3 Guys and an Old Bimmer

n April 2003, I set out to find a 1981-1983 BMW 320is, and I finally spotted one on eBay—in San Jose, CA. Since I would be driving when the auction ended, I called my brother and put him in charge of bidding.

My love for BMWs started years earlier, in 1979, when I visited my brother in Germany while he was serving our country. He had just picked up his brand-new 1978 BMW 320i, and the moment I rode in it, I knew I was hooked. By 2003, I had already owned a couple of BMWs, but I wanted another one—and this time, I wanted the purchase to be paired with an unforgettable road trip.

So when this BMW popped up for sale in San Jose, I was all in. A drive from California back to Ohio sounded like the perfect adventure. With my brother’s help, I won the auction, and the seller kindly agreed to hold the car until summer so I could make the trip.

Initially, I invited my brother and my dad. My dad, a retired truck driver, had never made it to California in his 40 years of driving big rigs—though he had come close, with trips to Arizona and Nevada. I thought a road trip with these two men I admire would be incredible. But plans changed—my brother couldn’t come because his son was born that April.

So, I turned to the one person I knew would be up for an adventure—my friend John Casella. We had met in 1999 at a men’s outing, and he was quick to say yes, after checking with his family. My dad, who I feared might have second thoughts, also confirmed.

In July 2003, we left Louisville and flew to San Jose. When we arrived, we met the seller—a great guy who had the car washed and ready for us. After snapping a few pictures and checking the car over, we set off. We quickly realized the tires were worn out—almost slicks—but when we stopped at a tire shop, they didn’t have the 13-inch tires in stock. So, we decided to hit the road as is.

Our plan was to head up the east side of San Francisco, but somehow, we got turned around. Without GPS (or even a paper map), we ended up on the west side—stuck in stop-and-go traffic for hours.

Eventually, we reached Sacramento, grabbed dinner, and drove through Lake Tahoe that night. We hadn’t planned on staying in a motel, but we decided to stop for the night. The next morning, Dad made his stance clear: “Boys, we are heading home—no more sleeping in motels.” Now that was the truck driver I remembered from the ‘70s and ‘80s.

We left Lake Tahoe thinking we were on Route 50, but two hours later, we found ourselves in an unfamiliar town. We spotted a man painting a building and asked, “Where are we?”

“Reno,” he replied.

“Reno?! How far off track are we?”

It was then we realized that maybe, just maybe, we needed a map. So, we bought an atlas at a bookstore.

I remember when my dad bought his last new truck—they gave him an atlas, and as a kid, I spent hours studying it, measuring distances by hand, and dreaming of road trips. And now, here I was—finally living out that dream. The only thing missing was my brother.

With the help of our trusty atlas, we found our way back to Route 50 and began our journey home that Friday morning.