Back in 1971, I figured the world was my oyster, or at least the Maritime provinces were.

I was in the third of four subsidized years at Mount Allison University in Sackville, N.B., courtesy of the Canadian Forces’ Regular Officers Training Program.

Since there were no training requirements through the year, I could sport a shaggy non-military hairstyle, had plenty of ‘civi’ friends and possessed a natural ability for the math and physics double major I was enrolled in. I also shared three cars with twin brother Larry; a 1971 Sunbeam Imp; a 1965 Vauxhall Victor; and the hottest rig on campus, a blood red 1967 GT 390 Mustang fastback.

Another perk was a girlfriend who attended Acadia University in Wolfville, N.S. A sweetheart who lived four hours of open road away gave me an excuse to wind up that Mustang for impromptu visits. Get a yearning, fire up that slice of 1960s muscle and hit the road for Wolfville.

During one such venture I departed just after midnight with an ETA in Wolfville of about 04: 00. I took the Trans Canada as far as Shubenacadie then turned off onto Route 14 through the Rawdon Hills. That was the part of the trip I liked best, especially in the wee hours. Just flood the countryside with the Mustang’s optional driving lights, crank up Blood, Sweat and Tears on the 8-track and let the winding ribbon of darkened asphalt unfold.

The problem on that particular night was a set of following headlights that hung right in with me. No matter what I did, they were there, even in the corners where I figured the Mustang had no match. With 335 horsepower, I could pull away on the flats, but in those pesky corners, the mystery lights filled my rear-view mirror.

Curiosity got the cat and I backed off just before Brooklyn. A white ghost slipped by me in the pre-dawn mist. It moved effortlessly, a silent testament to life beyond my snarly GT Mustang.

At first I thought it was a Mercedes-Benz, but as it pulled ahead I read an unfamiliar nameplate on the back … Bavaria.

“What in the world is a Bavaria?” I wondered, never dreaming the sighting would be the beginning of a long, personal association with BMWs. From that moment, I knew I needed one.

A Bavaria was a 3.0-litre, 6-cylinder four-door sedan, a full-sized car made exclusively for the North American market.

The next summer, I was posted to Winnipeg and checked the BMW dealer. He had a white Bavaria in stock and I went through a bad bout of car fever over it before admitting it was out of my price range. But the BMW dream lived on.

A few years later, my father, Lee, who had never owned an imported car, called me in Ottawa where I was then posted. The fuel crisis of the early 1970s had spooked him into a quest for something smaller than the bloated Thunderbird “Thunderjet 429” he was driving.

I picked out a 1974 dark green BMW 2002 from the local dealer, told him to trust me, and drove the “Whispering Bomb” to him in Moncton. He called it ‘the little car’ and got so many speeding tickets in it that his licence was soon on the line. It got to the point that he would never put it in fourth gear.