I’m finishing up at the gas station when I catch another driver craning to look at my car. He’s got a modern BMW, clean and efficient, but it’s my classic that has him intrigued.
I nod and say the magic words: “’84 Five-series.” His face lights up. In seconds, we’re standing together, two enthusiasts in dress shirts forgetting the world for a moment.
We swap quick histories: he had an E30 in college; my first Bimmer was an E28. We compare notes on the smell of real leather versus new-car leather (“there’s a difference, trust me,” I insist). He even jokes about how he’s a little jealous that strangers talk to me about my car — his newer model doesn’t get that kind of love.
There’s a camaraderie in the air, an unspoken understanding that we’re part of the same club. Not a business networking club, not something with a LinkedIn group, but a brotherhood of BimmerGeeks that seems to go on spanning generations.
A few minutes later we part ways with a friendly wave. I probably won’t see him again, but that’s okay. The joy was in the meeting itself — a brief moment where a gas station forecourt became a mini car show and two people found common ground.