May We Never Go Gently

Originally published in “On the Level,” the official magazine of the BMW Riders Association. 

The common perception is that when it’s time to die, motorcyclists go in great, dramatic bursts of fire and smoldering metal. In my experience, the truth is far more mundane, and involves CT scans, insidious cell reproduction, and shelves of prescription drugs.

Which brings me to the 1978 R100/7 that currently resides in my garage. The fact is, I never wanted another vintage motorcycle. They don’t stop very well, frequently break down, and consume George Washingtons like there is no tomorrow.

And yet here I am, the owner of an aging Airhead. Or most of one. When I bought it, there was just an engine in a frame, and sundry parts in boxes. It RWP (Ran When Parked)—or so I was told. I made room for it in my garage, moving things around like I just pressed the speed button in “Queen’s Gambit.” There are three motorcycles, nine bicycles, and the premier monument to uselessness, a vintage Honda Z50 minibike from 1969. My wife has (unreasonably) demanded access to her car in the second bay, so I have provided a narrow passage on the driver’s side. Getting behind the wheel requires a degree of yoga moves that she is not accustomed to.

But this bike is special, and I had to make room for it, since it belonged to my longtime friend, work colleague, and riding buddy, Randy. I met Randy in my first days working at the Monterey Bay Aquarium, where we comprised a roaming photojournalism team. I’d write stories about sea otters and sunfish, and he would take spectacular photos. Then we’d break for lunch at a local taco joint and talk about…motorcycles. Before long we were riding together, on- and off-road. Eventually, we took our photojournalism gig one step further and did articles for motorcycle magazines and websites. Living the dream.

Randy was a true renaissance guy. I can’t even count his areas of expertise: diver, dive safety instructor, motorcycle racer, motorcycle mechanic, car mechanic, ski hill groomer, snow machine mechanic, gun and gun safety expert, photographer, videographer, triathlete, bicycle rider…the guy took life in big bites. He was inquisitive about everything. I also spent a lot of hours in Randy’s garage, doing things in my hamfisted style, while he vainly attempted to teach me the proper way to work on motorbikes.

We rode on the street, and we trailered our dirt bikes to the local OHV park, where lunch stops would include important discussions on jetting, suspension settings, how to drift the back wheel on a flat track. We’d exchange lies about what good riders we were, and he’d instruct me in the finer points of weight shift, traction, and navigating whoops. I’d keep all this excellent advice in the forefront of my mind right up until the moment I crashed, which was often. He loved to make fun of my Honda CRF 250L, which he thought was a miserable excuse for a dirt bike. But I am personally a miserable excuse for a dirt bike rider. So together, the Honda and I formed a sort of miserable synergy.

Sitting up high in his Honda Ridgeline truck, with the dirt bikes secured in the back and blues on the box, was the happiest of places for Randy. He always had a few good stories cued up, most of them about loud internal combusters sliding sideways in an improbable fashion, with him in the saddle. I have a lot of friends that tell such stories. The difference was that Randy had a wall of trophies to prove it.

An Airhead Acquires an Airhead

I work out a lot, which meant I was always fitter than Randy. That’s a good thing, since my endurance could compensate for the skills I lacked. Randy would routinely dust me (literally and figuratively), but would fade like a Roman Candle.

Two years ago, this disparity became more pronounced. “I can’t seem to get any air,” he said one day in frustration. “I’m always short of breath.” Despite this, we kept riding and enjoying each other’s company.

Then, he proclaimed that his back hurt all the time. The cause was the same, but we couldn’t have known it at the time. Randy had an evil thing in him, creeping around in the insidious way that cancer always does.

He fought hard, and cheerfully. He’d call me from the clinic, where he was getting a chemo drip while sitting in a chair, telling me how good he felt, and that the future was full of promise and more two-wheeled mischief. I believed him. How could I not?

The cancer didn’t bend to Randy’s will, however. He became increasingly debilitated and ended up on oxygen. In the brief periods when he felt strong enough, he’d go out to the garage and spin wrenches for an hour or two—for a guy like Randy, this was the best therapy imaginable.

The cancer was inexorable though, and the end came surprisingly quickly. Randy left behind a museum of motion: motorcycles, bicycles, shop tools, firearms, and 40 years of professional photography equipment. His longtime, partner, Karen, had a lot of work ahead of her to dispense with it all.

I decided I could help—by tapping into my two-wheel network (I’ve been an avid bicyclist and motorcyclist for 50 years); and, to the consternation of my long-suffering wife, by acquiring a bunch of it myself. I am now the owner of Randy’s lift table, one of his bicycles, and myriad other items from his wide ranging, eclectic life. Including, most importantly, the ancient Slash 7.

Since the bike was in pieces, I figured that I had a long road—probably months—of assembly and fettling in front of me. But one night, whiskey in hand and thinking of Randy, I took that seminal first step: I picked up a part—the gas tank—and slotted it into place. The fenders soon followed, then, working into the night, I installed the lights, the seat, and sundry other parts. Over the ensuing days, I just kept going…until all the bins were empty. The re-assembly benefited from one, enormous tailwind: all of the individual parts had passed through Randy’s competent hands. Compared to other vintage bikes I’ve worked on, this was a child’s jigsaw puzzle.

A Creampuff Comes to Life

A few short days later, I rolled the old girl out into the driveway, emptied my gas can into the tank, and pressed the starter button, whereupon the old shaker came promptly to life. Randy, in his inimitable way, was back.

The next surprise was how much fun the Airhead was to ride. I’ve got other bikes in the garage, including a modern, water-cooled GS—but somehow I kept choosing the Airhead. While my other vintage bikes seemed to be continuously on the precipice of an explosion, the Slash 7 is unstressed and happy, seemingly at any speed. Its explosions are restricted to the combustion chamber, where they take place peacefully and with Teutonic precision. My friend Tom, an ace mechanic and longtime shop employee, admiringly calls the Airhead a “creampuff,” due to the fact that it has been impeccably fettled and has covered only 14,000 miles in its 43 years. The bike runs flawlessly, in a way I never could have accomplished without Randy’s now invisible hand having done the fettling.

There’s one more thing that compels me to ride the bike: it was new the year I met my wife. In those days, I couldn’t have afforded a Honda step-through, much less a 1,000 cc BMW. So the very fact that such a bike now resides in my garage is a kind of milestone. So of course, I had to take Meredith for a ride or two. I installed the period sissy bar and back pad that came with the bike, and off we went to revisit a bygone era, shopping for lava lamps and patchouli oil (kidding). It’s a fine bike to ride two-up, and she looks smashing back there.

In the parlance of vintage vehicle owners, this one has “provenance.” I think Randy would be proud. The people in our motorcycling lives come and go, in a steady drumbeat. There are no better people than motorcyclists, really. We cherish them while they are here. And then they are gone. As we ourselves will be.

But Randy is lucky, because he gets to ride with me. I am reminded of this every time I swing a leg over, where a small inscription on the back of the tank proclaims the bike’s rightful owner:

Randy Wilder: Ride in Peace.