I put my Goldwing's front wheel just off the track of the bike in front, a brand new, red BMW-1100 motorcycle as we both spotted the 405 freeway's brake lights and dove for the Sepulveda off-ramp because, even with its single-laned roadway and many stop signs, I'd arrive at my West LA office ahead of the freeway's morning worm sprint.
Now on Sepulveda and two bike-lengths behind the BMW, I could see it was so new that it still bore California's temporary, paper license tag from a dealer.
Out of nowhere, a Mercedes roadster with the top down roared-by crossing the double yellows to lead, driven by what could have been a starlet or Miss America, beauty that neither of us bikers missed peering into her rear-view mirrors from behind. 'Beamer-guy' was so taken that, for 4 or 5 miles, he'd pull alongside death-defying double-yellowed head-on death to flirt with her causing the heart-throbber's 'hottie' to brake or accelerate away.
Montana Street's stop sign fast approached where the road split into two lanes (one, a right-turner under the freeway) and--all of a sudden--'Beamer guy' slowed to a stop beside her flipping up his helmet visor to flirt until his bike toppled over from forgetting to put his feet down onto the ground from the bike's pegs.
The bike formerly known as brand-spankin' new BMW was badly dented and scratched as he climbed out from under to kick its saddle repeatedly, only to watch his dream girl (and I) speeding off, laughing at the guy who had fallen so completely, so fast and so hard for her.
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