After I had gotten to know that E30, my ride home was the most euphoric journey I’d had on my bike since the day I’d first happened to come across the car. My emotions dramatically surpassed the anticipation I’d felt on the trip to meet her; I was purely buzzing with elation. Each pedal, turn, and breath I took until I got home (and all night after) was dominated by relentlessly racing thoughts about the 325iC, as I subconsciously followed much of the route she’d just taken me on.
Upon returning home, I texted C a quick thanks to butter him up some more. I knew that I’d gotten over the first pole vault of conveying my interest – while crucially not letting him know just exactly how interested I was – in the cabrio, and I now had to figure out how to sensibly reason with him on the sale price.
Though I’d truly hoped C would’ve begun at a cost of $3,000 (while also hoping he’d say even less), I’d known since January that (C’s friend) J’s E30 was certainly at least a $5,000 car, based on 1) the car’s Hagerty-fair condition, 2) research of sales at major in-person/online U.S. auctions from July ‘22-‘23, and 3) my positive thinking. Not being one to ever give up on or give in to anything, I knew C’s openness for discussion signaled a strong chance of possible negotiation, and that I was still very much in the running to buy the car.
First Contact: A VIN, a Vision, and a Dream
During my inspection, I’d written down the vehicle identification number (I’m an old-fashioned old soul; for I feel a pic can be less reliable, and writing helps me read the number more closely to prevent any errors later) so I could refer to it and decode the BMW’s exact backstory later on. I’d also taken care to ensure every VIN and digit – those printed on the registration sticker, stamped on the firewall of the engine bay, and etched on tiny plaques by the driver’s-side windshield and door frame – was identical. I elected to individually dissect the VIN and each of its 17 characters by hand, before checking online to see what the interweb computers knew.
The commonplace (but not universal) first three letters, “WBA”, confirmed that this E30 was indeed a German-built/BMW Germany/passenger vehicle. These were followed by “BB13”, signifying her as a 2.5-liter 3 Series variant. For the eighth number corresponding to restraint systems, there was a “0”, meaning she was an ‘airbag-delete’ (as I call it) ride. Non/pre-SRS cars have the cooler-looking racecar-spirit three-spoke sport steering wheel that I aesthetically prefer anyway, which was retired around the time the facelifted E30 was launched.
Then came the ‘check’ digit, a number that manufacturers calculate from fooling around with the VIN digits in order to verify the vehicle’s identity, and the full VIN itself. The ‘check’ digit is the fascinating remainder of a quotient left over from a computation derived from the sum of a product of values obtained from the VIN’s digits. Manufacturers assign a numerical quantity to the letter characters depending on their location in the alphabet (for instance, A becomes 1, B turns into 2, C’s now 3, and so on). The VIN’s digits (excluding the ‘check’ of course) are multiplied by a special integer weight, tallied up, and then that total is remainder-divided by 11. Whatever value is left becomes the check digit (unless it’s 10, in which case the digit is depicted as an ‘X’). The process, and the special letter substitutes and factor weights, is an industry secret. This E30’s check/remainder? 4.
“J”, BMW’s alphabet-letter symbol denoting the 1988 model year, was next. Now here’s where things are getting more interesting, I thought. If this E30 was built for model year ‘88, it’s rather unusual if she’s wearing a steering wheel BMW discontinued late that previous year in favor of the new airbagged ones, isn’t it? It seemed as if I was actually uncovering the timeframe of the car’s build month by the happiest accident.
Just before the VIN’s serial sequence, I also had the 11th-digit assembly code letter that’d indicate which production plant the car was manufactured at, and also where in the world she was born. This number, 8 (also represented as ‘J’ on certain lists of factories), corresponded to Regensburg, Deutschland. The uber-historic east-Bavarian(!!!) Danube/Naab/Regen Rivers-side hub, renowned for its UNESCO World Heritage Site medieval ‘old town’, 8th-century city-center Gothic cathedral, and 800-year-old (thus the world’s oldest operational eatery) Historic Sausage Kitchen, now catapulted to the top of my German to-go list.
Firing up multiple VIN runners for accuracy, I confirmed my first priority: verifying no accidents or thefts had been reported, and further corroborating the clean bill of health C vouched for. Just as importantly, and for some real fun, I finally had the full options list before me that additionally verified my initial findings. (For national security reasons, I’m not publishing the serial here – and some advice to all: while we can’t conceal it on public roads, it’s best to only share your full VIN with those people – and VIN-running websites – you trust.) I was free to study my most coveted VIN finding: the full options list recorded in the closing six-digit identifier, and I analyzed this next best substitute for an original window sticker just like an archaeologist might scour any records penned in a previous chiliad (which I was also kind of doing too).
A Car Built by History—and for Me
The data would proactively answer all questions about the car, teaching me anything I needed to know about her. Under the VIN I’d entered myself, “Code/Type” began, “E30 (C)/BB13”, and “Chassis” added, “② Convertible (2 Doors)”. Ah, that’s a comforting relief to know that this cabrio is original, and wasn’t an aftermarket convertible conversion, I thought – though I had no prior reasons to suspect otherwise. The readout reaffirmed more: “Market: USA (LHD). Engine: 2.50-liter/125kW (325i M20B25). Drivetrain: Rear-Wheel Drive. Gearbox: Manual. Color: -” now here’s the cool surprise “- (086) Schwarz Avus”. “Avus”? Was ist das? I thought BMW’s jet-black was just called ‘Schwarz’! But, it seems it simply depends on which owner’s literature, comprehensive service manual, and automotive history encyclopedias you’ve got in front of you.
Let’s see, think, avus, avus, avus… I knew ‘avus’ meant ‘ancestor’, or specifically ‘grandfather’, in Latin, but if it’s not German, why’s it in a German car’s paint name? Then I did the research: ‘Avus’ was the abbreviation for the name of a highway that holds motorsport heritage in its lanes called the “Automobil-Verkehrs-und ÜbungsStraße” (Deutsch acronyms, especially ones about BMWs (‘CSL’, ‘VANOS’, ‘LMR’), always get my heart and mind happily racing).
It translates to “Automobile traffic and training road”, and was first opened for public use in 1921, around the same time motorsports sped onto its scene too. (After all, as soon as people figured out that they could race their motorized automobiles (as they had with horses (and buggies) for generations prior), the first car races began on public roads that were (sometimes) closed off for the duration of the increasingly-organized events.) Since its final race in ‘98, the bizarre AVUS circuit (and I demand that you research its fascinating past) has comprised the northernmost end of the Bundesautobahn 115. Bringing to mind the iconic Laguna Seca Blue, Daytona Violet, and Imola Red (see what I made there?), this “Schwarz Avus” was one of the first in an esteemed legacy of racetrack-inspired BMW paint name homages. And this E30 wore it well. Awesome!
The configuration marched on with 0295 Natur leather, completing that E28 M5-like dress code the cabrio initially took me so aback by. Let’s see the add-on options: S209 limited-slip (25% locked) differential; S219 leather-covered sport steering wheel (380 mm); S370 black softtop; S494 heated front driver/passenger seats; S530 air conditioning; S540 cruise control (yup, in a stick-shift car; not common, yet not unheard of); S551 onboard computer II with remote control; and S675 rear passenger compartment (trunk-mounted) six-track-CD six-speaker sound system. I’d seen all of those on the E30, and none appeared to have been replaced, damaged, or altered. All three VIN runners I’d employed were mutually identical to my own personal observations, with everything solidifying my confidence that the car was as correct as her original options.
One final phenomenal finding awaited me. I’d saved this best part for last: the BMW’s production date. “1987-10-11”. In (American) English, that’s Tuesday, in the year 1987, the 10th of November. The 325i’s birthday! Excitingly, it in turn authenticated the “11 / 87” stamped into the plate on the jamb. This build date guaranteed the E30 as verifiably being one of history’s final Bimmers to ever be fitted with the three-spoke non-airbag sport steering wheel, as all subsequent cars received the four-spoke SRS designs. Talk about embodying the end of an era!
I’ll continue being honest here: I’d been attached to the E30 since the very first instant I saw her, and from then on I knew I wanted us to belong to each other. There’d never been a car before this BMW that I’d hoped for more, and after the test-ride, I found myself fantasizing about her at any hour I was awake or asleep, and half the minutes in every hour. But: before you roast me like a rear tire in the comments, dear reader – and though I’m an only child – this level of care was exactly the genuine kind a brother shares with a sister. And it most absolutely continues to be so.
The Beatles, the Omens, and the Feeling of Fate
It was now early the very next day, Saturday morning, July 29th. For breakfast, I’d chosen to prepare a three-egg omelette, and as is always my custom when cooking, put on some of the 20th century’s greatest music – in this case, resuming my Summer ‘23 reconnection with The Beatles. I tend to spend weeks studiously consuming the compositions of one artist/group at a time to thoroughly uncover their histories, tendencies, and intricacies to learn as much about them, their methods, and thoughts with my musical ‘phases.’ I’ve consumed Beatles music faithfully since covering them during kindergarten graduation, and they’ve formed much of my life’s soundtrack. My first song of theirs that morning? Their immortal ballad, “The Long And Winding Road.”
And of course, I still had the 325i at the top of my mind, as Paul McCartney boldly burst forth.
The long and winding road
That leads to your door
Will never disappear
I’ve seen that road before
It always leads me here
Lead me to your door
Whoa. When the cold-open music began, the scalpel-sharp lyrics became an instant theme for the thrilling replay I was already reliving of the otherworldly E30 test-ride just 14 hours earlier. “Long and winding road,” heh, just like the drive yesterday evening, I’d first thought. “Tha-aa-at leads… to your door…” That’s funny, our trip actually did lead us right to my door. “Will never disappear/I’ve seen that road before.” Something is very strange here… hang on a second now… that’s just as if… I began paying this song the greatest attention I’d ever given it. A heavenly revelation arose amid the measure following the close of the stanza’s final two lines. “It always leads me here/Lead me to your door.” It’s like the E30 is… I listened harder than ever.
The wild and windy night
That the rain washed away
Has left a pool of tears
Crying for the day
Why leave me standing here?
Let me know the way
I froze in the morning sunlight, strictly breathing and dedicating my full attention to the words. One commanding idea governed all my thoughts now. Is the BMW speaking to me through song?
Many times I’ve been alone
And many times I’ve cried
Anyway, you’ll never know
The many ways I’ve tried
And still they lead me back
To the long, winding road
You left me standing here
A long, long time ago
Don’t leave me waiting here
Lead me to your door
The soaring instrumental commenced, letting me pretend to comprehend what I couldn’t fathom. Each metamorphic metaphor spoke to me: a long, winding road, leading to my door; seeing my door before, yearning for me to lead the speaker to my door for good. Asking, after a wildly windy night washed away by rain, how I could abandon them in the same place they’d been. The pain of being unaccompanied and uncared for, while doubting that I could ever truly empathize. Acknowledging I’d parted from them ages prior and begging that I only ever take them home.
But still they lead me back
To the long, winding road
You left me standing here
A long, long time ago
Don’t keep me waiting here
Lead me to your door
Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah
I may be a BMW-obsessed Beatlemaniac who thinks about E30s way too often and also reads into musical lyrics way too deeply – but each line of the song was exceedingly more than an undeniably uncanny link to each other, and faithfully personified the 325i of my literal dreams. I’d been purely floored like a stuck gas pedal. I’m not specifically religious, nor am I atheist or agnostic… but I do believe in some unknown higher power that I don’t claim can be disproven, and I do feel the things in life which we don’t control comprise the fate we don’t create. And, if we agree that everything happens for a reason which we know or can never know, then each decision in our life and present changes the future that’ll all soon become the present and past. At this nexus, I knew I’d get the 325i. McCartney’s vicarious vehicle became my third good omen.
Turning back to my family’s own BMW connections, exactly 30 years separated the E30 and my mom’s F30 330i, the latter which we’d led the former past the previous evening. The 325i was a spiritual union of each E30 318is owned by my uncles, the youngest’s U.S.-spec E28 M5, and his bought-new-in-‘05 black E46 M3 convertible with a carbon-fiber CSL fascia, hood, and trunk. And if I got this 325i, she’d become the third BMW in my immediate family, and third E30 in our extended clan. I swore another pact with the car gods, pledging to them in my reverent respect that I’d abstain from visiting her until a deal could be inked, and praying for them to grandly assist me in my mission to successfully obtain the cabrio for a graciously fair price.
It sure seemed like happy fate, and fortune indeed, that we’d passed by my house on that first test-ride. I knew I could no longer leave that E30 standing there, and instead would lead her to my door on that long and winding road she had seen before. I didn’t just see the very nicest E30 I’d ever seen, or the car I’d ever seen and wanted most; I now saw a ride in dire need of rescuing, and to be saved by me. I was too deeply invested after all these visits, and in honest introspection to myself, I knew if I didn’t go out and get her, I’d endlessly regret it for a long time, maybe even the rest of my years. And I understood I had to save this car. All of my life, I could see, had been a long and winding road that’d inextricably brought me and this convertible together at long last.
The signs were overwhelmingly far too much to deny, defy, or decry. Then C texted me again. “Morning, any word about coming up with the funds needed to purchase this vehicle?” he asked. “I’ve been thinking every day,” I wrote back. “That’s great, the owner is having second thoughts about selling it,” texted C. “The longer you wait, the less likely he is to purchase this vehicle. He keeps asking via text if you have responded about the 325i.”
Aha, I could instantly see he was trying to set up the ol’-walk-out routine… though doesn’t he know that it’s the buyer who’s supposed to be the one doing that? And I had no evident reasons to think they had any other interested parties lined up. But I decided it’d be wisest to keep that all to myself. I replied, “My highest offer is $5,500… understanding all the work you’ve done and my initial budget, that’s my best number.” I reasoned that, seeing as my original idea was 2-3 grand, and emphasizing that he mentioned the “ballpark of 8,” my new counter was strong. “Yeah that’s not gonna fly,” he texted. “I’ll see if he would go down to $7,500, highly unlikely. It’s been real and good luck finding one that meets all your criteria.” I paused. Ha, hard sell doesn’t work on me – and hey, that’s still progress though; he’s gone from ‘ballpark’ to ‘exactly.’ I knew this deal was still alive and well.
The Art of the Deal: Negotiation, Tactics, and Triumph
“Can you please provide me with his info?” I inquired. C typed, “There’s no chance, he’d tell you he’ll complete this project and finish what I started. That’d raise the value to $25,000. Good luck, hope it works out for you.” Unshaken by this, that’s when it registered both men must’ve each had some substantial money in the car, and were evidently trying to cut her loose to salvage whatever investment they could recuperate. It also meant they’d likely be less quick to cut me loose than C was letting on. “Please see what’s the best he can do for me, thank you,” I wrote.
“12,000 is a fair price and non-negotiable,” C attempted to convince me, backtracking with a futilely failed squeeze. “Coming up with $8,000 may not be enough to persuade him to sell it. The longer you wait, the less likely you will be the next owner.” Two mornings later, I sought to meet up again. “Are we closer to the price he’s asking, or no?” C said. “Otherwise there’s no reason to come.” I typed back, “We are definitely closer… if he says he can work with me for around $7,000.”
Silence for another two days… until Sunday, August 6th. “Morning, the price is $8,000, the lowest he’ll go. That’s $4,000 off the value of the vehicle. The last time I spoke with him, he said, yeah, he wanted to keep the vehicle. Be able to get the vehicle before he changes his mind. Now we’re at a crossroads.” I considered the magnitude of this very point. I’d indeed gotten them down from $12,000 to $8,000, slashing 33% from the original figure, or saving 50% of what’d potentially be the final price, however I saw the slice. I wouldn’t be stealing the car, nor would he be giving her away, so neither of us would lose, and thus be able to sleep at night.
I knew an irresistible opportunity whenever I saw one, and most of all, wanted no way on earth to wager losing this 325i. I’m also a person who takes action, chances, and initiative. Was $8,000 the bargain I was originally targeting? Of course not – but I knew an E30 cabrio like this one wouldn’t come along ever again. I’d come too far to give up now. Having been an economical saver and small spender my entire life, I concluded I’d worked for this moment and car, and that I no longer wanted to wait another moment to find my first car. Wholeheartedly, I also knew that it would be a very fair exchange for all of us. And I especially didn’t want to see the BMW rust away any further. “Sir, congratulations… you two just sold a vehicle!” I victoriously replied.
We concurred that the exchange with the owner, J, would be made on Sunday, August 13th, at 5:30 PM. The full week left until that day could not have gone by any slower. I spent many minutes of that fatefully fortuitous day thinking about the E30, and the rest of my time counting down to 5:30. From the second that I woke up, I realized that the next time I’d return to sleep in my bed that night, I’d be the proud human companion of my first car. Having completed my deal with the car gods, I even paid my very first visit to the BMW that morning since my July evening test-ride. Seeing the 325i glow in the bright 8AM sun, and a new light of imminent achievement, was a special treat I relished. The faded pinstriping that I’d often forget about was looking sharper than ever. I seared the car further into my memory before forcibly wrenching myself away to go open my Sunday farmers’ market. In between every ear of corn I shucked, grilled, and sold, the cabrio would pop back into my head. And on the bike trip home from work, I knew that the next time I rolled back to my house in the open air would be on four wheels.
Just before 4, my phone buzzed. “Good afternoon, the owner will be here within the hour/hour and a half. Hopefully you’re available.” Was C kidding? I was hoping both men and the 325i herself were both still going to be available; wanting to get this transaction over with as soon as possible, but also to get my hands on the keys to my first E30, my first BMW, my first car; while at the same time never wanting this excitement to ever go away.
August 13th: The Day I Became a BMW Owner
Cash is king, so I binder-clipped 37 Benjis, and paper-clipped the rest: half a dozen $50s, and the remaining four thousand in tens of $20s. Everything was counted eight times, and stacked and stuffed in the old factory box my iPhone was packaged in, and I rubber-banded the monstrosity before burying it deep down in my drawstring bag. I threw on a medium-gray BMW Motorsport t-shirt gifted to me by my youngest maternal uncle which featured shots of a competition-spec E30 M3 mid-hot-lap and the sky-blue/indigo-navy/race-red ///M stripes; jumped into a dark-blue pair of athletic biking shorts; and pulled on loud crimson-red New Balance sneakers, adorning myself patriotically in the historically storied colors of Bavaria’s racing pedigree as if my outfit were a ceremonial uniform.
Meeting J: Stories, Sentiment, and the Final Farewell
Instead of pathetically asking them to drop the 325i off and accept the cash at my house, I knew walking to meet pro-mechanic/amateur-dealer/wannabe-racer C and his friend J would not only be the right thing to do, but easily the most memorable one by far as well. Knowing I’d be riding home – just not on my mountain bike as usual, I set out on foot upon the mile east to C’s mom’s, and warm cheeriness enveloped my face with the pleasant thought that something would be very different in my life when I’d return.
The sunny, 5 PM, dryish midsummer heat cast a benevolent glow upon each tree, house, and street that I traveled along and passed by. We might as well have been celebrating any gift-giving holiday on that holy third week of August, for the entire neighborhood seemed resplendently illuminated with my infectious optimism. Every jaunty step I took on this latest stroll upon the same familiar long and winding route the car and I had taken felt like it’d be unforgettably memorable, as if I were walking the track before a prestigious race that I would soon be crowned champion at once again, and simultaneously now had the humble privilege of being lauded in a post-competition parade of honor after winning the car as a prize for my tenacious perseverance. Visions of the E30 continued dancing ceaseless fishtails in my head.
I finally stepped onto C’s mom’s street, and as I approached the house, I found that just like the July evening I’d first inspected the E30, she wasn’t parked there. Gripping panic consumed me with piercing stabs for a split-second before I logically deduced they (mainly J) must’ve gone for one final test drive again. Then, whilst looking around, I swiveled at the house… and saw the car perched at the highest part of the driveway that extended past the building’s left to its backyard. She was diagonally parked at the very end, tail-out, as if cheekily playing hide-and-seek.
As I ascended the steep gradient toward the house once more, and the E30’s rear-starboard quarter came nearer into clearer view, I saw her smooth body sparkle brilliantly in the scattered evening sunlight, gleaming the brightest I’d ever seen her. “Hey!” I called out with a toothy grin, spotting and waving at C and the guy who I figured was J, the E30’s true on-paper owner. “Good to finally meet ya!” J replied, shaking hands with me. “It’s a good thing for you that you’re here,” C remarked to me as I greeted him, “because he’d be keeping the car if you didn’t show up.” J nodded. “I was almost hoping you kind of wouldn’t,” he half-joked with half-sadness. I held up my drawstring, which I then realized wasn’t as black as the stunningly polished car. “I bet this money’ll buy you some happiness,” I courteously suggested, and the soft smile on the muscular fireman’s face spread wider. Geez, poor guy, he already misses his car, I thought. But it was another factor that, coupled with my respect for J, also made me fancy the 325i even more.
“Car looks as astounding as ever!” I exclaimed, at what was clearly a very fresh detailing. The BMW was, after all, layered not in pollen like when I’d biked to visit her that very morning, but instead with a fresh coat of wax. Her two-tone wheels shone with clean contrast, the silvery rims devoid of charcoal brake dust, and the black basketweave liberated from chalky road grime. Even the windows were appropriately transparent, through which the scintillatingly spotless leather glowed. “Yeah, I just finished up a nice full deep-clean for ya,” C shared, “spraying down the body, wheels, engine bay; vacuuming the upholstery, floors, dash, trunk; even coaxing that bit of mildew out the convertible top! Didn’t know the car could look even better.” I thanked him profusely. “You sure did a helluva job!” I applauded C, commending him with a cordial back-pat.
We all stood facing the 325i as if she were an exhibit at a car museum. I returned my focus to J. “So tell me some more about the car!” I piped up, looking to keep his spirits up, while being wary not to say “your” in referring to his car and risk freezing his feet. “Ohhh, man, have I got stories for you!” J burst out, folding his arms with nostalgic recollection. “Gosh, I don’t know where to begin. She’s just such a blast to be in – the car’s happiest at 5,000 rpm or higher, when you can get those revs up; I’ve just always loved driving her hard on trips out on the island in the summertime.
Ooh!” he clapped his hands in sudden realization, and I knew the car stories would be pouring forth. “When I got pulled over on the expressway in the ‘90s once -” though he was evidently referring to one of the many times he’d been stopped – “the cop asked if I had any idea how fast I was going. And I said to him politely, “Officer, I don’t know how fast exactly, but I know it had to have been something illegal.” So he told me, “Yes, it sure was, I clocked you at exactly 78.” But then I couldn’t help myself, and I just opened my big mouth and said, “Oh, no, no, no, that really just can’t be right, I’ve never gone under 100 here.”
But… he let me off when he saw that I was FDNY, so go figure then,” grinned J. “And man, I’ve taken so many dates on drives in this – that’s how I got my wife!” J emphasized. I instinctively chortled, “Uh oh, how many kids did you make in this?” to which J scoffed, “Hah! No, none of that.” Thank goodness. “Ahh, you’re going to get so many girls with this car, buddy,” J forecast. Just one great one would be rather nice, I self-deprecatingly smiled in silence to myself.
Even after reading several articles, watching multiple video tutorials, and attempting to properly fold, tuck, and stuff the softtop cabrio roof down into the avant-garde-for-the-‘80s sealed storage compartment, C and I could never make it fit when I first checked out the E30, nor close the Natur plastic boot cover that’d obscure it securely. J, having had the 325i for three decades, had his magic touch, and showed us his little tricks to sneak the top into position. “Oh, it’s simple, you’ve just got to pull these straps in… stuff this part down… and not crease the window…” and sure enough, J effortlessly helped teach us how to properly get the job done in a minute flat. He demonstrated while subsequently letting me practice, so I could observe and learn firsthand.
J then gave me his own personal tour of the E30, highlighting different aspects associated with the great times he’d had with the car. The starboard backseat, where he took great precautions to ensure the hard plastic baby carrier seat he installed for his first child wouldn’t damage the Natur bison leather – by layering towels to protect it from “cuts, scrapes, or indentations”. The vestibule that held his first-ever car phone, a novelty that he prized, but in the end had to yank the literal plug on “because the blasted thing wouldn’t stop ringing.”
The bovine good-luck charm hanging on the passenger sun visor that had “fortunately always kept me safe.” With every reminder of the BMW’s earliest glories, J seemed to be cathartically strengthening his mental ties to the car, knowing that though his car was leaving his ownership, he could keep all his moments with him. “You’ll have so much friggin’ fun with this car, man,” J promised. “That’s precisely why I liked her in the first place,” I nodded back. “She’s going to be something super cool for me to learn from, explore our nation, and indeed make great memories with.” J now looked his happiest.
I gazed at the 6:30PM sunlight as it swirled flirtatiously with the precocious moonlight, and figured I’d save J from any further pain before his sweet reminiscence could disintegrate into any seller’s remorse. “Alright, shall we get down to business?” I encouraged him. “Yes, I believe you have some money for me!” J agreed. “What money?” I asked, nonchalantly deadpan, hoisting the iPhone box from my drawstring as C and J guffawed at the sight.
They freed the cash from their bands and clips, and I stepped back – but watched carefully – as they each counted the sum thrice. Both men immediately began using the boot as a standing desk to rest the money they counted, or had yet to count, providing me with the inspiration to snap my first-ever picture of the 325i, with C and J standing by the radio antenna, a wad of cash in each their hands, and the other stacks hilariously on the car. (In my penitent deal with the car gods, I’d sworn not to photograph the E30 until I could broker the deal I was praying for, and so this image permissibly broke my fulfilled fast.) “I think all three of us got it right!” beamed J. He sighed with a half-sad, yet also-satisfied countenance… and then picked up a bag that’d been leaning against the side fence.
Okay… now I’ve got some other paper for ya that you’re really going to like too,” J winked, spreading his pack’s contents next to the repackaged cash. “Here’s our title, bill of sale, and – ” displaying a thin plastic pouch-folder aged nicely with cracks and yellowing – “all the owners’ manual booklets, service records, and dealership cards you’re welcome to become lost in!” My eyes widened. “Now we’re talking!” I rejoiced, gingerly yet gleefully flipping through the mint-condition brochures with as much childish electricity as I had when I ran the VIN online.
The BMW Roadside Assistance card coolly listed the car’s original date of purchase: 06/29/88, embossed in silver on the white credit-card-like plastic, with instructions specifying which U.S. states’ should call collect when contacting local offices. Both the service and radio pamphlets respectively had stamps going as far back as the aforementioned date of registration, and the car’s very first service on 12/01/89. But… the biggest surprise was a half-dollar-size paper circle bookmark that designated the car’s homeland as “W. Germany.”
Way too awesome, I’m about to have a car that I’ll be able to say was built in a Cold War-era country that (technically) existed before (most of) the Berlin Wall fell! Everything was saved and preserved by the original owner, J’s too-tall-for-the-convertible friend, and every single one of these deliciously priceless details contributed to my scavenger-hunt quest in learning about the car’s history.
Popping the trunk, he dragged out a transparent waterproof bag holding old jumper cables, umbrellas, and tire irons, among several other unidentifiable potpourri. During my inspection, I’d paid little attention to the miscellany, being more smitten with the trunk’s aftermarket 10-track CD changer (the ‘88 BMW was only available with a modest 6-track from the factory), and only had just realized it was J’s tale-telling go-bag of emergency gear. He offered to junk it in C’s garbage bin, but I volunteered to save it, regarding them as veritably irreplaceable relics.
Signing the Dotted Line: Keys, Documents, and Destiny
For his final trick, J unzipped a small pouch within a larger pocket of his backpack and produced his personal key ring set, consisting of two master keys, a small-head safety key (for storing in a wallet as an emergency spare), a doors/ignition-only valet key, and a Clifford key fob. C also produced the spares he’d been using: another master spare and two additional fobs. J dutifully proved every key and fob worked (“The alarm locks the car after two minutes – always take your keys out the car with you!”) and explained “the powers of the valet key,” which my uncles’ E30s had familiarized me with.
Now I had a surprise of my own to show off to him, though not for his possession, but his viewing enjoyment: a custom-etched stainless-steel keychain in BMW-badge font that spelled, of course, “E30”. “I actually got this in April, three full months after I first saw this E30, and three months before I worked up the courage to drop my letter in the mailbox about her,” I confessed, laying it next to the papers and keys we’d fanned out on the Natur plastic boot. “Oh-ho, so you were thinking about her for a while, then!” J roared. “Wasn’t it already obvious enough?” I wisecracked, knowing that because we’d completed the exchange of money, I had no more reason to hide any emotion that could make them hike up the asking price. And finally…
We signed the docs! Now it was official. Two autographs and the ‘88 BMW 325i was all mine! Everything had built up to this incredible point, and I was exultant at its arrival. My seven months of tirelessly visiting, yearning for, and dreaming about the car had paid off, and I was ready to at last begin my next new long-awaited chapters with the car! Along with my proudly becoming an Eagle Scout, my year-early graduation from undergrad, and the births of my four youngest maternal cousins over the previous 14 years, this ending of one journey and beginning of another already sat right up there with them all as one of the greatest memories I’d had yet in my young life, which I humbly knew was only just truly getting started.
C looked over at me. “Oh, you didn’t bike here,” he said, noticing and making sense of my lack of a bicycle and helmet. “Yeah, I wasn’t expecting to walk home, either!” I teased. “It would be very helpful if you could please drive me the mile west back home,” I requested. (You know, on account of me not yet knowing how to drive stick, having gone for only a test-ride in the E30, and wanting to learn manual-shifting on whatever would be – and finally was – my first car!) “Of course, it’d be my pleasure to drive ya once more,” C warmly agreed.
J, honorably holding his emotions in check, surmised, “I guess I’ll follow you guys?” immediately planning to pick C up afterward, and see the 325i off for his first time as her former ‘owner.’ “Yes, please!” C affirmed. I put my left hand on J’s right shoulder as he turned to descend the driveway, and extended my right palm, which he instinctively grabbed and shook. “I’ll see you in a bit – and thanks,” I intimated earnestly with an appreciative smile, and smiling back, J nodded assent.
C and I hopped into the cabrio, with her convertible top still properly folded down, all thanks to J’s aid. C buckled his seatbelt in with his left hand, and twisted the key into the ignition with his right. And without anything masking the inline-six’s twin-pipe song flowing from behind me, the 325i now sounded the best that she ever had thus far, with the sky-limit ceiling completing the fantastic sensation that was already just as enthralling as our very first window-down, closed-top test-ride… and we were still parked!
Being in a black BMW drop-top, with leather seats, and freely able to take in as much of the engine’s notes as possible, I encountered a fleeting flashback to my very first car memory, when I first rode in my uncle’s then-new Carbon Black ‘05 M3 E46 cabrio. Cruising top-down up our local parkway, sunlight competing with my grin, fresh leather filling my lungs, hearing the baritone 3.0-liter straight-six cackle through the crackling quad exhaust, and watching my uncle blitz the SMG paddles from my center-backseat perch, I still hear three-year-old me thinking, “This is cool!!!” 18 years later, I’d finally graduated to the front passenger seat in a classic BMW convertible of my own. I’m moving up in the world, huh?
The E30 had warmed up for a healthy three minutes, and we were now ready to make another trip to my house, albeit a more conclusive one. C popped the shifter in reverse to back up the old-fashioned way (and therefore the proper one: pushing against the passenger seat with his right hand, and twisting his body back 135° so he could see the driveway with his own eyes). He straightened the car from her diagonal spot, easing her along the narrow ramp.
We rolled steadily down the hill, and upon reaching the street, C made a back-left to prepare heading west, as J readied his SUV to three-point-turn around. The 325i moved ahead to take the lead and serve as J’s pace car, and I could now feel some real wind on my face, breezing through my hair, and around my head at last. As we passed a waiting J, I waved with my left hand and thumbs-upped with my right, as he heartily hurrahed from his open driver’s-side window. And – vvv, vvvvv, vrrrrrrrrmmmmm! Our infinite hot-pink skies above us vaporized along with the rear tires, as C launched the cabrio forward from our rolling start, slamming into second and third gears in searing succession. “Hey, don’t lose him!” I snorted upon our 35-mph runup to the wide corner we were just about to round. “Ooh, you’re right,” C gulped with sheepishly devilish soberness, and he tapped the brake and clutch pedals to engine-brake in second. J caught up to us calmly.
On the first test-ride I enjoyed in the E30 two weeks prior, I was taking in the entire car – but I was now taking in the entire journey! Riding top-down finally sweetened the sensory-overload experience to previously-unventured highs. Every air molecule was packed with the Natur bison leather’s earthy fragrance, the outdoors’ summery freshness, and each of the rumbling six cylinders firing away under the clamshell hood, with their surplus force grumbling from the two not-so-muzzling mufflers.
Top-Down Delivery: The Drive That Sealed the Bond
“I figure you already remember how to get to my house?” I quipped to C, as we crossed the parkway and bounded into the to-be-disquieted suburbs again. “Oh, I do,” he happily nodded. But of course, if that test-ride was unforgettable for me riding shotgun, imagine what driving must’ve been like! Though C was going his ‘slowest’ to allow J to keep up, and easing lazily into the apexes (hairpin!) instead of vanishing around them, he compensated for his cornering restraint on the straights, where he blasted away, as if playfully mock-daring J into racing us. I leaned in toward the passenger mirror, and could see J’s hefty crossover suffering under the body-roll g-forces as he visibly struggled to maintain sight of us. But the whole time, C kept the ride just fast enough to ensure that we – and the car – all remained safe and sound.
There was one hairdryer on this naturally-aspirated BMW, made possible by her lack of a roof, and boy oh boy, was that working wonders on my windswept crewcut! She was finally living up to her full ‘top-goes-down/fun-goes-up’ potential as a cabrio. Riding in the topless E30 no longer felt as if we were moving through the world; rather, the whole wide world was now moving for us. We found the S-turns greeting us with the splendor of a backroad.
The landscape continued to pour into view, seemingly freezing for an instant, and dripping away just as fleetingly in the ways that only a convertible, this convertible, could effect on her riders and surroundings alike. “Send it!” I shrugged generously, and C dove into the (empty) roundabout without any mercy, still respecting the limits of a car that was never his, but again attempting to disregard those of mechanical physics.
Maybe he was going easy on the car whilst driving hard, as the bushy island whipped past, but despite burying the accelerator pedal in third, the 325i seemed solely intent on autocrossing for us more than powersliding. I whirled around to glance back and spied J taking the shortcut left of the roundabout, obviously conceding his defeat to our speed. And as if the roundabout’s exit was the checkered-flag, C lifted off of the gas and coasted over the next hill.
We were almost at my house for good, and nearing our parade’s finale. My mom’s own ‘18 330i was intently peering from the driveway at the ‘88 325i in curious fascination as we crossed the final intersection to my block. In one fluid motion, I quietly snapped my center finger and thumb whilst directing my index to the family 3 Series sedan, narrating, “And there’s my mom’s Melbourne Red Metallic F30,” so C would know precisely where to stop the cabrio.
He coasted briefly, before dropping into second, and finally engine-braking in first with the steadiest of decelerations that kept me from lurching forward in the nevertheless-supportively-bolstered seat. Engaging the handbrake and toggling the shifter to neutral, C delicately vrm-vrm-vrrrmmmed the gas pedal as if clearing the E30’s throaty exhaust in mock impatience for J, who caught up and parked behind us ten eonic seconds later. C ejected the keys and exited as I stayed seated, still observantly processing each detail of the moment, and striving to realize they were all real. Everywhere in the open-air hemisphere that I looked and listened to, all the trees, birds, and even crickets and cicadas seemed to voice raucous hurrahs in their own natural tongues.
Closing the E30’s driver’s-side door, C turned to look behind us as J stepped out of his SUV. “You clown,” J groaned, shaking his head in resigned amusement at C, who merely whooped. “Car’s still got it,” C chimed with a shrug. We all walked over to greet the BMW’s fascia again. “I don’t think this has sunk in just yet,” I noted softly to C and J as we stepped in view of the charming cow-catcher. “Honestly, I just can’t believe yet that she’s actually my car now!” J glanced up at me and murmured knowingly with understanding.
“Ooh… but wait until you do.” He then inhaled deeply. “Man, I wish you all my best, and pray that you have safety, fortune and fun in every one of your travels,” J announced. “Thank you, truly; that means more to me than you’ll ever know!” I answered, pulling him into an arm-wrestle-grip bro-handshake-hug to best communicate my shared sincerity. “And of course, all my gratitude to you too for helping us make this whole thing possible!” I gratefully expressed to C, who returned the same embrace.
“Hey, grab a pic of us, would ya?” J chirped, passing his cell phone over to C, who obliged, and J and I put our arms over the other’s shoulders. We stood in front of the E30’s starboard headlights, and C a ten-foot distance across from the portside’s, as he snapped a few shots. Since J had his phone in his hand, I exchanged numbers with him too, and once done, we collectively breathed with finality. “Ah, this is going to be amazing having this car!
And it’s already beginning to feel that way,” I declared, as we started to walk to J’s SUV. “Oh, but before you take off… I’m going to try putting the roof back up, would you please make sure I get it right?” I implored, bashfully wincing as C and J nodded without hesitation. Let’s see… pull the portside rear-armrest release latch – lift the popped storage compartment cover – tow the roof out – lift the rear window bow to stow the cover and release the hoop – press down roof front and secure the adjacently-opposing nuclear-submarine clamp-lock handles. And that was it!
“Take good care of my car!” J pleaded. I shot back, “Hey – she’s our car, how does that sound?” and J yanked me into another bro-hug. We exchanged cell numbers and saved our contact info, “Keep in touch! And be safe,” we wished each other. And then they were gone… and it was only me, and my BMW. There was one more thing left to do. I lifted the driver’s-door handle (kuh-lunk), melted myself into the Natur bison leather sport seat, and pressed play on my phone.
Parked in the Present, Geared for the Future
The long and winding road…
The music eternalized the day in my mind, mixing a soundtrack to score my indelible memories. At last, an unending dream I’d continually had – for the eight months since I’d serendipitously found this ‘88, and eight years since my first-ever ride in an E30 (my uncle’s) – had evolved from fantasy to reality. McCartney’s thoughtful composition became cinematographic, like end credits codifying an epic movie saga, with the car hanging on to every word.
Yes, The Beatles helped me buy my first car! With melodically resonating piano; triumphantly booming horns; magnificent strings from the soaring guitar, punctual bass, swelling violins, strumming harps; and the chiming cymbals, blossoming chorus, and of course, Sir Paul’s tenured tenor. If you still think I’m bats, please now search up and play “The Long And Winding Road”, on your earbuds, headphones, or the Bang and Olufsen/Harman Kardon/S675 sound system speakers in your own – or next – Ultimate Driving Machine. I’ll even endorse a BMW. Make it an E30.
I continued to relax in my new 325i, sporting a gently contented grin… and my night was divine.