A man alone is in poor company.

Of all the characters who haunted Gasoline Alley none was stranger than the fellow we called the Hermit. He occupied the last garage at the end of the alley. And because the entrance to his garage was partially blocked by a couple of dead cars, if you didn't take the trouble to walk around behind them for a look-see you would never have known he was there. That would have suited him just fine, because the Hermit avoided people. Like a vampire, he slept during the day and moved about only at night.



Until we got to know him he was a source of much amusement to the rest of us. "What's the Hermit up to?" became our standard greeting. We spent an inordinate amount of time speculating about how he survived, where he had come from, etc. Hermit sightings also got high scores. But we cut him a lot of slack, because he was clearly hard-core when it came to bikes. And whenever our bikes were behaving badly, he usually had an answer.

Too, we had a grudging respect for his sincere feelings towards motorcycles. While the rest of us sought the bikes we wanted, the Hermit looked for bikes that wanted him. His garage was like an orphanage for unwanted motorcycles. "A new bike will run for any wanker with a fat checkbook. My bikes only run because I care about them," he would proudly say.
In his, to me, unnatural attachment to his motorcycles, he reminded me of Laura in the Tennessee Williams play Glass Menagerie. Even in his garage he kept the bikes covered, and he fussed about them like a mother hen over her chicks. And what a strange menagerie of bikes it was: There was the Honda CB160 he'd found in a dumpster (he called it his "town bike,") the '67 Triumph TR-6 with the Bonneville fuel tank, Norton mufflers and a milk crate bolted to the rear rack ("This is my touring bike."), a 250 BSA Starfire ("The most underrated BSA of all time.") In fact, he often referred to his shop as 'the garage of the living dead.' And while the bikes looked scruffy, they all ran perfectly--their reliability a repayment for all the care and worry he lavished upon them.

He cared about his motorcycles the way most people cared about their children, and he had a rare mechanical sensitivity. He was the kind of rider who, before starting his bikes, would always free up the clutch, so as to lessen the shock to transmission when he snicked the bike into first gear. And woe be it to anyone who dared mess with his babies. Like many of the denizens of Gasoline Alley, the Hermit kept a gun stashed in his sleeping loft. "See that hole in the wall," he said, pointing at the hole with a Phillips screwdriver one night. "If I'd a squeezed instead a jerked there'd be one less motorcycle thief in the world today."

The Hermit was of indeterminate age. I suppose he was in his mid-forties. But he could have been younger—garage life (and self-inflicted haircuts) will do that to a man. He was slender and always had the slightly unkempt look of men who have no one to look after them. He lived a very ascetic life and seemed to subsist on nothing more than peanut butter sandwiches, canned tuna fish, and bananas. His garage, too, had a pared-down, minimalist feel to it. As if he were trying to strip his existence of all superfluity.



One night when I stopped by, the Hermit was working on an RD350 he was recycling. Not one for formalities, as soon as I walked in the door, he just blurted out: "Why people don't drain the carbs when they put their bikes in storage is beyond me. The pilot jets on these things always plug up. When the bike won't run right, it gets parked somewhere, and finally, it ends up in the junkyard...all because the owner was too lazy to drain the carbs. What a waste."

As he said this, he stripped a piece of old wire of its rubber insulation and pulled a single strand of copper from the core. Holding the offending pilot jet between the thumb and forefinger of his left hand, he inserted the strand of wire into the jet orifice and, rolling it back and forth between the thumb and forefinger of his right hand, allowed the sharp end of the wire to slowly bore through the blockage inside the jet. He then held the jet up to the light to make sure it was clear, blew through it a few times then screwed it back into the carb body. "Good as new," he said.



The Hermit didn't have much use for modern bikes: "If you can't work on it with simple hand tools, it's an appliance, not a motorcycle," he would say. "Let's see. Because the new bikes are so super-duper, they cost a lot of money. But because most guys don't have a lot of money, they take out loans. In other words, they pay much more for the bike than it's worth. And because the contraption is too complicated to work on, they get screwed again every time they take it into the shop. Then, when the loan is finally paid off, the bike is worth very little, because it has long since been made obsolete by ever-newer models. So, the poor schmuck has to start the process all over again. Man," he said, shaking his head, "they should give the Nobel Prize in economics to the guy who thought up that business model!"

The Hermit had even less tolerance for the mechanically inept. Like most people who understand machines, he took his gift for granted and couldn't fathom why everyone couldn't, for example, adjust valves without using a feeler gauge. The first time I saw him doing this, I just thought he was being sloppy.

"You know," I said sarcastically, "there is a tool called a feeler gauge."

"Never use 'em," he shot back. "If the head of the valve stem is dished from wear, you'll get a false reading and end up with too much clearance."

Strictly speaking, of course, The Hermit wasn't so much a hermit as he was an introvert--one of those people who feels most at ease when they are alone. This is because the social stimulation that extroverts find so invigorating is terribly enervating for the introvert. Introverts are, by nature, extremely sensitive people, and the over-stimulation from the outside world--with its associated interpersonal relationships--sap the introvert's strength. The only way the introvert can physically and mentally recover from exposure to the outside world is to retreat into isolation. In The Hermit's case, this retreat was his garage and the motorcycles--a self-controlled environment where he could regulate the amount of sensory input.

Of course, we didn't understand any of this back then. Like most well-meaning fools, we thought the Hermit needed "help." That is, if he would just get out and about more, he'd be happier, healthier and more, well, more like us. But, whenever we tried to get him to join us on our weekend romps through the countryside, he always made some sort of lame excuse and stayed locked up in his garage. So, it was quite an event when he finally agreed to accompany me to the dirt-track races at Willow Springs.

"I just want to see how that BSA motor I built runs," he said, as if he felt the need to justify what was for him a major social commitment. A friend of ours was racing his Trackmaster BSA and we went out there to pit for him. Since it was a night race and there was going to be a swap meet and show the next day, I'd reserved a motel room in nearby Lancaster.



When the races ended late that night (our friend got 2nd in the main), I told him he could crash in the room with me if he wanted.

"You don't have to pay anything."

Thanks for the offer, he said, "I'd rather sleep out here."

"What? In the desert?"

"Sure, I brought my sleeping bag." He seemed mildly offended, as if everyone slept out in the desert by themselves.

Still, even in summer, the desert can be very cold at night. The dry air holds very little moisture and hence very little heat. So, the temperature drops precipitously as soon as the sun slips below the horizon. By the time the races were over at eleven, it was good and cold. When I offered him my leather jacket, he just said, "Oh, no, I'll be fine." He had a piece of cardboard that he had scrounged somewhere, and he shoved up under his windbreaker for extra insulation. "I'm just going to head up that trail a few miles and camp out. This is good enough."



He said this in an apologetic way. As if borrowing my jacket would have been too great a favor to ask, even of a friend. At times, like this he behaved as though his mere presence were an offense to people. As if the only way they could bear having him around was if he made as few demands on them as possible. But was even warmth on a cold night something that other, normal people could enjoy, but not him? It was like he felt he didn't deserve life's comforts. As if he weren't good enough for them. "Don't worry, I'll be okay."

He then fired up his Triumph and rode off alone into the Mojave. Even now, I can still see his taillight disappearing into the darkness.

When we ran into each other the next day at the swap meet, the first thing he said was, "It was so nice out there. There's wasn't another person around for miles."

Like most people, I mistook his introversion for shyness.

But the Hermit wasn't shy. In fact, he was often quite outspoken and, even, arrogant.

He tended to divide motorcyclists into two distinctly different and incompatible groups. "On the one hand," he said one night over a beer, "are the materialists. To them, everything they own--including their motorcycles--is merely an expression of their egos. Listen to them talk. It's always: 'My house, my Harley,' and so on. These are the shallow and insecure people who judge themselves--and others--by their possessions. They let the magazines and the ad agencies tell them what to buy because they haven't the self-confidence to ride something other than the status quo."

I noticed early on that The Hermit always used "the" when speaking of his bikes instead of 'my.' He said he never thought of himself as owning his bikes. Rather, he would say, "I'm simply taking care of them for the time-being."
In spite of the time and care he lavished on his machines, none were what the British call handsome. They all had the well-used look of daily riders, which was, of course, what they were. "All I care about is that the oil's clean and that they run well. I'm not interested in a lot of pansy garage queens." Extolling function over form, he reminded me of Robert Pirsig, author of "Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance," with his handlebar shims made of strips of aluminum beer can.

I don't know why the Hermit began to confide in me. Perhaps he saw in me a kindred spirit. Maybe it was because I rode a Triumph that was almost as ratty as his. Or, maybe he just needed someone to talk to. As his shell gradually opened, I learned more about his background.

I could tell when we first met that he was an educated person. His use of language set him apart from the rest of us. In his garage, part of one wall was covered with a large bookshelf containing everything from "Tuning for Speed" by Phil Irving to "In Patagonia" by Bruce Chatwin.

One evening when we were in his garage, and I was helping him install a Norton engine into its frame, curiosity finally got the better of me.

"So, uh, you got any family around here?"

"No, a few aunts and uncles back on the East Coast, but I only ever met 'em once." Turns out he was an only child and that his unhappy parents had long since left this world for whatever dubious rewards awaited them in the afterlife.

"We never had much of a family. My parents didn't get along too well." Suddenly, like a dam bursting, the words came out in a rush: "I never once saw them hug each other or kiss. I sometimes wonder why they even had me. Maybe they never even wanted a kid. Hell, maybe I was just a mistake." He looked down as he said this and was quiet.

A few girlfriends had come and gone over the years. And there had been an aborted attempt to live what passes for a normal life.

"Funny, when I was younger, all my friends were always talking about the big houses and nice cars they wanted. I could never understand them, because I never wanted any of those things. I always imagined myself living in a garage with my motorcycles or in some little shack somewhere. Hell, I actually spent a couple of years living in a car."



He seemed genuinely puzzled by his situation. The whole process of being a member of society seemed to overwhelm him. He was like one of those immigrants who, in spite of living in their adopted country for many years, are never able to integrate themselves. It was as though he felt he were somehow unworthy, as if life's rewards were meant for other people, but not for him. He completely lacked that sense of entitlement one finds in so-called "well-adjusted" people.

"Even now, when I see those families going shopping together, living in their houses, I don't know how they do it. I can't even imagine living like that. There must be something wrong with me."

There was no anger in his voice as he spoke, only bewilderment, as if he knew that he wasn't like others but couldn't understand why. He could troubleshoot any mechanical or electrical problem in seconds, but couldn't untangle the mystery of his own life.

He was a stranger in his homeland, an outcast among his own people.

But what the Hermit lacked in social skills was compensated for by his empathy with motorcycles. They were his only true friends, and he had an innate understanding of their workings at which the rest of us could only wonder.

For example, one day, my Triumph started to run weird. It would run fine up to about half throttle, then suddenly fall on its face. "Main jet prob'ly fell out," he said, before I'd even finished my explanation. Sure enough, when I dropped the float bowl, there was the main jet sitting in the bottom.

Still, even when you were talking with him, you always had the feeling that he wasn't all there. As though only part of his brain was paying attention to you and the rest of him was off somewhere else.

"Motorcycles are so much more dependable than human beings," he said one night, apropos of nothing. "Treat them right, and they are infinitely faithful. When something goes wrong, you just fix it." Then, with a sigh, "If only human beings could be cured so easily." He seemed to find the vagaries of human relationships incomprehensible, preferring instead the certainty of machines. Motorcycles, he understood; it was people he had trouble with.

He would disappear on his Triumph for days on end. Nobody knew where he went. His garage door would remain padlocked shut. Then, one evening we would notice seams of light around the edges of the door. "Looks like he's back," someone would say.

One evening, I happened by his garage just as he was returning from one of his mysterious trips. The Triumph was covered in dust and road grime. In the milk crate strapped to the seat was a sleeping bag, some camping gear, and a bag of tools.

The Triumph was making those faint tinking noises that air-cooled motorcycles make as they cool after a long hard ride.

"Hey, where'd you go?"

"Oh, I was out camping in the Sierras." He looked haggard and underfed, his face lean and sunburned. But his blue eyes were bright with excitement.

"What'd you go out there for?"

"To see the full moon rise over Mono Lake," he said. "If you take the turn-off just past Lee Vining and ride off into the desert a few miles, there's a great place to camp overlooking the lake. Man, you should have heard the coyote yapping at the moon!" He pronounced coyote in two syllables, ka-yote.

The Hermit seemed to gain energy from solitude. He was always going on about how the ideal life would be to have a live-in garage in the middle of the desert somewhere. "Wouldn't that be great?!" he would rave. "You could blast up and down the dirt roads on your Triumph under the full moon; have an old couch or two set up in front of the campfire; blast away with your guns whenever you wanted. No bills, no gardening, none of the bullshit you have to put up with to live here in civilization." With the word civilization, he threw his arms out wide, as if to encompass his entire garage and the rest of Gasoline Alley, his idea of "civilization."

It turned out that I was one of only two or three people whom The Hermit considered friends. This, too, was as it should be, because introverts tend to maintain small circles of close friends. Introverts do not deny friendship; rather, an introvert with many friends would always feel as if he were neglecting most of them, resulting in feelings of guilt.

One silly study showed that the "problem" with introverts is that they are unable to take pleasure in things which are presumed to be pleasant, such as milling about in large crowds of noisy people. Not surprisingly, the Hermit was doomed to be forever misunderstood. Not that it mattered, of course, because like most introverts, the Hermit was completely oblivious to all that was going on around him, including what other people might be thinking of him.

Thus, I was not entirely surprised when I returned from a lengthy trip to Japan to find that the Hermit had decamped. "We just went over there one day, and everything was gone. He must've cleared out during the night."

I went over to his garage to look around. Nothing remained to indicate that anyone had ever lived there. Like the life he lived, the garage was completely barren, stripped clean. I don't know what I was hoping to find. Then, I saw it. On the workbench was an envelope with my name on it.

Inside was a slip of paper with the words: "See you in the desert."