No one ever stole my bike. Let me explain. Mine was a rather different bike. Sure, when it was new it was shiny, with everything in its place. One look and you knew it was a bike.

Not so with the later edition. That only vaguely resembled a bike, but only if you were blessed with a good portion of imagination.

True, it had two wheels, but they did not march to the same drummer. The front one was further to the right than the rear because the conveyance’s frame was not only buckled, it was also twisted.

The twisting was acquired in 1936, speeding down a steep mountain road in southern Germany. Each curve was a high speed challenge pumping large amounts of adrenalin into my 16 year old body.

Flying around one of those curves I was suddenly looking into the bleary eyes of an ox pulling a farmer’s wagon. The farmer, the ox, and the wagon were in the process of making a left turn into a trail in the woods. There is no doubt that this encounter surprised all of us, but definitely me more so than the ox.

More adrenaline poured into my blood and it must have been that extra short that caused me to react irrationally. There was no reason to initiate evasive maneuvers. I was well past his whiskers before I reacted. But it was too late

When I reassembled my thoughts and my body I found that my body did not come away without bruises, but generally was in workable condition. The same could not be said for my bike. Even the old blacksmith in the next village let out a hearty laugh when I presented my two-wheeler. But he straightened it as much as was possible and after I took care of some more minor details I was back on the road, learning how to handle my somewhat changed steed.

The buckle in the frame was caused by a ditch straight in the path of the bike’s travel. That path was not part of my travel plans but the result of a high speed evasion maneuver on my part. Again a downhill mountain road had lured me into another youthful adventure.

1936 was the first year a newly organized German Army held maneuvers in the area of my travels. Careening down the road I shot past a menacing black hulk of steel. I was well past the Army tank when my efforts to slow the bike, combined with its newly acquired idiosyncrasies caused it to meet the ditch head-on. I was glad that one of the tank crew knew about wound treatment and bandages.

Many more bike modifications followed. And one day my friend Fred told his friend Hans that no one but Horst will ever be able to ride this monster. Hans just laughed. He then managed about 12 meters before the bike bucked him off.

As I said at the beginning, no one ever stole my bike.