Yes, you already know the buffoon in this tale.

I’m the sort of character who needs help with automobiles, electronics, technology, banking, simple shopping, basic household appliances and pretty much everything that doesn’t have to do with communication.

I can write, I can talk — even in front of large audiences — and I can strike up conversations with fire hydrants if a suitable human being isn’t available.

I’ve hosted radio and TV shows, and felt amazingly comfortable (as long as someone else was handling the controls).

But put me in any kind of situation which involves wiring, plumbing, grasping information on car dashboards, operating any kind of computer-like device, and...

Things tend to go horribly wrong.

So now you’re asking: Fine, you are an idiot in most practical matters, but how do motorcycles fit into this story?

Needless to say I’ve never ridden anything more powerful than a child’s bicycle — and I once ran full-tilt into a parked car while showing my parents that I could sail down a hill with both hands waving in the air.

And to be perfectly truthful, I’ve never thought much about motorcycles.

They always seemed a bit dangerous, being so close to the concrete while zooming along at 70 miles per hour and all of that.

Plus, I grew up in California around the time that the Hell’s Angels roamed in huge packs and actually terrified entire towns when they’d hit the city limits with an almighty roar.

So even though I had no personal horror story to share at parties, I kind of assumed — like a lot of suburban folk puttering to the mall in their Ford wagons — that motorcyclists probably should be avoided.

A ridiculous generalization, but there you go.

Then came my trip from Kansas City to North Idaho, and anyone who is familiar with Sturgis, S.D., knows it’s basically the motorcycle capital of the world.

So for hours on end, I saw packs of motorcyclists — six, eight, more — whipping along in every direction.

Huge electronic road signs continually warn drivers to be careful and check all mirrors, since the cycles can appear in your blind spot in a heartbeat.

So I was cautious as I’d been warned, and thought little about it until I took a wrong turn while crossing Montana on I-90.

I’d stopped for gas, got confused by a cloverleaf that was supposed to keep me heading west, and realized I might have make a mistake.

I pulled over, put on my hazard lights, and began searching for a map.

Before I’d even found the right intersection and tried to plot a way back to civilization, two rugged-looking characters on monstrous Harleys popped up out of nowhere.

One guy jumped off his bike, approached my window, offered a huge smile and said: “I think you want to turn around, because this road goes off to Helena.”

Well, hey, appreciate the help, fellas.

I have to admit those bikers, besides saving me hours of useless driving, looked like they were having a heck of a time — zipping through the afternoon sun, breeze in their faces, enjoying the world going past.

Maybe there was something to riding one of those hogs, after all.

But that would have been the end of it, except that I spent one last night on the road — at the casino hotel outside Worley.

The next morning, heading at last into Coeur d’Alene, I saw a red light on the dash that announced I needed oil.

Like, immediately.

For once, I was prepared for this kind of auto emergency, and so I pulled into the Fighting Creek gas station on Highway 95.

I was pretty pleased with myself, because I’d actually stashed two cans of motor oil in the trunk — which normally isn’t my sort of thing.

The store clerk happily gave me a little paper funnel to dispense the oil, I lifted the hood and felt doggone proud that I was handling some “car problem” all by myself.

I pulled out the dip stick, chugged in the first quart, and was just starting on the second one when yet another biker — a Willie Nelson look-alike covered in leathers — materialized at my elbow and said: “Whoa, pardner!”

Say what?

The guy stared at the engine as I held the funnel in place, and he finally shook his head.

“Uh, you’re putting that oil in with the transmission fluid,” he said. “Look, see, the oil goes down here. How much oil have you dumped in there?”

One full quart.

“Well, I think you better stop,” the biker said. “With just what you’ve done, you might be able to make it to town. But I’d take that thing to a mechanic right away.

“You could set the engine on fire.”

Except for the cost of a flush job at Lloyd’s Automotive, all ended well.

Meanwhile, feel free to assume that I have an entirely new take on bikers.

To all of them: Thank you!

Matter of fact, if someone offered me a quick ride on a Harley right now, I might actually say yes.

Got a helmet?

• • •

Steve Cameron is a special assignment writer for The Press. You can reach him at [email protected].