It's outdated, but I almost always stop in front of people (M/F or whatever) with bad luck. Except for lease knights and princesses. Because they have a structural mobility guarantee.
After the bend someone came out of a crouch, turned to me and forced a hand up. "Stop!" Well, I estimated the chance that an old BMW boxer would be a leased motorcycle quite low. Alongside the unlucky girl I asked neurally: “Panne?” The lady looked at me questioningly. “Breakdown? As in "pots and pans?" She was not the proverbial blond, but seemed technically handicapped in terms of vocabulary. 'It must be the age' I guessed. “Yes, and then back into the kitchen. Princesses should wait for knights on white horses. Not chasing around on old motorcycles.” It's not what you say, but how you say it.
“Panne, originally comes from French. Means that a car or motorcycle is broken.” “How interesting! I am a French teacher! How does 'panne' come from French?” Look, that's how you get talking. “It is a loanword from the French, meaning 'forced delay due to engine failure' and was first noted in 1910. The link was made to what the French thought was the sound of a blowout: 'Pan!!!' ”
"Nice!" beamed the stranded motorbike. And a 'motarde' is the French version of the American 'biker babe', but more biker and less babe. "But why did he stop?"
The R45 looked neat. “Is there gasoline in it? Are the fuel taps open?” That was confirmed with a nod of the head. "Did he suddenly stop?" “No, he was slowing down. And he stunk.”
With the ignition on, the little BMW started well. And it kept running smoothly at zero load. And for an R45 he also responded nicely to the gas. I tapped the jiffy, checked that the free-position lamp was on. In an Italian classic, whether or not the indicator lights are lit or not often mean little or nothing. But at a BMW, they take their job seriously. Pushing the thing back and forth was difficult. When pushing forward, the boxer went first in the springs. I went to my knees significantly less smoothly than when she had come out of a squat. An age thing and the legacy of a few sloppy dismounts.
The brake disc was still warm, but had apparently been much hotter. Obviously: the front brake stuck. "Hasn't that thing ridden in a while?" “I inherited him. But didn't have a driver's license yet. Every year on the anniversary of my girlfriend's death I drove a bit. And he did well. But now I have my driver's license. And this is my first real ride.”
I looked calmly at the new-fangled motorcyclist. “For such an old motorcycle, a new driving license is very threatening. It will be psychological," I inquired. "Not a donkey would consider that to be true. I don't think men and motorcycles even have a psyche!” That was a point. At least when it came to men from before 1960. They only use their soft side to sit on.
"You're right. The front brake is stuck. That is usually overdue maintenance.” The nipple on the claw just came off nicely. A few dreary drops of retired brake fluid spewed out. The front wheel turned freely again. “Drive home calmly. Do not use the front brake and make an appointment with a local motorcycle shop. Not at an official BMW dealer, because there you tap off 100 euros per hour excl. VAT.” The message was clear. And the motorcyclist, who is mobile again, beamed: “I think I will really enjoy riding a motorcycle!”