THE MODERN BOXER
Something had angered the Santa Ana wind that spring day in 1978. It blew hard as I clung to a BMW 750, one which was very nearly the double of our feature bike. Seeing this R75/5 takes me back four decades to the earlier ride, a routine run to the sea for a Guzzi-riding friend and me, steering westbound to the Pacific shore. An hour past Yuma are the dunes; classic Sahara-like mounds heaped as if for a Hollywood script. Dancing across the lanes, groups of swirling devils gave the only warning that nine miles of sandstorm lay dead ahead.
With no shelter available, the sandstorm blew in waves from our right. The howling sand did a good job of refinishing that side of my machine, turning black into an even shade of grey. It shredded the sleeve of my dad’s old leathers and blasted my faceshield into uselessness. When we returned home, it took an hour in the tub to calm my pounding head.
At morning light I lifted the BMW’s tool roll from its sandbox to remove the airbox cover. I feared the worst because a good amount of
