So I ran into a pack of Germans, chubby fellows on chubby rented Harleys, about a half dozen of them, at a gas stop somewhere between the Joshua Tree and the Mojave. A town called Twentynine Palms, home of the Marine Corps Air Ground Combat Center.
After listening to their Teutonic blah blah for a few minutes while eating some fruit one strode over ( now this is only good if you read the German parts with a thick accent)
“Zis tube, it holds water. Zis is good”
He’s was talking about my camelback, which in my swanky new BMW Rallaye coat is built into the jacket.
Ever the quiper I return right away with, “German engineering”
His eyes like saucers, “We are German!!!”
“Yeah, I figured that out”
And the heretofore unmentioned tough as shit looking, tattoos on the neck, full on high and tight hairdo, lady Marine sitting outside in the heat reading the paper cracks the F up laughing.
“Bye bye” says the lady Marine as I mount up and ride away.
But to be fair to the Germans, they were on a trek from Seatle to LA, and in the desert… so they weren’t no slouches. Plus one of them said, though the big eyed interpreter, that mine was the only real motorcycle there… so I’d drink beer with those guys for sure. But I wonder if they thought I was on a GS?
bluetenere 
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