I just shipped him the picture Phil. I hope I don't bore you guys with this, but he just sent another interesting bit:
As for old Bonny tales, the most amazing thing that happened to me on my '70 was on that same trip with Marcia. I wrote a story for the New York Times about it which, if I can figure out a way to scan it, I'll send to you. The short version of it is this: We were traveling in northern Spain - in Basque country - and on a very curvy mountain road I suddenly felt as though the rear of the bike had a mind of its own. (You can see from the photo I sent you how I had our packs mounted on a luggage rack.) I pulled over to the side of the road and took a look. What had happened was that one of the bolts holding the luggage rack to the bike had sheared off and the luggage rack was swinging back and forth like a pendulum. It was a very dangerous situation, as you might imagine. As I was standing there scratching my head and wondering what the ****** to do, a man stopped to see what was wrong. Marcia told him in her impeccable Spanish and asked if he knew where we could find a garage where I could get a replacement bolt. To our great good fortune, there was a garage right down the road called "Garage Block House" because it was made out of concrete blocks. The owner insisted on fixing my bike himself at no charge and then, through Marcia, told me he wanted to show me a motorcycle he'd built for an old friend who'd been crippled in WWII. Next thing we knew, this old guy pulls up in (not on, but in) a three wheel motorcycle that had what was actually a bed between the front wheel and the handlebars. (I have a picture of it somewhere which I'll dig out, scan and send to you...it was an amazing contraption). Then, to really make this story astounding, the old guy in the bed/motorcycle challenged me to a race. I'll save the details of that so you can read about it in the Times story, but after the race the whole gang - owner of the Block House Garage, his family, the guy who took me there, all sorts or other friends and relatives - insisted Marcia and I join them for this huge traditional Basque dinner. We wound up having an incredible time hanging out with these folks for hours, all because of the broken bolt. (I'll save the story of how I drove the bike up the wide stone steps and into the lobby of the railroad station in Toulouse France for another time.) Now I'm going to go look for that story and the photo of the guy in the bed/motorcycle.
Phil
