Mr Know it All >>>>>>

This is too good not to post....😂🤣

I REALLY SHOULD HAVE KNOWN

By Rick Sieman/December 1981/Dirt Bike

(Notes: Vic Krause and I met in the early ‘70s and became instant friends. I watched him go from a small shop owner, to the man who runs Sidewinder Sprockets. And during those early years, I spent considerable time at his shop, and in the process, got a real inside look at what the shop owners dealt with on a day-to-day basis. Also, during this time, Vic wrote the wildly popular Mister Know-It-All column.)  

It all started when I stopped off in Chicago to see that lunatic Krause. We pay him good money for some monthly dribble and it doesn't hurt to check up on him now and then. Besides, he knows where all the best restaurants are in the downtown area and I can usually stiff him for the tab.

He picked me up at the airport in a garish Pigmobile and I was whisked off to his shop in nearby Northlake. Arriving at his shop, he immediately cracked open a cheap beer for me and a magnum (what else?) of Dom Perig­non, ‘53, for him. He tossed a few ice cubes in to kill the taste, then turned and started talking at 140 miles per hour.

Three full beers later, I started to pick up on the gist of his babbling. “Sieman,” he said, “I have decided to turn over a new leaf. No longer will I verbally abuse people. After all, these poor misguided souls are merely seek­ing knowledge. At least they come to the right place. Me. The Source. Humbly, I must admit that I have a vast storehouse of knowledge.”

I nodded my head in assent, while he poured some Diet Tab into his 30-year-old wine.

“You see, I met a perfectly delight­ful young lady the other day and she berated me about the way I handle people in my “Mr. Know-It-All” col­umn. I haven't been able to get to first base with her, so perhaps it's possible that I have been a bit on the brusque side. And good manners are an integral part of being a scholar and a gentleman.” He belched softly and casually wiped some Dorito chips from his suede turtleneck sweater with the back of his hand.

I asked him for details about the lady in question.

“She's everything I've been looking for in a woman. Tall, blonde, beautiful, wealthy and obviously in need of a virile man like myself. Not only that, she rides a dirt bike and has even put a deposit down on a new bike. I'm considering giving her a five-percent discount—that shows how serious I am.”

Whew! I was impressed. When the Northlake Strangler does that, it must be for real!

“Anyway, not only am I going to back off in my column, I'm even going to go out of my way to show increased tolerance for the ignorance I run into every day here at my thriving business. It won't be easy, but a man with my steel-like character can adapt.”

The door buzzer rudely interrupted our conversation and a customer walked in with a small cardboard box under his arm. He set it on the counter, loudly cracked a wad of gum and yelled, “Hey! Anybody work in this dump?”

Krause reddened, but showed control. “Yes, my good man. Might I be of some assistance?”

“Yeah. You the mechanic, or what?”

“Sir, I am the owner of this Mecca of Motorcycles. What seems to be your need? Perhaps a new set of riding pants at, I might add, a greatly reduced price? Or … how about a bike? I have a dandy ‘77 Ossa over there in the corner that can be obtained for a mere pittance.”

“Naw. I already got a bike. I also got me a problem. See this box?”

Krause peered inside and wrinkled his nose as if a piece of rotting meat was inside. “That appears to be a case half and the transmission parts from a YZ125 Yamaha. A 1979 vintage, I would guess.”

“That's it, all right. Only thing is, where do these here gears and things go on the shafts. My dog knocked over the box in the garage and it got all mixed up.”

Mr. K slipped on a pair of white gloves, reached inside the box and made a few deft movements. “Let's see … this goes here, that goes there and this goes on top. Slip this on, a clip falls in place, a spacer and a shim here. Voila! Your pathetic little transmission is now operable. Now then, what will it be today? Gaskets? A handy manual that even you can read? Perhaps some Loctite?”

“Nope. Don't need nothin' else. I bought the new gears and gaskets down the street. Well, gotta go. Thank you.”

Krause clutched at the counter top and stared wide-eyed at the back of the customer. The door buzzer snapped him out of his near-catatonic state. He slumped back into his chair and took a sip of his wine, hands trembling a bit.

“There, Sieman! Did I, or did I not show a great deal of restraint? One would have to be proud of the way I dealt with that oaf.”

Visibly impressed, I could only nod my head.

At that, the phone rang. “Hello. Krause Racing, home of the Midwest Motocross Stars and the Flow-Porting Capital of the World. May I be of assistance to you?”

I could only hear half of the conversation. It went thusly: “What? No, I do not have any special cams for an RM125.”

Pause.

“Because there just isn't any sort of thing!”

Pause.

“Of course I have a decent inventory of speed parts; it's just that a two-stroke does not use cams.”

Pause.

“No, you cannot have one put in anyway. However, we do have special reeds, pipes and other goodies for the RM.”

Pause.

“You want to spend how much?”

Pause.

“I'm sorry, sir. For that price range, I would suggest you take in a good movie, or perhaps a trip to the zoo. I hear they have some new panda bears on display.”

Pause.

“And a good day to you, sir. Yes, I'm sure your buddy can get it for you. Yes, indeed. And at half price, too.”

Krause slumped in his chair again, the small hairs on the back of his neck standing on end. “This sort of thing is trying, but I think I handled it well, eh what?”

I agreed. And the door buzzer went off again. In walked three kids. “Got any free stickers?” They all crowded by one small section of the glass counter and put fingerprints over the sparkling top. One kid had a runny nose and it dripped a long stringer down his grubby T-shirt to the previ­ously immaculate counter top.

“No. I do not have any free stickers, gentlemen. However, if you'd care to make a purchase of some sort, I might be persuaded to part with one of these excellent Krause stickers.”

“Naw, we want some trick stickers. Not any of those dumb-looking things. How much you want for that 490 Maico over there in the corner?”

Krause looked the kid over carefully. He weighed all of 90 pounds, not counting the yoyo in his shirt pocket. “That fine machine goes out of the door for $1900, and it's never been raced. Just trail ridden by a minister friend of mine.”

“What a burn! I can get a cleaner one for half that price down the street. C'mon guys … let's get out of here.”

After the kids left, Krause went to the door, locked it, put the “closed” sign up and turned out the lights.

“Sieman? You're leaving for the coast in the morning, I take it. So, I'm going to give you my column to take back with you. Let us retire to my office in the back and I'll let you watch me in the actual process of letter selection. However, I think that I may have been too hasty in my earlier decision. It's time to get tough on those twits. No more Mr. Nice Guy.”

The phone range again and Krause leaned over and carefully ripped the plug out of the wall. “Bring the wine and Tab with you. I'll need it. Hmmmph. As I think of it, this could be a stroke of luck. As I recall, that wench did have rather thick knees and a pendulous lower lip. But then, down deep, I really knew that.”