Of mice, mountain men, and mechanics...Part 2

So, in the early afternoon of another dark winter day, mechanic #1 and mechanic #2 (myself) piled into the aforementioned truck with the aforementioned questionable motorcycle and headed east into the wilds of the Santa Fe National forest. Our spirits were relatively high beginning our journey on NM 285 which climbs sharply into the high desert mountains, yet once we leave the main road at the designated exit, real fear begins to settle into the cab of our vehicle.

Even though the temperature outside is below freezing mechanic #1 has the passenger window rolled down and is chain smoking like a a fiend, and to be truthful, even though I do not actually smoke cigarettes the supply of nicotine gum in my pocket is rapidly being depleted. The usually circumspect mechanic #1 is also chatting away madly running and re-running through every possible deadly scenario we were likely to face.

We continue to navigate through the back roads just north west of Pecos, even passing by the Glorieta national monument, a bloody civil war site, surely a bad omen. Eventually we reach the designated address and it is, in fact, even a worse omen. A dilapidated mobile home surrounded only by the fine red clay dust which infests everything in the area, a few broken down motor vehicles of various descriptions, and...well, you get the idea.

Mechanic #1 had met the seller before on his initial voyage to buy the bike and was, in my view, feeling understandably shaky about the whole affair. The gentleman in question was suffering severely, as most of us were/are through the throws of the Great Recession. Unable to find much work he was in the process of liquidating what assets he had left and moving out already sketchy digs. Unfortunately he could also have used a good dental plan. He was wearing battered clothing but reasonably groomed and his soon to be abandoned pad sparsely populated but clean, was another hopeful sign.

Mechanic #1 explained to him that he had to have either the title or the money back. Since the gentleman in question had already spent the money there was no choice but to go to the original owner and get the title "right now." Mechanic #1 and my own blood pressure I am sure went up several points at this prospect.

It is my belief that that most fear is based on expectations and has been the case throughout this whole little saga our expectations were playing games with our heads , however, as the shadows lengthened on this winter afternoon, our fearful expectations continued to play out in frightful clarity. Since "the gentleman in question" had no transportation of his own he had to pile into the cab our our little shop truck.

Now two people are furiously filling the cab of the truck with cigarette smoke and the journey takes us even deeper into back alleys and dirt roads of the Pecos wilderness. We were headed toward what had been described to us as "an abandoned drug encampement.

As if there were not enough ghosts around already with the glorieta battlefield nearby and all the symbols associated with it. This whole adventure was getting truly strange. I drove bravely onward while my two "companions" continued to fill the truck cab with smoke.

As promised and predicted our strangle little trio did, indeed come upon what could have easily been at one time a meth lab or other structure built for some nefarious purpose. Roughly built walls built of indigenous stone and held together with crude mortar along with high grass and evidence of decay surrounded the sad, two story structure within...

Of mice, mountain men, and mechanics...Part 1

There are some stories that cannot just be made up. This one started with the onset of winter 2009-2010 in northern New Mexico. Things were getting slow at the motorcycle, shop, pay was about to be cut back, and worst of all hours and hours of boredom loomed ahead. My partner in the shop had come into a little bit of money and was looking for a project to fill the time.

My co-worker who I will call Mechanic 1 scoured the internet, found a likely candidate - a BMW R75/5 which looked to be in pretty good shape. Sure enough a few days later Mechanic 1, the bike and a story show up in the shop truck. The provenance of the motorcycle was problematic at best. Seems that Mechanic 1 had driven into the nether regions north of Santa Fe and bought the bike from a gentleman who may or may not have actually owned it.

The story is a little bit confused but this, I believe, is a fairly accurate rendition.

Mechanic 1 took the shop truck out to a location in the outskirts of Pecos, NM. To put that statement into perspective a little history of Pecos is in order. The little Pueblo of Pecos, and the area surrounding it hold 12000 years of documented history-most of it rather ill-fated. And in this chroniclers experience, things can not really say to have improved.

Back to the story at hand. Mechanic 1 shows up at the shop with this bike which, not unexpectedly, turned out to be a little worse for the wear than the Craigslist photos had suggested. Still though, well within the range of rebuildablity. Mechanic A had gotten a half-assed, hand written bill of sale, but no title. Bad enough in itself, worse, given the shady circumstances under which mechanic 1 reported aquiring the bike.

Seems he had driven out into the wild lands beyond Pecos... and land where confederate sympathizers, off-the grid liberals and meth lab proprietors run free. Not a place one would normally think of as a good place to roam alone alone, especially driving a truck emblazoned with a corporate logo which for them represents deep pockets and a certain level of snobbery.

We feared for his safety, yet back he came from this weird subculture unscathed, but also un-papered

Once he got back to the shop with this interesting, but rather sad looking machine sitting on the back of our little truck. There was, of course, the requisite ooooing and ahhhing that goes on among shop types upon the arrival of such a vehicle. Then the hard questions started.

"This bill of sale looks pretty shaky," said one.

"Are you SURE this guy actually owned the bike?" said another.

Mechanic 1 is now starting to get visibly nervous, and quite frankly so are the rest of us as we learn more about the story. The lack of a title, the fact that mechanic number 1 already parted with his hard won cash and the lack of returned calls is darkening his mood minute by minute.

When the phone finally rings a sudden ray of hope appears - followed immediately by fear.

"Ummmm yeah, I need to get the the title to this bike or bring it back" mechanic 1 begins.

What exactly the party on the other end said is still unclear to me, but I got the feeling he was none to happy to make the little trip out to the outskirts of town. And I did not blame him given the conditions he described and the financial and mental state of the original seller.

Fortunately, it was the next day our general manager, who some of us call Captain Picard, both because of his physical resemblance to that fictional character and because of his wisdom. Picard suggested that we let the seller know we could not keep the bike on the lot with an expired registration and lack of title. So mechanic 1 and myself ,mechanic 2 loaded the machine back into the shop truck and I since there was not much going on at the shop work-wise I was "volunteered" to accompany mechanic 1 out to Pecos to face up to what could possibly be a dangerous situation.

(To be continued...)