Kein Kraut für Mich, Bitte

I spent most of the month of April 2011 searching the Cycle Trader ads for used Kawasaki Concours 1000's. I'd decided after some discussion with my wifey that a dealership bike would be preferable. We learned that we might still stand a chance of financing a later model through Kawasaki. Therefore, I limited my selection to bikes ranging from 2004 to 2006. What I located was a 2004 near Canton Ohio. The dealership was a 350 mile trip from my residence and I had the weekend to do it.

I called the dealer. They had the bike and assured me that it was a remarkable specimen of the late model variety. I asked them about the price (around $3500 with under 20K on the meter) and they indicated they'd be willing to negotiate provided I could slap down a significant down payment. I could. I called on a Friday and told them to expect me on Saturday morning.

I saddled the Ninja late Friday night and shot north up the interstate. I left at around 9:00 p.m. and slid into the parking lot of a motel just shy of Columbus at 11:30 p.m. This was one of those trips born out of necessity more than the pleasure of riding or travel. No pictures on this run. The motel was attached to a night club and had several abandoned gas stations located just across the road. When I inquired about the room rate at the desk, the receptionist asked in return, "How much you got?" I told her I had 30 bucks. "Sold," she said. The water in the shower smelled of cabbage, and my mattress had a blood stain on one side. In the morning, I turned in my key to a bleary-eyed young man at the desk. He asked me if I wanted a cup of complimentary coffee. Remembering the scent of the water the night before, I declined and rejoined the flow of traffic northbound on the interstate. I'm still not sure the hotel actually exists; if I went by that particular spot off the road, would I only find an empty gravel lot and the haunting smell of leafy green vegetables?

I reached Canton by mid morning and faced some disturbing realizations. The dealership was having a Triumph open house that was being coupled with some sort of radio show. The place was crawling with people. I guess I'd hoped that I'd have a rather pressure free shopping experience. The Concours in question turned out not to be a 2004 but a 2002, and was in decidedly less than pristine condition; much of the right lower fairing was crushed and badly bondoed back together. The 2002 had over 30K on the clock rather than under 20K. When I asked about the 2004, I was told that the particular bike about which I was inquiring (and had received photos of, mind you) had been sold the previous week.

Me: "What about a test ride on the '02?"

Dealer: "Can't do that."

Me: "I was told a test ride on the '04 wouldn't be a problem."

Dealer: "That bike's been sold."

I was self-consciously aware of the odor of cabbage that wafted from me now and again.

Disgusted, I left and rode through a light drizzle the remaining miles between Canton, OH and West Alexander, PA to visit with my father, cutting across the northern panhandle of West Virginia in the process. I spent that evening visiting with my father and set off down Ohio Route 7 the following morning. Route 7 follows the Ohio River all the way to eastern Kentucky and remains one of my favorite roads to travel. I picked up U.S. 60 in Kentucky and stayed with it into Louisville. With the detours, the trip stretched nearly a 1000 miles in the span of 48 hours. By the time I arrived at home, my anger toward the dealership had abated. I imagine the older model Concours don't receive much prestige in dealer's eyes these days, especially in light of a Triumph open house.

I opted out of making any further 1000 mile weekends, and wifey and I discussed the purchase of a motorcycle from a local dealer. This meant that a Concours 1000 was out of the question, but opened the door for the purchase of a used Concours 14. There were several of these machines, mostly '08's, available at reasonable prices from the local dealerships. Maybe a Check Engine light wouldn't be such a bad thing.

On the way home after work the next week, feeling a little discouraged, I stopped by the local Harley dealer on Arthur Street here in Louisville. I still enjoy looking at Harley's, the Sportsters in particular, and some of the new models really stir the soul. While I've moved past the Harley stage of my life for the time being, I can still appreciate their machines. There isn't another cruiser manufacturer out there that does what HD does as successfully or as consistently. And I've always admired their sales strategies, just not enough to purchase another one.

HD Sportster Forty-Eight

But the important detail of this little story is that HD of Louisville is also BMW Motorcycles of Louisville. I hadn't even considered a Beemer as an option. I test rode an R1200RT several years ago and found them absolutely fantastic, just what I'd always wanted in a touring rig. Plenty of power, mostly on the low to mid-range. Great suspension, actually a marvel of the motorcycling universe. Lots of nifty little doodads like heated grips and electric windscreens and powerlet adapters all as standard equipment. Wanted one until, that is, I happened to glance at the price tag. I figured that I'd have to sell one of my kidneys on the black market to afford a new model and banished the idea of owning one from my mind. In the meantime, the HD dealership had acquired the BMW franchise and were now carrying a wide variety of used models by the Bavarian manufacturer. While I went into the dealership to drown my sorrows in leather and chrome, I emerged with this.

So now I've officially sipped the Kool-Aid. But as I discovered in my recent expedition down the Blue Ridge parkway, this 2004 BMW R1150RT more than lived up the mystique of the Marque, and as far as I'm concerned, the reputation is well-deserved. After climbing off the Ninja following my 1000 mile weekend, my spirit felt refreshed but my spine wondered why I ever bothered to own a motorcycle in the first place. A thousand miles on the Beemer and I'm ready to stop for lunch. Well, dinner anyways, and hold the cabbage please.