Throwback Thursday

The Thinking Viking has a history.  Big surprise.

What I am thinking about “right now” is learning why it is important not to get angry at machines.

I was fine tuning the ignition advance  (via mechanical contact points) on my 1976 BMW 2002. The car that replaced the Nissan that I almost died in, the “other time I broke my other leg in a bad accident”.  I was 17, on a Saturday morning – late summer- trying desperately NOT to have to pay some god damn shop to keep my old car running…..when I dropped the screwdriver and tried to grab it as it fell.  Missed it, got mad and punched the closest thing.

Managed to slash my hand open on a piece of the frame and sent that one VERY important part flying into the weeds and causing a stream of obscenities.

Dude… NEXT TIME do NOT PUNCH THE CAR.  That was pretty pointless.  I found the screw after a half hour and a very strong magnet.

I later ended up trading that car, sans working transmission, for my first motorcycle, a 1976 Kawasaki  175 Enduro that was in decent running shape.  History unfolds.

Fast forward twenty years and I have bought, repaired  and sold ANOTHER vintage BMW and another motorcycle.  Back to one simple car.

Sorta back where I started.

Hmmm.  Might have more thoughts here later.

EJ

My Moment with Paul Newman

The Thinking Viking “sort of” met Paul Newman once. Not really, but let me explain.  I was on my way to a Genetics lab for school at the good old University of Colorado, Boulder. I was on my only vehicle, my beloved 1978 Kawasaki KZ1000 Z1-R.  When new, it was the fastest production motorcycle on the planet. I called her “Goose” after Max’s freind in Mad Max who rode a nearly identical bike in the movie.  Thing was beauty.  Modernized, electronic, mildly advanced  ignition, rejetted cards, bad ass air intake, custom windshield…  prolly about 125 horsepower.  Handled like a water buffalo, but she was pretty quick.  Figure 9.5-10 sec quarter mile.

Anyhow, I was still pretty punk at the time, I was in my bad ass leather – with spikes, mind you, my own semi-mind-trip-with-chaos art on the back.  I pull up next to a nice old red Ferrari on my right.  Late fifties. It just gets better the closer I get.  Bystanders are staring. This thing is NICE – museum nice.  Million dollar nice. I am impressed – I love cars, the crazier and more bad ass the better.

So I pull up to the stop line and look over to check it out at rest.  I am jealous.  Then I look at the driver.

He seems familiar.  Hmmm.  Brain starts clicking.  Whirrrr. Click. Click.  Then, “ping”.  I get a hit.

NASCAR Hat.  Aviator shades, large and dark.  NASCAR Pit Crew jacket.  Older white dude who looks familiar.  Yes, I am actually a NASCAR fan- prefer Formula – 1, but meh, fast cars. Cool.

I know who this guys is.  That’s fucking Paul Newman.  He owns a NASCAR car  employs a Pit Crew. I know he owns old sports cars.  I cock my head and rise my helmet’s visor, an eyebrow raised, looking right at him. Sunglasses. Over-sized, I’d say, like celebrities wear when they are going under cover.

He nods, and smiles. A hand is briefly raised from the wheel in a subtle wave.  It is returned by my hand raise from the bars briefly.  I grin. The light turns green.

I left that damn Ferrari in the dust.

It’s a simple matter of weight ratios.

Think about it.

MJ

PS I sold that bike many years later for four times what i paid for it, to a young Japanese man named “Testuo”