The Perfect Gift

Every rider I know subscribes to at least a few of the literary - or nonliterary if you prefer glossy pinups over the printed word - rags featuring the two-wheeled life.   In the months preceding the holidays, each of these periodicals features sections previewing gifts suitable for the bikers in our lives.  Write-ups reviewing everything from heated gear to the best cloth for polishing chrome compound these wondrous wish-lists.  I sort these reviews according to my own criteria as well.  I often skip to the end of each article for those obligatory price listings.  Anything with the tag "call for pricing" typically moves to the bottom of the list.  Items under 50 bucks gravitate toward the number one spot.  Over the past few years, few suggested gifts capture my attention in a way that moves the item into the "must-have" category.  

In the past few years, my tastes in motorcycle gear that contributes to the enjoyment of riding have simplified in many respects.  Gear which requires the same ingenuity as a Chinese puzzle to enter and exit falls to the bottom of the list.  I favor protection, comfort, and adaptability to suit my style of riding.  As a result, the fluff tends to drop further down the list every year.  While I find the concept of heads-up displays projecting speed, gear, and engine rpm onto the visor of my helmet fascinating, the price for an electronic doodad which performs the same function as the gauges with which the machine is equipped outstrips my desire for such an item.  I also find most of these contraptions bulky and intrusive - nothing quite like having a half-pound of plastic hanging off my helmet to change my opinion of  the terms "essential", "practical", and "safe".  That being said, I rather enjoy my Sena bluetooth headset - a gift to myself last year - for the product's ease of use and integration into the helmet.  I could care less about receiving calls while on the road, but righteous tunes are another matter entirely.  

Despite perusing various motorcycle wish-lists and stoking the flames of desire, the best gifts - even those in the biker community - are unexpected and thoughtful.  During a company Christmas party this year, I received a pair of motorcycle cuff links as a part of the company gift exchange.  The gift startled me and demonstrated to me a unique sense of consideration and genuineness.  I was moved to the point of a public display of emotion.  Not much, mind you, I am still a rough-and-tumble biker, after all.  But my astonishment did not go unnoticed by my supervisor who frequently states that I am emotionally distant in my work relationships.  Being an introvert, even gifts where I least expect them must truly touch my spirit in order for me to outwardly express my amazement and gratitude.

Cuff links aren't exactly the most practical gift for a motorcyclist.  They certainly wouldn't place high on my wish-list and I've never seen a review of such a gift in any of the magazines to which I subscribe.  So why would a biker - more at home in black t-shirts than black ties - cherish a pair of cuff links?  From the time I began riding on the street, I recall hearing nothing from non-riders except words of caution and warning.  See if a few of these sound familiar: "Motorcycles are dangerous"; "I hope you wear a helmet at least"; "I knew a guy that went down and he ripped off his ...(insert appropriate body part)".  People who do not ride motorcycles seem compelled to offer up nuggets of proverbial wisdom for our consumption - despite a lack of personal experience.  Over the years, I've learned - like many of us for whom motorcycles emerge as central to a meaningful life - to tune out the naysayers and dire predictions.  

When one of the non-motorcycling populace - without personal interest or understanding - offers a gift to a biker that reinforces our love for the two-wheeled life, the action more than the gift carries a tremendous significance in our lives.  While the gift may not be practical, it reinforces the importance and centrality of the biker life as something profoundly sacred to the rider receiving the gift.  In my own life, reinforcement from outside the motorcycle community is rare and, therefore, something to be honored.  

I wouldn't say that the gift of motorcycle cuff links is entirely impractical.  I have plenty of time to prepare for next year's Distinguished Gentlemen's Ride.  Now all I need is a good shirt, sturdy trousers, vintage boots, a decent haircut, argyle socks, mustache wax...... 

The New Vintage

The end of the typical riding season begets some of the most spectacular weather for riding as well as some of the most splendid temperatures for wandering among gatherings of riders to ogle contemporary and vintage machines.  Earlier in the Fall, my wife and I wandered among a collection of vintage iron spread out in the shade of a parking lot along the Ohio river front in Madison, Indiana.   Situated at one of the few bridge crossings of the river marking the boundary between Kentucky and Indiana, Madison's downtown area hosts a number of pubs and restaurants, a bookstore, chocolatier, and even a movie theater.  Madison has witnessed a revival of it's local businesses attributed in part to the contributions of the number of motorcyclists frequenting the area.  During the warmer months, the streets of the town can be lined with makes and models from every major modern manufacturer.  On special occasions, specimens of the common and not-so-common vintage variety make appearances as well, with riders mingling and sharing tales over a bite to eat and a plastic cup full of beverage of choice.

Old horse.

My passion for vintage bikes arises out of events such as these, where none of the brand animosity stands in the way of acknowledging the soulful reconstruction of machines.  The resurrection and maintenance of historied iron  for most engaged in the practice will never surpass more a personal, spiritual passion.  Few will make a living at it and few would care to.  My own interest in owning a piece of motorcycling history stems not only from an inviting community of enthusiasts but from a desire to preserve a link to a simpler time in motorcycling.

Today's machines offer a higher degree of reliability, safety, and comfort, but at the price of increasing complexity.  Similar to automobiles, the systems which govern fuel and air integration, stopping power, and timing display a measure of convolution beyond the skills of many shade-tree mechanics.  In some cases - without software furnished by the bike's manufacturer and specialized diagnostic equipment - the ability to calibrate and repair a modern motorcycle becomes impossible without dealership intervention.  While my experience with contemporary motorcycles - or as up-to-date as I can afford - results in longer, more comfortable, and enjoyable riding, I also find something lacking in recently manufactured machines.  A machine I must constantly transport to a dealer for service is a motorcycle with which I have been unable to bond - and a bike I am unlikely capable of fixing on the roadside or even after transport to my garage.

1984 HD XLS 1000 Roadster

The motorcycles I recall from my early days as a rider engendered in me a love not only of riding but of the satisfaction resulting from the care and upkeep of my motorcycle.  In those early days - my late teens and early 20's - a bike was often the only transportation I could afford.  To keep costs for upkeep in the minimal range, I learn to perform the maintenance and repair of the bike myself.  As the years slip by, I increase my knowledge of the intricacies of motorcycle repair.  I possess more refined tools, ample and sheltered work space, a great deal more patience - a far cry from a young man in his late teens wrenching away on an early 80's Kawasaki in the driveway of his dorm before heading to work. I still find enjoyment in learning how each of my machines function - even the computerized BMW with its rat's next of wires and relays.  But vintage machines return me to a simpler point in my life and to a time when wrench and screwdriver outweighed the need for a computer to keep a bike in solid running condition.  

Ironhead

I harbor no interest in the ownership of a new Harley-Davidson - though I believe they are beautifully crafted machines.  The common complaint registered by riders of other brands asserts that HD's amount to a bundle of antiquated technology not worth the purchase price.  In reality, modern Harley's contain as much technology as the contemporary BMW - throttle-by-wire, fuel-injection, ABS braking systems, anti-theft packages, infotainment systems including navigation, heated grips and seats - all while producing that wonderful old-world Harley sound on which the company built its reputation.  

What I accept in the purchase of a 1984 Harley-Davidson Sportster is the responsibility that comes with the maintenance of a 33-year-old motorcycle.  Likely, long days in the garage will pass before I am comfortable taking this machine far from home.  For those days when I long for the open highway, miles of road, and hours in the saddle, I entrust my Beemer - albeit getting a bit long in the tooth herself - to carry me on those journeys.  For now, I am content to ride roughshod on an aging Sportster over city streets and occasional teeth-rattling jaunt into the countryside.  And return to the garage to track down the next oil leak - all while watching my reflection shape itself around the surfaces of burnished chrome.

Biker Etiquette: Is It Still Important?

I recently read that many new riders call in to question whether some of the old rules of the road - biker etiquette, if you will - remain necessary in the contemporary age.  Many of the observances typical among our kind - the wave, for instance - arose out of mutual respect and admiration for fellow bike riders.  At one time, motorcycles were not as reliable as today and help in the event of a breakdown was often hours and many miles away.  Few resources for stranded riders existed.  Towing programs attached to insurance policies rarely covered motorcycles and AAA considered motorcycles as recreational vehicles - a practice AAA continues to endorse today - requiring the purchase of additional coverage to obtain roadside assistance.  Cell phones were limited to contraptions the size of construction block and often did not function adequately outside of urban areas.  In the event of breakdown, a rider might often find themselves alone and exposed to the elements.

Two weeks ago, I took my truck to Nashville, TN to accept delivery of my latest motorcycle purchase - a 1984 Harley-Davidson XLS Roadster.  On I-65, about ten miles outside of Louisville, KY, I spotted a gentlemen on the side of the road crouched down in the stiff grass at the road's edge working on a rather rough looking specimen of the Japanese variety.  I debated whether stopping would put me behind schedule.  It was a Sunday, and I had to make the drive of almost 200 miles before the dealership closed.  I reasoned that the stranded rider likely had a cell phone and help was on the way.  I remember thinking, "But if it were me....".  I pulled over and slowly walked back along the highway's edge to within shouting distance of the rider and raised my hands to shoulder height.  As I neared, I observed the spreading pool of oil beneath the bike - a Suzuki Katana - mixed with fragments of what I surmised to be aluminum engine casing.  Clearly this wasn't going to surmount to something easily repaired on the side of the road.  

Stranded on the Roadside - I264

While I've never faced as extensive a repair as that of the young man I encountered - later identified as Smitty - that day on the roadside, my motorcycles - though mostly of the modern variety - contributed to more than one evening of frustration on the side of the highway.  Most recently, my BMW R1150RT - a wonder of modern engineering - sputtered quietly to a stop on the I-264 bypass and refused to start.  The culprit later turned out to be a short in the right-hand handlebar control switches which cut power to the fuel-delivery system.  The entire switch housing needed to be replaced as the unit is sealed - not a roadside repair by any means.  I did have a cell phone with me that day and called for help, but while hunkered down in the sparse shade behind the guardrail, no cars stopped to offer assistance and rider after rider cruised by without so much as a concerned glance.  

Smitty's cell phone had died on the side of the road and using mine, he was unable to summon assistance.  The chain on the bike jumped the rear sprocket, bunched up around the front sprocket, and ruptured the lower engine casing.  I found it a wonder that Smitty managed to navigate to the road's edge rather than being scattered down the interstate amidst shards of plastic and a trail of gasoline.  Ambient temperatures that morning were climbing into the upper 80's.  The only tool Smitty had available happened to be an over-sized crescent wrench.   While the young gentlemen was reluctant to leave the machine by the road's edge, I convinced Smitty to permit me to drive him to the next freeway exit where at least he could charge his phone and wait for assistance in the comfort of air conditioning.  On my return voyage several hours later, I noted that the worse-for-wear Katana was absent from the interstate berm.  

The question regarding whether motorcycle etiquette in contemporary times holds the same relevance as it once did is influenced by several factors.  Motorcycles in general are more reliable.  Insurance companies frequently offer roadside assistance as a component of policies which cover bikes.  The cell phone puts aid at our fingertips in all but the most remote locations.  More people own and ride motorcycles than in previous decades - although by some reports that number is again falling.  So why should we be concerned with the way in which we interact with one another?

According to the US Department of Transportation Statistics (2009), over 7 million motorcycles were registered in the United States by the end of 2007 (pp. 1, 3).  Only a fraction of the bikes registered throughout the country are utilized as a primary means of year-round transportation - 4.3 percent according to the Motorcycle Industry Council (2003).  The US Census Bureau reports that of the 130 million commuter vehicles used as a means of transportation to work, less than 150,000 were motorcycles - approximately .0011 percent of the commuter vehicle total (The Daily Rider, 2003, p. 1).  

We - as motorcyclists, bikers, riders, scooter trash, etc. - remain in the minority on US roadways despite an increase in the popularity of our lifestyle.  Even with the advances in engine design and safety equipment, and the push for awareness of motorcycles by the general public, the risk involved in riding a motorcycle - especially on a regular or daily basis - continues to be high.  We wave to one another not only to acknowledge this risk, but to express our mutual fondness for a life lived outside the norm.  We pull over to help a stranded rider not just out of altruism, but out of the sincere hope that when our time comes to stand at the highway's edge cursing (insert nationality) engineering, someone - a brother from the road - will stop for us if for nothing more than to commiserate on rotten luck.

References

Morris, C. C. (2009). Motorcycle trends in the United States. Bureau of Transportation Statistics. Retrieved from https://www.rita.dot.gov/bts/sites/rita.dot.gov.bts/files/publications/special_reports_and_issue_briefs/special_report/2009_05_14/pdf/entire.pdf

Ride to Work (n.d.). Motorcycle transportation fact sheet. The Daily Rider. Retrieved from http://www.ridetowork.org/files/docs/rtw_transportation_fact_sheet.pdf

Labor Day Twist

The roads entering and departing Frankfort, KY offer some of the most sensational curves in the central area of the state - not to mention the opportunity to explore a bit of history in the process.  Rt. 421 remains a favorite of mine, whether I'm visiting the capital for the day or following that ribbon of asphalt southeast all the way to that wondrous Mecca of the two-wheeled life at the convergence of Tennessee, Kentucky, Virginia, and North Carolina.  Unfortunately, on Labor Day 2017, I only had enough time for a ride through the local environs.  

Love, Hate, Love

During my years in absentia, I've come to understand the inner workings of the R1150RT with a grudging familiarity.  While I continue to contend that the BMW motorcycle achieves the pinnacle of what I consider to be a comfortable and capable touring rig, my dedication - if not to the brand but to this particular machine - emerges challenged only by the level of frustration I experienced coping with the few minor setbacks in engine function to which I have been subjected over the last five years.  For those acquainted with the German moniker, reports of reliability are legendary - stories swapped in the gloom around campfires of machines peaking above 300K miles.  Usually, such tales begin with, "I knew a guy who knew a guy who had a cousin..."

Personally, I haven't come across such legends.  Though I don't entirely discount the existence of such rare and unique specimens - several documented accounts report motorcycles with over 200K on the odometer - I doubt the existence of an entire fleet of these machines.  My own experience wrestling with the cantankerous systems of my Oilhead leaves me with uncertainties as to the extended future of my beloved RT.  To balance the scales, a fair number of the machines I observe at vintage motorcycle shows - in various stages of resurrection - happen to wear the BMW roundel.  And many of those are Boxers.  

The trials and tribulations I experience in maintaining an aging BMW motorcycle leave me a tad cynical.  On more than one occasion, I have been known to declare from the garage following a prolonged evening of wrenching on some failed component of German origin, that this moment shall be the last I will tolerate from this infernal contraption.  I curse and gnash my teeth.  Shake my fist at the beast and threaten to strip it to the rolling chassis and sell the components to the lowest bidder.  My wife watches stoically, shaking her head at the railings of a husband driven mad with frustration and occasionally providing me a fresh cup of steaming coffee to fuel longer hours under the flickering neons of the garage.  

Despite all this - after reassembly and a quick test turned to 200 miles on a lazy Saturday afternoon - I roll into the driveway, shut down the engine, and wonder if I can find a job where someone will pay me to leave behind my career to spend my days in the saddle.  I will ride in the rain. I'll pitch a tent in lonesome places - or at least, stay in a really low budget hotel.  Eat food from gas stations, consume camp rations, and brave the sad country music infested interior of Waffle Houses.  I'll explore all these deliriously wondrous discomforts for just a few more moments behind the handle bars of that amazing machine.  

Corydon Pike

As I purchased a new camera a few days ago - a GoPro Hero Session 5 - I thought a short run on the local roads to test the unit's capabilities was in order.  The footage depicts a short run up Corydon Pike, a connector road bridging Rt. 111 out of New Albany, Indiana to Rt. 62 in Georgetown, Indiana.  Although a brief ride, my primary interest pertained to assessing the effectiveness of the small camera's image stabilization functions.  As I gain familiarity with the device and polish my skills with the camera's use, I'll review a few more features of the Session 5.  This video was shot in 1080p at 60 fps with the image stabilization option in effect.  

Something Old; Something New

1948 Indian Chief

As the summer nears it's end, we motorcyclists often begin to contemplate the fact that we may not have ridden as much as we'd prefer.  Many of us had plans to pursue particular rides - perhaps not far from our own backyards.  In the late Spring, I envision another pass down the Blue Ridge Parkway. I close my eyes and imagine myself standing along the shoulder of that iconic stretch of road waiting for the early morning fog to rise out of the valleys of the Virginia high country.  On some lengths of the Blue Ridge there is solitude and quiet that rivals a monastery.  While I can get a bit of the sacred lonesomeness of those mountains in the rural back roads of Kentucky - particularly the farther east one rides - I had hoped for some exposure to the cool mountain air and the scent of laurel.

1969 Ducati 

Alas, gremlin hunting through an aging R1150RT electrical system proves to be the principle menu item as Spring transitioned into summer.  Working on the BMW awakens in me a passion for maturing iron - especially of the German variety.  I've noticed a return of "things vintage" to the motorcycle world over the past few years, a yearning for the simpler machines of yesteryear lacking the complex electronic overlay of contemporary motorcycles.  Perhaps, too, we hunger for the experience those early machines brought us - the exhilaration of the ride punctuated by the heartbreak  of unreliable electrical systems, rough manufacturing, questionable stopping power.  Despite the problems I recall as inherent in those early machines of which I was custodian, my mind turns frequently to the concept of owning and caring for vintage hardware.

1973 Honda CL350

Nostalgia births those last gatherings in weather that promises to deliver a rider home in the same comfort under which one rolled away from the hacienda.  From this point forward - doubly so for those riding in northern latitudes - we're forced to ask ourselves if we must carry the liner for the jacket and spare, clear shield for the helmet.  We move into the season which often initiates the slumber of old iron through the winter - the slow shift of leaves from lush green to nature's fire.  The weather becomes fickle and the sun cannot be relied upon to predict the warmth of a weekend afternoon.  In my mind, the Autumn season encourages reflection, and I can think of no better opportunity than to gaze longingly at vintage machinery before the march toward winter truly begins.  

1964 BMW R27

On Sunday, August 27, 2017 my wife and I make the journey to Madison, IN for the first annual Thornton's Cycle End of Summer Bike Show.  The clear, sunny afternoon affords us the chance to witness some rare specimens of the motorbike world - some prime examples of restoration.  The event also showcases those machines with patina barely sufficient to hold the machine together.  Regardless of condition, each bike carries the marks of it's travels, etched into the brushed aluminum and smokey chrome.   By the time we left, having consumed a basket of chicken fingers and Coke from a can, the urge to possess and maintain one these rolling pieces of history simmers in the back of my mind.  

1975 BMW R75 and Company

That is, until I return home to the RT waiting in the garage for a transplant of starter and kill switches.  A part I order - rather than pay the ungodly price for new electrics fresh from the folks at Bosch - from a salvage yard somewhere beyond the wall of the Rocky Mountains.  I realize that all machines are in the slow process of becoming vintage.  All bikes gather the stories of their miles into their surfaces.  All a rider must do is survive and ride long enough.

The Fallacy of Long-Term Product Reviews

A phenomena I've noticed in the motorcycle product placement word involves the review of products for the so-called long-term.  As a motorcyclist of almost a quarter-century, the use of a product for a prolonged period of time takes on a fundamentally profound new meaning.  I still have my first leather jacket, hanging cracked and faded from a peg on the wall of my garage.  Though I haven't worn the jacket in years - my midsection no longer permits this - that jacket endured miles of highway, freezing temperatures, rain, and a battalion of high-speed insectoid invaders.  

While the leather aged remarkably well - conditioned as it was by the elements - the lining all but disintegrated with years of regular use.  The jacket's also a bit stiff.  The arms are permanently bent at the elbows and the cuffs of the sleeves molded into crests of leather to accommodate gloves long since  retired to the rubbish bin.  Considering the abuse and the long march of years, my original leathers have withstood the test of time.

When considering long-term product reviews, I'm less interested in a jacket, pants, gloves, or boots which have been worn for three months in relatively stable conditions than those products I see other riders wearing which have withstood daily and, oftentimes, brutal testing.  I want to know the story behind the Roadcrafter with faded impact panels, smudged with road grime from the knees to the lower cuff.  I desire the tale of the boots resoled after three years, the leather pliable as soft cloth.  How many times has the liner of that favorite helmet been washed, rewashed, and replaced simply to preserve that fantastic outer shell now out of production.  

And don't get me started on motorcycles.  Three to six months in fabulous weather on a machine acquired with an odometer reading zero should be called "A Nice Beginning" rather than long-term review.  Long-term testing involves standing under a bridge overpass watching the lights of the instrument panel fade to black, the death of a ten year-old electrical system by thunderstorm.  What suffices as long-term motorcycle testing for product placement would likely only scuff a new set of brake pads.

Gypsy's Reboot

When glancing through the last posts in this blog, I experience the sensation as if I discovered something I'd thought lost.  Akin perhaps to finding an old box of parts stuffed under a work bench, I read through old entries as if turning over an odd foot peg or dusty mirror, marveling at the speckled patina slowly consuming the mirrored surface of the chrome and dusting away sticky strands of cobweb.  The odor of old gasoline absorbed into a cardboard box triggers memories of long hours spent in the garage, worrying away some problem threatening the next day's ride.  With a grease-stained rag in one hand, I wipe the grit and grime from those old parts, turning and examining each for wear.  In the measured age of yesterday's parts lies the hope of the ride tomorrow.  

All gypsies must come in from the road from time to time.  The horse must rest and be cared for.  The wanderer brings in tales of the wild places, those of open highway and wilderness as well as the view of interior places fostered by long hours in the saddle and the pulse of an engine.  It is time to dust off those old parts, hold tools in the hand until metal warms to the touch, and recall the profound fortune which allows us to be vagabonds - if only for a weekend at a time.

Gathering Speed

The first time I laid eyes on the book Gathering Speed by David A. Braun, I knew I beheld something unusual and maybe even rare. I'd been coasting through general search of motorcycle related books on Amazon.com when I stumbled upon it. As usual, the cover intrigued me the most. At first glance, the photo tells the story of your every day rider out for a jaunt on a stretch of asphalt that's about to get very interesting. But the cover also plunges me into my own memories of strapping whatever I could manage to the pillion by whatever means available and striking out for parts unknown.

I'm a sucker for nostalgia. There's a certain romantic quality to the memories I revisit of my early days of riding -- a place, much like home, impossible to visit again in the same way. Good motorcycle stories, I believe, do just that. Well-told tales reach back through time and retell even our hardships in a manner that reveals the sacred in those stories. The teller as well as those along for the ride experience the thrills, chills, and spills without having to relive the unpleasantness of the actual situation. And let's face it, catastrophe or near there abouts make the best tall tales.

For instance, I'll never forget sweating desperately over the kickstart of my '78 Yamaha as my downstairs neighbor, an enormous, hairy mountain of a woman, bore down on me across the small square of brown grass separating our apartment complex from the street. Stabbing her finger at me and swearing, I vaguely recall urinating into her barbecue grill the previous evening from the second floor balcony. See? That particular motorcycle left me stranded more times than I comfortably care to recall, mostly in uninteresting ways. But throw in a big woman and a drunken stupor and we've got the makings of something special. I digress.

The stories Mr. Braun presents aren't unified in any way that would suggest an overarching theme in this collection. What we have here are a series of vignettes, roughly categorized and irreverently spun, that drop us into crucial moments of the writer's life as a motorcyclist. With softbound covers, the book's width and height measure the same as a periodical. Sprinkled throughout the 198 pages, black and white photos reminiscent of the cover's flavor add a flair to each accompanying tale.

We ride pillion through the author's formative years. We could even stand idly by just outside the door to his garage, watching him sweat and curse his way through a tire change, the curiously addictive scent of fresh rubber mingling with a whiff of old motor oil. We might clutch a cold drink in one hand. I'm fond of Coca-Cola in the old glass bottles myself. Bruce Springsteen's crooning from the radio. So ease a shoulder up against the door frame, sip your beverage slowly, reverently. Hand David that tire iron as we turn a few pages and take a ride on the way-back machine.

Winter Solace

The best remedy for those who are afraid, lonely or unhappy is to go outside, somewhere where they can be quiet, alone with the heavens, nature and God. Because only then does one feel that all is as it should be.

--Anne Frank

Our January in Kentucky sported unusual temperatures. For the first time in several years, I hauled out the tent, sleeping bag, and other assorted outdoor gear and headed for the woods in midwinter. I enjoyed the sunrise from the shores of Kentucky Lake at Birmingham Ferry, a campground located about 10 miles or so beyond the north entrance to Land Between the Lakes national recreation area. Vacancy in the campground illustrated the benefit of sleeping outdoors during the typically colder months of the year. As the silence and chill of the evening settled in, my small fire mirrored the dim lights winking through the trees on the lake's western shore.

The life of the lone rider turned my eye inward from the moment I first threw my leg over the saddle of that beat up old '78 Yamaha I received for free from an uncle of mine. And in this lean winter month of the year, when darkness and cold come so readily each day, the golden wonder of the fading day and gentle washing of the shoreline by the water, I relished as a rare gift. When the rusted light of my campfire pushed away the night and the prayer of smoke rose toward the stars, I stared into glowing coals and allowed the memory of warmer times to to fill my spirit with hope for the days yet to come.

Who Says You Can't Tilt a Harley?

One of those fabulous displays of police motorcycling skill discovered on Google Video during the wee hours of the morning.

Lights Out

I've experienced some trouble with the auxiliary lights that were included with the purchase of my BMW 1150 RT. What I suspect started months ago as an intermittent short in one of the lights grew into a full failure of the brake-side fog light in the early days of December. After I returned from the Blue Ridge Parkway, I noticed, particularly at night, as I went over a bump in the road, the light would flicker and sometimes go out. Another bump and the light would return. I decided that in order to ascertain whether the problem lay in the fog light itself or somewhere in the spaghetti junction of wires and leads, I needed to work my way back toward the harness and test the leads as I went.

My first approach was to check the bulb, socket, and the wires leading directly from the fog light housing. I hoped for a simple loose or bad bulb, easy in and easy out. When I removed the top caliper mounting bolt, which also secures the light housing, the bolt was difficult to break loose. I applied some WD40 and when the bolt still refused to turn freely, I applied heat via a propane torch. I feared that the bolt had seized somehow in the caliper. Upon removal my fears were confirmed. The silver on the mounting screw indicates that the threads from the caliper had twisted out with the bolt. The most likely culprit would be mismatched metals between the aftermarket mounting hardware and the stock brake caliper. I decided to remove the right side fog light as well. While the mounting bolt disengaged without a hitch, it showed a remarkable amount of corrosion on the threads.

The errant bulb theory didn't pay out as it appeared to be in good operating condition, no discoloration of any kind. When I tested the socket I received no current. I decided to trace the wire to the first lead and test the connection at the lead. As the wiring extended beyond view under the gas tank, the tank needed to be removed before I could proceed. With the self-sealing quick connectors in the fuel lines and the accessibility of all parts required to disconnect from the RT's right-hand side, the RT's tank has to be one of the simplest tank removal systems I've run across.

Until I can properly repair the short in the system, I decided to remove the aftermarket equipment as a precaution and install original equipment mounting hardware in the front brake calipers. I discovered that not all of the threads for the left hand caliper had twisted loose and a significant enough portion remained to accept the OEM hardware and hold the caliper in position. The leads remain in place, taped and held with fresh zip ties, should I decide to install any additional equipment of my own.

Over the past six months of ownership, I've come to appreciate the simplicity of the Beemer's stock systems. The valves are easy to adjust. In fact, it takes more time to remove the body panels than to actually adjust the valves. The wiring and connectors all seem to be located in logical areas and are simple to separate. It seems as if the machine is put together with a rider in mind, one who is encouraged to do his or her own work. My complaint with many aftermarket parts lies in the fact that they are often complex for the sheer sake of complexity or are not manufactured to specifications comparable to standard equipment. As it stands, I converted the bike back to the simple, stock setup. And in my book, simple is just plain better.

Riding the Ridge: Interlude--The Road to Willville

My first night camping in the Shenandoah National Park left me a little wary of the experience the following day. I'd spent a near 200 miles in the saddle during my second day on the Blue Ridge, and I hoped to find a more comfortable place to lay my head than I found in Mathew's Arm the previous evening. One of the truly remarkable pleasures of traveling the Blue Ridge Parkway by motorcycle lies in the abundance of cycle only campgrounds sprinkled at regular intervals beginning at roughly the half way point when running the Parkway from north to south. For the uninitiated, these spots are campgrounds that cater only to motorcyclists or, in certain cases, those travelers towing motorcycles.

I pulled in to Willville Motorcycle Campground located off of the Parkway at mile marker 177. A few miles west on Route 58 revealed a gravel drive and a large orange sign announcing the bike camp to the left of the road. What Willville offers, like many of the motorcycle only campgrounds I've had the pleasure of visiting, is the company of others of the two-wheeled persuasion. In my experience, camaraderie can be in short supply in campgrounds frequented by RV's, families squeezed into minivans, or school buses packed with cub scouts. MC camps offer amenities that rarely are standard at conventional campgrounds, such as laundry facilities to accommodate motorcycle gear, some form of communal shelter, hot showers, and often times coffee and other beverages for a small donation.

Willville was more pleasant than most. From the moment I arrived and established my camp in the grass (no gravel tent pads here), the owner and other riders went out of their way to make me feel as if I'd been there for days. I parked my butt in one of the easy chairs under the shade of the central pavilion and didn't leave the camp for two days.

I managed to meet a few of the regulars as well as a couple others like myself just passing through. One oldtimer promised to send anyone who would drop him an email a list of all known gas stops within one mile of exiting the Parkway. He'd built the list over years of traveling the roadway himself and information gleaned from those passing by. I was tempted to stick around through the early part of the coming weekend to take part in a Ural rally that would call the camp home over about three days. From the stories my fellow campers told, riders of the unique Russian marque are as charismatic as their machines. But being a youngin' (not yet retired), quite a few more miles of Parkway beckoned before I had to turn the Beemer west toward Kentucky. I left on a Friday morning, heading south.

Too Bad the Writing Doesn't

Last Christmas, my wife purchased several books off of my Amazon wish list. As one of those typical motorcyclists who will probably find the opportunity to tour exotic places by bike a distant dream, I've been rather fond of reading the exciting accounts of those riders who actually manage to pull it off. While I dearly love to read the exploits of Ewan McGregor and Charlie Boorman, it's always intriguing to stumble upon a book written by one of the rest of us. The not so super rich, that is.

When I added The Road Gets Better from Here to my list of must-reads, the title and subtitle fascinated me. The photo on the cover is absolutely spectacular. Surely, this must be the book that exemplifies how the rest of us would tour the Road of Bones through the former Soviet Union. I know I couldn't afford a fully loaded BMW GS1200, the helmet cams, the support crews with all the spare parts. My friends certainly wouldn't have come along for the ride. Most would have had me committed for even suggesting the idea. I want to ride my motorcycle around the world. Really? Wait right here; I have a special white coat I want you to try.

I appreciate everything about Mr. Scott's adventure--the audacity of climbing on an enlarged dirt bike and heading out into foreign countries, the magnitude of the time involved in the journey, the limited resources of the common man dedicated to a dream. I appreciate everything except the narrative. It reads like a blog entry--a 400 page blog entry. After about the first hundred pages, I felt as I'd been bouncing along on the passenger pillion across the rutted landscape. That's not a good thing; it's a KLR650 we're talking about here. I was tired and worn out. I kept having to refer back in the book to remember what nondescript person in which nondescript country I was reading about. In short, the narrative is tedious, and that's without the typing errors.

I've put off writing this review for so long because I've desperately wanted to like Mr. Scott's effort at mototravel journeling. My disappointment in this book is in that it doesn't begin to convey the panache of such a journey. While the book gives us the facts of the trip, it fails to entertain the reader. Traveling by motorcycle on a limited budget isn't just a challenge for most of us, it's a fact of life. Mr. Scott, however, should have used the funding he saved from the trip and spent it on an editor.

Gateway to the Gorge

Over the weekend, I took the Beemer on a short excursion to the Red River Gorge Geological Area located to the southeast of Lexington, KY. I was hoping to catch the last of the fall foliage. Traffic through the area was minimal. The temperature may have had something to do with it. In the sunshine, the temps rarely crossed out of the upper 40's. At night, they dipped into the high 30's. While the leaves have passed their peak, enough of the fire of Autumn still clings to the branches to make the ride worthwhile.

The Nada Tunnel runs an east/west route into the heart of the Gorge. Originally cut through the rock with steam-powered drills, dynamite, and hand tools, the tunnel was completed in 1911 and was the only through way to the Gorge's interior. The tunnel was designed to accommodate 25 and 35 ton locomotives used to haul timber from the interior to the saw mill at Clay City. The Clay City mill, at one time, was the largest in the eastern United States.

According to local lore, only one man was killed during the construction of the railway tunnel. Apparently, he attempted to thaw several sticks of frozen dynamite by the heat of his campfire and well. . .

The tunnel is 900' long, around 20' in height, and 15' wide. The excavation crews began the project in 1910 and completed it in a little over a year in 1911. Given the tools of the times, the tunnel is a marvel of early 20th century engineering.

As a gateway into the Red River Gorge, the Nada Tunnel prepares the eye for the stunning vistas of the rock formations and blaze of Autumn color that lies beyond. The valley in which the Red River flows has been home to human beings for over 14,000 years; the earliest evidence of people living in the region can be found in the artifacts they left behind in cliff shelters. As I threaded my way along the narrow road under fading trees, listening to the river shush it's way through the valley, I wondered what I would leave behind for others to find. Perhaps only an echo of my passing, lone horse and it's rider.

Rescue Attempt

This video arrives via my wife who discovered it posted to cuteoverload.com. The footage illustrates how, even in the midst of an endurance rally in South America, a Beemer rider will stop to perform a little charity work.

Riding the Ridge, Part One

In the early part of July 2011, I decided to test the BMW's worthiness on the road and embarked on a journey that would ultimately take me down the Blue Ridge Parkway from it's northern to southern terminus. The first day of the trip I spent on the interstate heading north through Cincinnati and Columbus where I turned west on interstate 70 through Wheeling and into Western Pennsylvania. After spending a few days at my father's house, I turned the bike south through Maryland and into northern Virginia and Shenandoah National Park's Skyline Drive.

I slept that first night in the park at Mathew's Arm, a campground positioned at about the 22 mile mark along the Drive. I wish I could say that the stay was pleasant, but the gnats along the parkway must have been holding their annual world conference. The winged pests were in such thick numbers that all of my photos along Skyline Drive contained the dark flecks of their pulpy little bodies. While the bike was in motion, the windscreen deflected most the bugs, but as soon as all forward momentum ceased, they descended on you in a horde. Stopping to converse with other riders at one of the plentiful and otherwise beautiful overlooks was always accompanied by constant waving of limbs.

My first day along the parkway was spent in the good graces of the weather gods. I always seemed to be where the rain was not. At one particular turn off, I was standing in the sunshine when another rider heading north stopped to inform me that the sky had opened just a few miles south and a deluge had commenced. He advised me to use caution; it was raining hard enough that he was having trouble navigating. When I resumed travel, I never encountered anything further south than wet pavement, the vapor already rising into the hot July air in thin wisps.

The storms diminished the gnat population. Even being near the tumultuous weather provided a relief from their incessant buggery. I have yet to be able to explain the reason behind their disappearance, but the gnats just ceased to exist the further south I traveled. They didn't gradually dwindle away; they just stopped altogether. I don't know if this was caused by weather change, elevation, a change in habitat. Whatever the reason, I was glad to be rid of them. It would mean more agreeable environment while off the Beemer.

I'm always surprised at the mini wasteland accompanying the transition from Skyline Drive and the northern end of the Blue Ridge Parkway. It appears as if there was once a gas station and perhaps a small hotel just at the convergence of these two roads. They've been abandoned for years, just shells left from a different time. I always mean to stop and snap a few photos of the place, but never manage it when I pass by. It still strikes me as one of the loneliest places in the world. It's the type of emptiness created by distant, fading memory.

Skyline Drive, according to the guard manning the gate upon my arrival, was undergoing maintenance, mostly repaving. Much of the blacktop looked fresh enough to worry me in areas where the pavement was wet. I suspect that the rider who warned me of heavy rain earlier in the day experienced oil skimming the road surface following such a sudden downpour. The speed limits along the Drive demand a more sedate pace than I normally prefer, but with wet areas and fresh paving, I kept the RT only slightly over the mandated limits.

The Blue Ridge Parkway offers numerous points for quiet reflection. During my first day of riding, I passed through the highlands of northern Virginia on my way to my second camp in the lower elevations of the Virginia midlands. The country isn't the only thing that changes. Life, along with the accents of the people I had the good fortune to meet, slowed as I rode south. Toward my second stopping point, grits began to appear on the menus of the small town restaurants in which I sought respite from the heat. As I turned off the Parkway in the late afternoon, I could feel my spirit leaning West like a compass. Somewhere across the misty ridges of the Appalachians, the old bones of the mountains tumbled down into the foothills of the Bluegrass State. But the high elevations of North Carolina awaited before I would turn the bike toward home. For now, it was time to camp.

Essence of Machine

Every now and again, I come across something on the web that exemplifies the spirituality behind riding and wrenching on bikes. This video is one of those somethings.

MACHINE from matt machine on Vimeo.

New Tools: Google Maps

As a way of peaking my interest in roads a bit closer to the city, I've been tooling around with the Terrain function on Google Maps. It's been a useful way of locating the twisty roads within a stone's throw of the homestead. Prime examples are Route 1526, Route 1020, and Route 44 snaking through the hill country just south of Louisville and the Jefferson Memorial Forest.

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