a recovery rebuild or a performance rebuild?
The engine rebuild was followed by a front bumper, grill, nose panel, and lock from Spruell Alfa in July 1985. A whole transmission and fresh synchros (“1981/36,000 miles”) were bought, but it doesn’t look like they were installed until 1988 by Bud Mollison Subaru Alfa (mileage listed as 66,080) installed along with a new front sway bar. (I recently removed the front sway bar. Three different sized nuts secured the four bolts securing it.). An alignment in 1987 and a personalized plate (“ZORK”) in 1989.
Of course, what is missing here are SPICA problems. At least until January 1990, when a rebuilt unit arrives from Alfa Ricambi for $990.
In July 1990 the car moves to Austin, and changes hands again.
I bought the car in 1994 from a man who had two GTVs, and who decided to tear down and restore one, and to sell the other. I’m guessing this is the flyer associated with the one I bought, though some parts are no longer there, most notably the BWA wheels- my Alfa has the stock steel wheels. I’m not sure about the springs or the Ward and Deane suspension kit. Interesting that the flyer doesn’t mention the replacement gear box. It also had a replacement gas tank from a similar vintage Spider. It fit in the trunk floor fine, but the filler neck was at a different angle.
There were a three undated high-impact receipts – “Epoxy Primer/Bodywork/ Paint,” “Repair Damage/Paint Damage” and “Piston and head work.”
It looks like the little Alfa suffered at least blows in its life -on to the front, one to the back. Neither the gearbox nor the engine are original. The seats are not original. I think this means I have a moral blank check to hot rod and modify as I see fit.
Here’s a photo that I was looking for of my sister, me, and my first motorcycle.
Somewhere on the Devil’s Backbone
I talked to my sister yesterday, and she mentioned that she had a copy of the picture I was looking for of the rat bike GS650. The grey fender, the clubman bars, and the de-badged GS tank are all there in their rattle can glory. My sister is cradling my Bell Eddie Lawson replica, and I’ve got some $30 no-name shorty, and a armadillo/Texas flag belt buckle. The prodigious Windjammer faring of my buddy’s CB750A pokes into the frame. We look happy, because we were. The back of the photo dates it to August 1990, places it near San Marcos. If I remember, we rode the Devil’s Backbone down from Austin to San Marcos, with a destination of soaking in the cool springs. We then blazed up I-35 home. Her back of the photo commentary was simple: “Damn Good Time.” Indeed it was.
I was planning on buying a Ducati Monster 620 Dark. I had the cash in my hand, and the bike picked out at the Yamaha/Ducati dealership on South Lamar. The rumor was that Lyle Lovett bought his 998 there. I had been there a couple of times before when a friend was getting parts for his Paso, and I ogled the TDM 800 and GTS 1000 both which stayed on display for a long time. This time I was after a Monster. So I waited, tried to catch the eye of a salesman, waited some more, then drove up Lamar across the river the BMW/Triumph dealership (where the Lambo dealer is now located). I eyeballed a Thunderbird, but a salesman quickly put me on the back of a slightly used 900 Tiger, which I dropped in slow motion on the test ride. I was forgiven, and rode away in my newly used Triumph partly out of shame. They even tossed a t-shirt into the deal. I became a loyal customer of Triumph and the dealer. Not to get all “Jay Leno never bought a Ferrari because the dealer was snooty,” but maybe Ducati was a lifestyle (like Harley-Davidson, or Corvette) that I wasn’t right for me. Things have changed. Years later, when the Ducati dealer moved to my neighborhood at the old D&L Suzuki dealer, they were nothing but gregarious, and tried to get me into a Multistrada, and convinced me to buy my future wife an Arai.
I called the Tiger my Y2K Contingency Plan.
It was a tall bike, which made commuting feel more like heading cattle. It was fast enough, and I bought a GIVI tail case that matched the saddle bags that made the bike a reliable grocery getter, though it became a bit of a sail in a crosswind. I recall having some electrical gremlins, but nothing too serious. It never stranded me.
What is holding the bike up? (Not Pam’s left boot, I bet)
I rode it to a co-worker’s funeral. She was a fan of motorcycles, but I don’t recall her ever riding one. After the service, I walked up to the Tiger and a fellow mourner called out “Yo, when I saw that bike I thought Pamela Anderson was going to be there.” I was confused, and he mentioned Barb Wire. Triumph engaged in aggressive product placement in the late 90s to early 2000s, and Pam Anderson’s award winning performance on a double for my commuter ride was part of that. Skip to 1:35 below for the hot hot Tiger action.
Here’s my experience over the past week, as I sit in my warm home on a Saturday morning with power, gas, and non-potable water.
Preamble – Friday I noticed my heater wasn’t functioning as it should, and heard the forecast. I called my HVAC guy, who came over, cleaned the ignitor, replaced a capacitor, and suggested a maintenance plan. Bought some new filters at the big box hardware store, and spotted my dentist (I think – everyone was wearing masks) buying styrofoam faucet covers.
Sunday – Valentine’s Day.
We knew a storm was coming, with snow and cold, colder than I had experienced in my home in Austin before. I’ve lived in the same house for almost 20 years, and it has weathered the cold reasonably well. I wrapped the outside taps. We had gone grocery shopping the day before, so we had some food. I got candles and flashlights. My wife cooked up a big pot of posole which we shared with our neighbors across the street. I made a last minute run to the corner store and picked up some chocolate bars (because Valentine’s Day), which the dog snarfed off the counter when no one was watching. Since the roads were already deteriorating with graupel and sleet, my wife made calls to an animal poison control center. We were able to borrow some hydrogen peroxide from a neighbor to purge the dog. A few messy moments skidding a blind barfing pup along the street later and this particular danger passed. Otter seemed ok. We settled in for a cold night.
Otter recovering from his adventure in chocolate, while catching up on the market for a Henry J.
Monday – Presidents Day
I woke up a little after 2:00 am to quiet. No heater. No alarm clock. I fumbled around and found my phone.
The only text message I got about the power outage. An update would have been helpful. Also, probably not a good idea to encourage folks to click a sketchy looking link. Were they just targeting Spanish speakers?
Rolling power outages. I can handle that. Deal with electronics and power strips. Charge the phones. Inconvenient, but manageable. This sort of outage was what I anticipated, though in retrospect I can’t remember exactly where I heard it. I believe I heard it on the radio.
The snow was coming down, not the usual big wet flakes like we got a couple of weeks ago, but fine powder. It was beautiful, and more than I had ever seen in Austin. I was born in Minnesota, but when I was 7, my family moved to Dallas. My experiences with snow have been carefree -an inconvenience, at worst, or a serendipitous relief from routine. Growing up in Dallas, my brother and I would take the opportunities afforded by snow days to walk with some neighbor kids to McDonalds. We’d eat a burger and drink some hot cocoa, and wander home to warm up. I had the urge to go for a walk around the neighborhood, but hesitated because I couldn’t manage the last step: warming up. As the day wore on, social medias alerted us that the rolling black-outs were not going to roll, and it was going to be as cold as it had ever been in Austin. The house was getting colder.
My wife’s friend who lives about half a mile away still had power, and invited us to spend the night. I was approaching serious freakout mode about the house, waiting for some calamity (burst pipes, natural gas explosion, downed power lines). We decided that she, the small dog, and my son would go to the warmth of the neighbors while I volunteered to stay at home with the big dog and the two kittens. I took a hot bath, (still had gas! still had water!), bundled up in nearly every available blanket. Tucked in with phone and flashlight, I read a good chunk of Barrayar on my iPad, with big dog snoozing beside me. The kittens were invited, but decided to huddle together on a blanket in the living room.
Brother kittens huddled together. One of them poked me in the head sometime during the cold night.
Shrove Tuesday
I woke up at 5:30 or so, after an odd night’s sleep of obsessively checking the water pressure. It was very quiet. No machines running, the birds present but not singing and the snow acting like a blanket of acoustic insulation outside. It was 10 outside, and 45 inside. I boiled some water for oatmeal and instant coffee. My wife found the instant coffee the day before when we realized that boiling water and a French press are not much good without a way to grind the beans. I streamed the local radio from my phone to find some balm of routine for my anxious brain. The news on the failure was messed up, and this was confirmed by obsession with the frustratingly static outage map.
This is what it looked like from Monday to Wednesday.
My wife called and convinced me of the virtues of warming up at the neighbor’s house. Since the news seemed bleak – another day of power outage and continued below freezing weather, I agreed. She drove down to get me. I transferred the items in our freezer to a cooler packed with snow, made some more obsessive checks to the water pressure, bundled up and went over to the neighbor’s warming station. We came back in the afternoon. The house had not warmed up, nor had it got any colder. The kittens were ok, which was lucky since there was not room for them at the inn.
This radio runs of solar but also runs on a crank/flywheel when it’s dark. The flywheel is louder than the radio, so it’s of limited use, except to tune into the pop country station and annoy your family
The rage was building as news filtered in with a seeming lack of compassion from state leaders, who seemed to be focusing on assessing blame rather than dealing with the immediate ongoing problem. The only direction was to conserve energy, which is not helpful when you have none. The vanity lights on the buildings downtown were another focus of rage, and the neighbors suggested that the rage would likely light up the Frost Tower to a portal to usher in the interdimensional demon ERCOT. I didn’t sleep well.
Wednesday – Entierro de la Sardina
Big dog woke me up Monday to invite me on a walk. Freezing rain fell on a roads covered with a slushy non-alcoholic daiquiri. It was warmer, but not that much warmer. Word on social media was that the power was coming on in our neighborhood. After coffee and my wife confirming with the neighbors, (and another walk for the small dog) I volunteered to walk back. I was worried about the kittens and the pipes.
Wednesday morning walk home.
The kittens were fine. The copped some attitude, but nothing some well placed skritches and a handful of treats couldn’t overcome. The house did indeed have power. The pipes were… still ok! I repacked the freezer (frozen meats still frozen!) and took a shower. My wife and son came by later, with the pups.
At sometime on Tuesday or Wednesday, I got some messaging that Texas Gas Service was warning of a potential outage. A gas outage would suck, but there was not follow-up and I guess they just floated that out there to increase dread and anxiety. The Austin Water folks were starting to freak out, but they meant it. Wednesday evening, I got this text.
So I’m still boiling water. But it has thawed. I’m luckier that a lot of people.
Lessons I Learned:
If you broadcast an alert to people, and conditions change, send another with the updated information. The information that the power may be off for around 40 minutes may not even have been true at the time, but there was no follow-up. Austin Energy left a stressed population to scrounge for their own information. Austin Energy had better information, and the capacity to share it, but did not, and let that old, inaccurate text, be the total of their emergency communications.
If you don’t know how to drive in ice and snow, marry someone who does.
The emergency was initially a weather event, but became very quickly a failed infrastructure event. Maybe that’s why big storms are named – the citizens suffering can focus their rage on Harvey, or Ike, or Sandy. This weather event had no name. The weather didn’t take down my power lines. The grid operator told my utility to cut all the power to circuits that did not support critical infrastructure. It wasn’t a storm, it was ERCOT. Maybe that makes it harder to get a psychic grip on and to rally support. People still died, cold and alone. One of my US Senators went to the Capitol Area Food Bank to help deliver food. The other bailed on his state and his poodle and went to Mexico.
Let people know how to get help, or how to help rather than generate rag and place blame.
Pipes burst due to pressure rather than expansion. If you are going to leave your house for a while in the cold, shut off the water at the curb, and drain the system.
Back in 1992 or 1993, my mom moved back in with my dad, and needed a car. My Alfa mechanic at the time was selling his wife’s 1982 Mercedes Benz 300D. My mother liked the idea of having a luxury car, and the diesel Benz was not an uncommon site in her new location in Midland, Texas. My dad funded most of the transaction, and I bought the Benz. I remember Larry the Mechanic writing “5 cylinder” in the title transfer form, and I was skeptical. Really, an odd number of cylinders? That can’t be right. He popped the hood and allowed me to count the injection lines.
After it’s spa day before Redwood last year. Not pictured: Faded paint on roof.
The paint, variously called Blue Green Metallic or Petrol but it’s the same 877U on the build plate, had faded on the trunk, hood and roof. I took it to a paint shop in Bastrop and asked them to paint the trunk and hood. Why didn’t I ask them to paint the roof? I don’t know, and regret it to this day. I drove it around for a couple of weeks, and eventually drove it out Highways 183, 71, and 87 to Midland. I believe my ma enjoyed the idea of having a Mercedes than the actual car. I know she accidentally filled it up with gas once, but only once.
Sometimes I’ve tried to figure out my ma and all her signifier of status. She grew up sort of on the edge, during the depression in Chicago. Growing up in Dallas, she was always seeking luxury goods at discount prices – the designer outfit from Neiman Marcus at a 90% discount. The Benz was probably part of that.
The Sacred Heart Auto League Medallion was one of my mother’s few customizations to her Benz.
After she and my dad died a couple years ago, I trailered the Mercedes behind a U Haul back to Austin. I pulled the CarFax out of curiosity, and it showed basically what I anticipated. It had regular inspections and oil changes for the past twenty years or so, and the mileage reflected the distance between my folk’s place and the Jiffy Lube. My ma had stopped driving due to deteriorating vision, and my dad preferred his 1992 Buick Le Sabre. The Buick had it’s cosmetic issues, but damn if that 3800 V6 still ran and the A/C blew cold after over 200,000 miles.
Leaving west Texas after settling my folk’s estate, with the 300D in tow.
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.
Well, I drank, but was still a long way off from being married when I piloted this beast.
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.
My neighbors watch me start my R50/2 way too early for a weekday. Not pictured: Raccoons.
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.
The One In Five 