Some guys have the gift of being meticulous in a uniquely artistic way. A retired dentist, my friend Bob is one of those. In fact, he earned the well deserved Fellowship of the Build shop name, “Dr. Detail” by precisely fitting a vintage Norton swingarm bushing. This may not sound like a big deal, but he did it with a foam sanding pad wrapped around a wooden dowel instead of the proper bronze cutting tool. His is an interesting quality of calm paranoia. Having once dropped a nut into the Norton’s engine crankcase while I was watching, he never flinched. Despite the potential having to do major surgery, we got it out. Bob is cool.
You can imagine what Bob does to his own motorcycles with a mindset like this. He’s the first I’ve ever met who installed a GPS controlled chain oiler with pipe and wire routing that you can’t see from the outside. A patient craftsman, he can put clear protective film on curved surfaces without any wrinkles or air bubbles underneath. Me? I’d be wrapped up in the sticky film like a shipping tape dispenser gone wild. All this to say, he really cares about his bikes. If Dr. Detail had a harem, his bikes would be included. They have souls too.
And then what I thought might be a chink in his polished armor happened. In a rare lapse of concentration, he dropped the key to his bike in the parking lot of the Chisos Basin Lodge in Big Bend. Bob had retired for the evening while the rest of the group were enjoying cocktails on the porch overlooking the Lodge’s scenic parking lot. One of us found Bob’s key lying on the pavement and we debated what to do. It’s important to note that Sammy (one of the nicest guys you’ll ever meet) had been the perennial victim of an earlier, ingenious prank. Maybe it was the fine libations at work, but I perceived that Sammy wanted to get the monkey off his back. After all, you can only wear these badges for so long.
Since I was a willing actor in this earlier prank, I felt an obligation to help pass the torch from Sammy. Asking for the key, I hopped on Bob’s bike with the idea of faking a theft. It’s mean, I know. How do you steal a bike from a friend without stealing it but have him think it’s stolen? Simple, ride it out of sight behind another building, park it and keep the key. Energized by this latest plot twist, the rest of the loving crew committed to the code of silence to see Dr. Detail’s reaction the next morning.
Mornings on trips like these follow a ritual. Some guy’s fire up their bikes first thing, some pack and fiddle, but everyone eats breakfast. With the bikes lined up in front of the strip of lodge rooms surely Bob would find his bike missing and we could yuk it up during breakfast. Nope. Then surely when packing for the day’s ride afterward, he would miss it. Nope. The rest of us are going through the motions with furtive glances wondering when the suspense will end. Finally, the rest of us are on our bikes with the engines running when Bob walks up and says, “I can’t find my key!” Doing our best nonchalant shrugs, only then does Bob say, “My bike is stolen!”
Feigning surprise, we start milling around waiting to see Bob’s reaction. After his wailing and gnashing of teeth, we can produce his stolen bike with a caring flourish and have a good laugh. That’s not what happened. Instead, he goes bounding up the steps toward the rear of the building, turns back to the group and shouts with glee, “I’m getting a new bike!!” Despite the best laid plans, I think to myself, “Well, that didn’t work.” Then Bob’s wife who had suffered through his hotel room key search the night before comes up to us and says, “Are you f@#*ing with Bob? This is serious!” Still holding it in, we just smile and say, “No, it’s really not.”
Having failed to hide the bike far enough away, Bob finds it quickly and rides it back to the starting point. Yep, it’s the same Bob who dropped the nut in the Norton crankcase. Only I was the nut this time; he was cool as a cucumber. Either that, or he hides his emotions very well for a guy with a custom mounted GPS triggered chain oiler.
The important point in the end was that Sammy was absolved, no bikes were actually stolen and the bonds of adventure were tighter than ever. “Think of the war stories you can tell.” This was the empathy my older brother shared on a hospital visit during my three month stay. I don’t think much about the teenage motorcycle accident that put me there, but I never forgot that line.
Maybe that’s part of the marrow of life, seize the opportunity to make war stories where no one dies or bikes are actually stolen.
Go make some of your own with friends like these. And, keep your key in your pocket.