One night in my college room (I hoped to graduate and be done with all that in June) Bill Dutcher phoned, sounding tense. Seems he was headed for the Middleboro scrambles next morning, and one of the two shift pawls in his 250’s gearbox was broken. He had the part, but could I please come and install it?

Bill and I would spend our working lives in motorcycle-related work, setting aside 14th century Flemish poetry and other academic matters.

His bike was part of the two-stroke revolution that was in the process of pushing the four-strokes out of what we’d soon all be calling motocross.

Soon I was crouched in someone’s poorly-lit shop, preparing to remove the gearbox cover so I could get at the pawls. Watching carefully was Dutcher’s friend Phyllis, who held a flashlight.

I got inside, saw the lay of the land, looked for and found the broken pieces and replaced them, then reassembled. It shifted.

Bill asked if I’d come to Middleboro with them in the morning. In Bill’s sporty Corvair, with bike behind on its trailer, we rolled. On the radio came the strange news of the loss of the US Navy submarine “Thresher"

We arrived, Bill unloaded, suited up, and rode practice. As the day passed the time for his race neared. Phyllis noticed another familiar face—a man they knew who should have been getting ready for that same race.

“Blew up my bike,” he said to her.

“Did you break a pawl in your gearbox too?”

“Well, yeah, that’s what happened. How’d you know?”

“Bill had the same problem. Why aren’t you fixing it? There’s still time.”

“You think so?”

Now came the action of the verb. “I know how to do it,” Phyllis said. “I could help you. And we have the parts right here.”

He looked at her uncertainly. Yes, he wanted to ride, but maybe not with a woman’s help. He attempted a recovery.

“Nah, I’m… gonna let it go. But hey—lemme buy you a beer.”