George (not his real name) would never promote himself this way. But he stands out in my memory as "one of the good guys." He and I worked together as techs over 30 years ago, in adjacent work bays. I was always impressed with his humble heart, which was visible occasionally through his tough guy exterior. He was certainly a world more humble than I was, I can tell you that. George was also a capable mechanic, a good rider with lots of street smarts, and though soft-spoken, consistently upbeat and thus a good counter to my meditative, often morose character. That right there would be enough for me to remember him, as so many powersports techs were and are noticably full of themselves. But one thing especially reminds me of George, and it concerns the night of his bachelor party. I had worked hard all that day, and had unaccustomly skipped lunch in order to crank out a couple extra jobs. I was beat, and hungry, and probably shouldn't have gone. But I did, and I don't know what happened, but I got insanely drunk. I hardly ever drank, and the combination of that, an empty stomach, and unusually heavy fatigue probably resulted in a vicious chemical reaction that just made me silly, raving, out-of-my head swamped. I don't know. I really don't remember. They tell me I was crazy, picking fights, all of that. Bizarre. But what I know for sure is, George stayed up late into the morning after his party, nursing me back onto my motorcycle for the ride home, and actually rode his 750 alongside me, both of us at some 25 mph, escorting me all the way home. The next day I obviously was the joke of the shop, though to me it was just back on the job, bikes to take care of, business as usual for a flat rate mechanic. But George, who neither asked for nor got any attention (he never to my knowledge told anyone at the shop about his midnight vigil), and who never changed all the time I worked with him, was all the more respected in my eyes. Here's to you, George!