Husband owns a K-Model BMW that looks exactly like the kind of motorcycle I identify as 'not a Harley.' It has been slumbering peacefully in our garage these past winter months, untouched, waiting for the rains to cease. Husband couldn't abide this state of affairs any longer and took it apart a few weeks ago. For the record, the things Husband takes apart are usually all the better for it once he puts them back together. But Husband has never owned a BMW before. German engineers don't like people getting uppity and messing with their sleek, innovative over-designed anything. Parts not meant to be touched by hands other than those of a virgin fraulein wearing velvet gloves were strewn about, cursed at, fiddled with, reassembled a dozen times in as many ways and, finally, ordered from Europe. The folks at Greyhound promised to call when they arrived, "honestly sir, as soon as they're in, please stop calling or I'll have to get the manager."Greyhound buses deliver from Europe? Neat.
So began a period we refer to as "The Dark Fortnight." Every afternoon would be see Husband leaping from work to stand at the back of the Greyhound lobby and discretely make eye contact with Cheryl "Oh God, here comes that crazy guy" McClerken, only to slouch back home, hands in pockets, dejected and without parts.
So to speak.
Soon though, the much awaited packages arrived and were handed over by a relieved depot attendant who had seriously begun to consider bringing a taser to work. The parts were unwrapped and reverently cussed into place. For all his care, though, it was a few days before the sound of the engine turning over filled my ears. At 4 in the morning.
Now, and with the best gas we could syphon out of the lawnmower, the bike actually purrs like a katzchen, proving once again that Husband is great with machines and Wikipedia is invaluable when it comes to speedy German translation.
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