Bullshit

Just before I arrived for my assignment at Bitburg AFB the three fighter squadrons of the 36th Tactical Fighter Wing reorganized their ground crews. The new system put all the enlisted maintenance and repair personnel into several large group squadrons, instead of each fighter squadron having its own crews. This meant that I was unfamiliar with the residual stigma of being a part of a flying squadron, or not being a part of the correct squadron.

Our loading shops were still divided between two separate shops, one would only work on the air intercept equipment of the F4E that belonged to the 525th Tactical Fighter Squadron. The other shop, where I was assigned, worked on all of the F4D’s belonging to the 22nd and 53rd Tactical Fighter Squadrons. I didn’t care which shop I worked in. Good thing because we merged with the air intercept shop and my crew had to certify on the E models anyway.

Barracks life was something different for me, I didn’t attend a University nor did I live in a dorm so getting used to it was a little weird. A note of fact though is that I was assigned an end room and I had to share it with five others. Not that it was any different from a 2 or 3 man room, it’s just that my roommates and I were considered “Nerds” or “weirdoes” by all the normal service personnel in our squadron.

What is that than 6 strikes against me, or just 5?

I eventually became accustomed to life in the barracks. I had a VW and that generates a lot of friends even if you are weird. Our squadron had a recreation room that had a pool table and a beer machine. Just think, you could get yourself a Schlitz for 25 cents just about anytime day or night.

My roommates and I built ourselves a very nice social area where we had a self-service bar, Voss had a killer stereo, and I supplied the transportation on occasion. Some times John Breeve would come down on Saturday nights and we would reload shotgun shells until the wee hours of the morning, getting ready for the skeet range on Sunday morning. Some time ask me about the shitpaper wads we made.

Being associated with other bikers on base I became friends with a biker bunch from Calvin’s squadron. They didn’t have the luxury recreation room with pool table and beer machine like we did, but they had a nice warm place to work on motorcycles.

Better eh? Yes!

And it facilitated a place for lots and lots of bullshit.

What kind of bullshit you may ask? I got my first taste of Café Racers and Café Racing. I learned that BMW’s were the smoothest bikes on earth even if the transmission clunked. I heard stories of just about every kind of biking adventures on motorcycles. We would have balancing contests on our bikes while stopped, and I don’t mean on the center stand either. I really loved hanging out with the guys and all that bullshit. I think I may have even lived down the fact that I was a Nerd-Weirdo that everyone in my squadron thought I was.

So are motorcycles the reason I am not a nerd anymore, or am I just a nerd with a motorcycle?

It’s kind of like the philosophical question about the tree that falls and nobody hears it.

The tree still fell.

Whatever. That room was the birthplace for most of my ideas for the rest of my life when it comes to motorcycles. I got my idea to build a café racer out of my Kawasaki 750 triple, from bullshit in that room. I got my idea to put an excessive number of fog lights on my BMW, from bullshit in that room. I wanted, and later I bought, a Suzuki 750 water buffalo, from bullshit in that room. I met two blokes from England who were stranded in Germany in that room, not bullshit, and my adventure of how Calvin and I returned their Norton 850 Interstate to them in England was born in that room.

Naw, I am not a nerd.

But if you like bullshit, read on.