4 | HEADLIGHT First Surprise, then Worry followed by Excitement by Bill Wiegand
8 | PRESIDENT'S COLUMN Passing the Torch by Reece Mullins
10 | POSTCARDS FROM THE ROAD
12 | RIDER TO RIDER Letters from our Members
16 | NEWS Congratulations to Ed Pfister, winner of the Foundation’s R 80 G/S Completely Vintage Raffle, Touring this summer? Check out the updated Motorcycle Travel Network, MOA Board of Directors election results, MOA members now earn 10% rebate on all parts, gear and accessories, Tour the World with HP Motorrad, MOA 50th Rally updates.
32 | GEAR Gasolina Shortcut boots by Steve Metz
34 | GEAR Motoz Tractionator GPS tires by Dustin Silvey
BY DUSTIN SILVEY #224778
36 | KEEP 'EM FLYING Heading to the Rally by Matt Parkhouse
38 | TORQUE OF THE MATTER Pros of Owning a Vintage Bike by Wes Fleming
60 | SHINY SIDE UP In Review by Ron Davis
62 | JACK THE RIEPE The Luck of Gamble Harris: K75 Rider by Jack Riepe
66 | THE RIDE INSIDE Indoor Touring by Mark Barnes
our Newest MOA Members
As MOA members, I believe we are our club’s best promoters. After all, who better knows the benefits of MOA membership than we do? Though we all enjoy the Rally and member benefits, I believe one of the best reasons to be a member is the camaraderie we share with one another when we gather. It’s difficult to explain that feeling to someone who doesn’t ride.
While I don’t think my recruiting numbers will ever challenge those of MOA President Reece Mullins, I am happy to report that I’ve recently brought a new rider to our family–one I never could have imagined.
In early April, I received a text from my son-in-law Tyler showing a photo of a Honda Navi, the 109cc compact “motorcycle” with a 30-inch seat height and automatic transmission. It’s about the same size but less expensive than the Honda Grom. Wondering why Tyler sent this, I quickly realized the little bike was sitting in Tyler and Abby’s driveway. I was confused.
Then my phone chimed again with Tyler’s second text saying, “I did it, it’s so much fun, I really like it a lot,” he continued excitedly.
Once I cleaned up the coffee I’d just spit onto my keyboard, I couldn’t help but wonder where Tyler’s desire to ride came from. He and I had never talked about riding, and as far as I knew, it wasn’t something he had ever done in the past.
With two daughters and a wife with absolutely no interest in riding, my motorcycling passion has never been something I’ve shared with my family. I’ve even gone as far as removing the passenger pegs from my bikes, knowing they’d always go unused and also believing I could never forgive myself if something bad were to happen to a member of my family while they were a passenger on a bike I was in control of. While I was confident in my abilities, I don’t think I could live with that responsibility. While Judy did take a short ride with me into the country once, she didn’t really enjoy our time together on the bike and has never showed any interest in riding together since. I’ve been OK with that. Still, despite my fears, I’m always a bit envious when reading stories of families who do ride together. To this day, one of my greatest regrets is that I never made it a priority to ride with my parents before they both passed.
From his texts, there was no mistaking Tyler’s enthusiasm, and now with his own bike, my missing passenger pegs no longer worked to allay my worries.
“How will you use it?” I asked.
“Just to work and back,” he replied.
“Do you have a helmet?” I asked.
“It’ll be here tomorrow,” he said.
Good, I thought, at least he’s thinking about safety. I continued my questioning. “What about boots, a jacket and gloves?”
“Nope, just the helmet so far,” he said. Then I asked about his motorcycle endorsement. “I don’t need one as it’s only 109cc and Illinois doesn’t require one for anything under 150cc,” he said, then adding, “I got comfortable on it pretty fast!”
Damn, a new rider with no gear, training or license riding the streets of Champaign, Illinois. On top of that, he’s my son-in-law and the father of a two-year-old son. Luckily, we’re about the same size, so I immediately put together a care package with boots, a couple of jackets and some gloves.
A week later, Tyler texted another photo. Like the first photo of the Navi, I was initially puzzled. I recognized the driveway, but not the bike–a Royal Enfield Scram 411.
“I had too much fun,” he said. “I upgraded to something bigger, something I can ride up to Wisconsin!”
Wow, I thought. While I certainly understand his enthusiasm, there doesn’t seem to be any turning back now. I believe I’ve got some work to do, work to help make Tyler a safer rider. First step: make him a member of the MOA. Then, we’ll explore training opportunities to make him a better rider.
Like all fathers, I’ll always worry about the safety of my family. In this case, I’m hoping that some of that fear will one day be displaced by thoughts of finally having someone in the family to ride with and share our passion.
Dear Madam or Mister President,
After seven years of service on the board of directors, this month I am passing a torch to you, a torch whose flame burns brightly with the communal spirit of our members. Keep this torch close and let it serve as a reminder of the great privilege you have been given. Let its light illuminate your path when the journey becomes dark and its warmth stave off the chill of the difficult decisions and sacrifices you and your family will occasionally have to make. You will know no greater honor than serving this club that so richly deserves the best leadership you can provide.
You are inheriting an army of volunteers that will serve the club with a work ethic so amazing that you will have no choice but to be humbled by their dedication and loyalty. If at a rally, one comes to you to ask you a question, stop whatever you are doing and pay close attention, as they have earned your respect and time—give it to them. You will have to be careful with them, if you even jokingly hint that you want to move a mountain or take over a small country, they will do it–within the hour. Many of them will become some of the best friends you will ever have in your life. You will celebrate their victories, mourn their passing and you may even be asked to officiate their wedding.
I am handing you a small staff of loyal and talented employees. They are underpaid and overworked. You are not the first president they have worked with; you won’t be the last. Like our volunteers, they have earned your respect. They were here in the trenches fighting battles you didn’t even know existed, probably before you were even a member. They have seen it all, they have dealt with challenges few employees will ever have to. Though they don’t raise their hand and swear an oath, their loyalty to our club rivals that of our military to our nation. Most, if not all, are members, a few are ambassadors, and without them, our club would not function. Always treat them with respect at all times, no matter how tired or frustrated you may be that day. Fair warning, be careful around them when they are off the clock and in the presence of “brown water;” they are professionals, and the morning will reveal your amateur status in this recreational sport.
I give you a team that I have worked hard to foster and form these last two years, I give you the best Board of Directors anywhere. Your fellow directors and officers are laser focused on one mission, furthering the club and taking care of its members. They have been losing sleep over hard decisions now for years or are about to if they are one of our newly elected candidates. You are going to experience challenges, you are even going to question yourself at times, but they are the only eight other people in the entire world that will understand what you are going through, because they are going through it with you.
Finally, listen to your Executive Director; you’re going to be taking credit for all of his victories, while he steps forward and takes the blame when the board misses the bullseye. You are working with an elite and unique team, and you will have to earn their respect. Once earned, it will be your most prized possession, never take it for granted.
Now go, and do great things for our club!
Reece Mullins #143779 President
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“I just love a good adventure and having the bike protected gives me the confidence to push forward when things get hairy.”
Top, One of the images I captured during a 10,000-mile, 70-day, South American World Tour with Edelweiss Bike Travel. Photo by Pat Carroll #214132.
Bottom Left, A stop along Route 52 just east of Ellenville, New York, while on the way home from a Sunday morning coffee run. Photo by Craig Szelestey #232121.
Bottom Right, A photo from a recent track day. The old GS still does well enough to grind the pegs. Photo by Simon Cox #120182.
Each month we publish the great images sent to us by BMW MOA members from their travels around the globe. Send us your best images and you could have your work published in our Postcards from the Road pages. Email your high resolution images, image description and contact information to editor@bmwmoa.org.
Send your letters and comments to: editor@bmwmoa.org
As I read your recent column regarding changes with BMW Owners News and the wonderful magazine we all enjoy, when you mentioned 80 pages instead of 96, the first thing that came to mind was that Marc Barnes would be out and more Jack Riepe or almost anything else would be in the magazine.
When Barnes was writing for another moto magazine (now gone), I tried but couldn’t stomach his long-winded explanations. When he appeared in our magazine, I tried again and hoped it would be only a trial for us. Save a lot of pages without Barnes or at least tell him to exercise economy of words.
Except for that, the changes seem reasonable to me.
Regarding a ride in Spain, contact Adriatric Mototours for terrific tours. Spain is a bit overrated; try the Balkans for some really spectacular and affordable riding. My wife and I first rode with them about 16 years ago and have done more rides with them and with a couple of other tour outfits. Adriatic Mototours was the best of all.
Ken Fritz #100696 Sacramento, CaliforniaMy planned article has been made somewhat redundant by both Dave Cwi’s comments in his piece “What’s your Number” and J.P. Privette’s “Safe Motorcycle Group Riding” in the March 2023 issue of BMW Owners News. Instead, I submit my comments for the Rider To Rider section.
Over the last few years, I have been riding with an eclectic group of older riders representing a broad mix of riding styles, motorcycle types and experience levels. Our annual summer group ride is usually 7-8 days long and of late has been
confined mostly to the Pacific Northwest of the U.S. and Canada on two-lane, well-engineered blacktop roads. No stinking dirt bikes here! We are mostly Canadian military vets so have been trained to fall into line, follow the leader and ride like JP Privette says. So, my apologies to both authors for presenting a different view of group riding.
The fact that we are not a homogeneous group created a real dilemma for me and considerable personal angst on our first group outing. The fast group of two to three ride like they just stole their bikes or caused a domino crash of parked Harleys at our last stop. They may be breaking the speed limit most of the time, but they are experienced riders. One used to be an Army dispatch rider, one has a wealth of off- and on-road experience, and the other one is one with his VFR 800!
The middle group of twi-three has a range of experience from 10 to 40+ years and tend to obey the speed limits (more or less) and use recent rider training (thank you MOA Foundation!) and You Tube videos to generally enhance their skills. That is my group with my R 1200 RT.
The last group of two are riding mid-size Japanese cruisers and the least experienced and slowest riders of the group. When we started to ride as a larger group, my sense of duty to not leave any rider behind had me hanging back to stay with the slow pokes. I got more and more frustrated with some of the others who didn’t feel that way. Checking my mirrors all the time to keep them in sight distracted me from safe riding.
Even over beers at our evening stops, I felt a need to express my frustration at some of the others for not helping to keep the herd together. It seemed that nobody cared! Over the course of a few evening sessions by a motel pool discussing safe riding techniques, generally led by our aviator using his
hands, I finally mellowed out.
It dawned on me that we all got something out of riding our bikes the way we felt comfortable and safe, regardless of the speed group we were in. We were all riding well maintained motorcycles, using proper cornering techniques, applying hand and foot inputs at the appropriate times and being conscious of our surroundings. Most of us are now comm-ed up with Cardo units, so with Mesh technology and text messaging we are in touch within each small group or as a large group at rest stops. At the expense of overusing military jargon, we have regular hot wash-ups at the end of the day, we have an “O” Group in the morning, and it’s chocks away at a designated time. And that’s it. Each sub-group goes on their own down the planned track, and we meet up for lunch or our evening stop. Sub-group separation is no more than 30-45 minutes with the scouts ahead giving us feedback by texts on stops, i.e., “great burgers” or “OMG, don’t stop here–wet dog convention.”
This allows each sub-group time for unplanned “stop and smell the coffee” moments and photo ops. And since our ex-G4 Logistics officer does all the bookings using his credit card, it does no good to get to our lodgings before him no matter how much whining the lead group does with the front desk! It seems to work as we are all still riding together.
So, Dave Cwi is right about numbers, two to three is the ideal group size, we all have the same skill level within our sub-groups, and yes, age and bladder muscle control does limit time in the saddle.
Dan LeBlanc #200183 North Saanich, British ColumbiaI’ve just finished reading through the March 2023 issue, and I love the changes you’ve made!
I don’t miss the poly bag at all, and I like the sleek, svelte by-product that resulted from reducing the number of pages from 96 to 80. As to the cover logo, I wouldn’t have complained about the previous one, but the new one strikes me as being somehow more “reader friendly;” certainly more welcoming. Saddle stitching is fine with me, too. You’ve done a really good thing. Thanks!
Bob Wilson #95531 Richmond, VirginiaI have been a member of the BMW MOA since 1979. I like the name change of the magazine and always thought BMW ON was really dumb. I was always asked by friends who saw the cover what is BMW ON? While I am at it, I don’t like the use of MOA. I don’t belong to Motorcycle Owners of America, I proudly belong to BMW Motorcycle Owners of America and I think the use of just MOA is really dumb.
Harley’s owners’ group is not known as OG, why are we just MOA? Other than these two things I like the changes. I kind of miss the map in the “When and Where” for rallies and things, but it’s nothing but a thing.
Please keep up the good work. I have a copy of BMW OWNER NEWS from the 70’s–it has come a long way since then. You all should be proud of what do.
Dennis Studer #15523 Geneva, IllinoisI used European delivery to take delivery of my first BMW motorcycle at the factory in 1966. A letter in the March issue of BMW Owners News challenges the MOA board to a new initiative–the European delivery of BMW motorcycles. It suggests that MOA lobby the government, saying some of the “slippery bureaucrats” are likely to be riders who would be “first in line” to use the service.
The ending of European delivery was a business decision of BMW for both motorcycles (1993) and cars (2020). The services became unprofitable based on declining use and high administrative costs. Lobbying efforts should be directed at BMW and not the government.
Also, as a retiree from federal civil service, I do not consider myself or those dedicated people as bureaucrats or slippery.
Allan Atherton #696 Louisville, KentuckyI, for one, applaud the magazine changes.
Kevin Cole #158695Placerville, California
After reading “Preaching. Practicing. Missing Deer” by Nick Lenatsch in the March issue of BMW Owners News, I felt compelled to add my two cents regarding rider skills.
I think it’s a great idea to cover the brakes if traffic or deer situations demand it. But, just as importantly, knowing where the controls are for the horn and headlight dimmer switch are essential for defensive driving.
When approaching an oncoming vehicle that may turn left in front of me, I always flash my lights and “toot” the horn as a warning. Likewise, when approaching an intersection where another vehicle may pull out on my right side, I not only “flash” and “toot,” but I also gently swerve side to side in order to be seen. I’m a firm believer that drivers don’t intentionally pull out in front of motorcycles. I think that it just doesn’t register in their mind when they are quickly looking for a car or bigger truck.
Knowing or familiarizing yourself with all controls is vitally important before ever getting on any motorcycle. I personally ride a 2011 R 1200 RT. My left hand is able to cover the clutch lever while my index finger rests on the dimmer switch, and left thumb rests on the horn. This seems like the perfect set-up for me. Certainly something to think about when purchasing a motorcycle!
These safety tips and the ABS braking system on my BMW have kept me alive and well for many years.
Mark Koenig #228727 Nanty Glo, PennsylvaniaEach month, the Rider to Rider pages of BMW Owners News detail the successes, failures, wishes and frustrations we all face as riders, BMW motorcycle owners, customers and individuals. As a BMW MOA member, these are your pages and we want to know what’s on your mind.
Got something to get off your chest? Tell us about it. Know a business that deserves to be recognized? Tell us about it. Got a riding or tech tip that we could all benefit from? Tell us about it. Got a suggestion for BMW Motorrad? You know the drill–Tell us about it! There’s only one rule and that’s to stick to the subject that brings us all here–motorcycling, so save political rants for Facebook! Send your thoughts to editor@bmwmoa.org and lets all work to build a better community.
Congratulations to Ed Pfister (#108894) of Montgomery Village, Maryland, winner of the beautifully restored R 80 G/S in the MOA Foundation’s Completely Vintage Raffle. The live winner’s drawing was held Saturday, April 22, during the MOA Getaway at Fontana where a crowd of MOA members and guests gathered to watch the drawing of winning number 6284 by MOA Executive Director Ted Moyer and 2023 MOA National Rally Chair Paula Fitzer.
Nearly 7,000 tickets were sold for the 2023 Completely Vintage raffle with more than $70,000 raised in training benefits for MOA members through the BMW MOA Foundation fundraiser. Every member who purchases a ticket made this possible.
Stay tuned for our next fundraiser culminating at the MOA National Rally in Doswell, Virginia, where three motorcycles will be up for grabs!
Check Out the revamped Motorcycle Travel Network for affordable places to stay!
Motorcycle Travel Network (MTN), the oldest hosting organization dedicated exclusively to motorcycle enthusiasts, is back in full swing with a brand-new website. Founded by Scott and Christi Reynolds during their two-year motorcycle tour across America, MTN has been helping riders connect and find accommodations for more than 18 years.
After a brief hiatus, MTN has returned with a sleek, user-friendly website. The new website features an interactive map to locate hosts, member profiles with accommodations available and a three-click simple process for requesting stays with fellow members. MTN offers a unique way for riders to connect with like-minded people and share their passion for motorcycling, all for just a $20 nightly gratuity fee paid directly to the host.
To kickstart this exciting relaunch, MTN is offering the first 500 memberships for free to readers of the BMW Owners News! Use the discount code MOA500 when signing up to claim your complimentary one-year membership. This is an opportunity for both new and returning members to join the network and enjoy its benefits firsthand.
By becoming a member of MTN, you’ll not only find the perfect place to rest your helmet at the end of a long day’s ride, but also contribute to the growth and vitality of the motorcycling community.
So, gear up and join us at MTN for a journey like no other. Visit motorcycle-travel.net
It’s my honor to share the results from the 2023 Board of Directors Election. First, a thank you to the seven candidates who took the leap and threw their name in the hat because they knew the impact it would have to serve their members at the national level and were ready to each make a personal sacrifice for the betterment of this club.
I would like to thank all of our candidates for their interest in serving the BMW MOA as board members and I look forward to personally thanking all of you at a future MOA event. Another thank you goes to our election committee of Muriel Farrington, Don Hamblin and John Gamel.
This year’s election was conducted by an independent third party with all votes reviewed to make sure that each vote was counted correctly. While a handful of members chose
to send in paper ballots, more than 99 percent of the votes were received electronically. In total, 9 percent of our members voted in this election. This is down from 2021 but still much higher than the turnout when ballots were all done with paper and snail mail.
Without further ado, the five individuals garnering the most votes were incumbents Brian Dutcher, Roc Shannon and Doug Peters. Joining those three gentlemen will be Steve Pelletier and Chad Garcia. These five individuals will be seated and begin serving their three-year terms on the MOA Board of Directors at our National Rally in June and MOA members will be able to meet them in person at the Rally’s Open Session board meeting.
The five individuals named above will join Phil Stalboerger, Adam Chandler, Louise Powers and Kelly Kurtz as your 2023 Board of Directors.
If you’ve ever dreamed of touring Italy or Morocco, HP Motorrad is recognized as the Italian leader in motorcycle touring and rentals. With seven locations in Italy and one in Morocco, HP Motorrad is sure to have a tour to fill your bucket list.
Offering bikes from BMW, Ducati, Moto Guzzi and even Vespa, HP Motorrad offers both solo or group tours covering Italy from north to south and from the Alps and Dolomites across Stelvio Pass to the beautiful coastal towns of Tuscany as well as the Amalfi Coast, an area known for its stunning coastline, beautiful beaches and colorful villages set amid steep cliffs and narrow streets.
Other tours offered by HP Motorrad include the Wonderful Dolomites Tour, featuring nine days of riding with views of beautiful mountains, forests, lakes and glaciers. Autumn in Morocco is warm and sunny, with just a touch of breeze in the air, and HP Motorrad’s resident tour leader in Morocco takes riders to places often forgotten by classic tours but rich in culture and flavors that make the difference between travelling and experiencing local culture and cuisine.
Many other tours are available, and for more information or to book the tour of your dreams, visit hpmotorrad.rentals.
BMW Motorrad is now offering a 10% discount to BMW MOA members for purchases of BMW Apparel, Accessories, Parts, Classic Parts, Service Parts and Replacement OEM Parts. If it has a BMW part number, MOA members can earn a 10 percent rebate!
Every purchase made at a BMW Motorrad dealer based in the United States or online at shopbmwmotorcycles.com can qualify for the rebate. Purchasers must be an MOA member at the time of purchase and submit documentation to support the claim at bmwmoa.org. Claims for qualifying purchases will be processed and payment issued to the MOA member within 60 days. The rebate is currently scheduled for the remainder of 2023 but can be withdrawn at any time. A complete list of terms and conditions are available along with the submission form at bmwmoa.org/ partsrebate
Are you just riding through Richmond and want to stop by the National Rally for just a day or two? For the first time, Day Passes are available for any day of the rally!
Previously, Day Passes were only available on Saturdays. But since this is our 50th National Rally, we want everyone to have a chance to come out and enjoy a day or two with all of our rally friends. Day Passes will be available for Thursday, Friday and Saturday, and guests will receive full access to the spectator areas, including exhibitor displays, seminars, the ADV track, nightly entertainment, food and refreshments. No overnight camping or door prize tickets will be included with Day Passes, but almost everything else is fair game!
Day passes will cost $35 for any day of the Rally and can be purchased in advance at rally.bmwmoa.org or on-site in the Rally registration tent at the main entrance.
If you are looking for updates and news from the 50th National Rally, download the BMW MOA’s new Rally app for iOS and Android. The Rally app will have the latest updates to rally schedules, seminar listings and presenters, listings of exhibitors, area maps and entertainment information. The app will also be the place for news from the Rally grounds, including updates and changes as it happens.
To get the app, visit your favorite mobile device app store for Apple or Android. Search BMW MOA and look for the 50th logo! Install the free app on your device, login with an email address and you are set. Follow the on-screen prompts from there.
With the MOA’s 50th National Rally only 112 miles from Bob’s Motorcycles in Jessup, Maryland, Bob’s has planned something special (and FREE!) before and after the rally for all travelers to enjoy!
On Wednesday, June 7th, the dealership hours will be extended until 9 p.m., and Bob is inviting all of us to the dealership for a slumber party! So, get ready to pop up your tents, enjoy some music, grab some food from Jimmy’s Seafood Truck, get your bike’s oil and/or tires changed (no appointment necessary,) then take a tour of one of the largest BMW motorcycle museums in the country. Once you’ve done those things, relax under the stars for a special ride-in-movie at sundown.
With the Blue Ridge Parkway and Skyline Drive conveniently located between the rally and the dealership, Bob’s is surrounded by tempting back roads!
Please RSVP in advance to help Bob’s plan accordingly and reserve your exclusive Bob’s Road Crew hat! No purchase necessary!
If you’re unable to detour on your way to the rally, that’s OK because Bob’s will be open on Sunday, June 11th, for riders passing through on their way home after the rally!
So, if you need a break for lunch, or tire/oil change, or you just want to stretch your legs while strolling Bob’s BMW museum, plan your detour to Bob’s Motorcycles! The dealership and museum will be open 10 a.m. – 4 p.m. on Sunday, June 11th. Please call ahead (301-497-8949) or contact Hanna Creekmore (hanna@ bobsbmw.com) for details on special savings at local hotels.
There’s going to be much to do at the MOA’s 50th National Rally, and for the first time ever, enjoy a movie, or two!
At 9 p.m. on Thursday evening, Women in the Front Seat, a vibrant and diverse picture of women who not only drive their motorcycles but drive their lives will be shown. Women in the Front Seat captures the growing movement of women hitting the throttle and riding into the wind, breaking social norms and shattering stereotypes about women and women riders. On a transformative solo cross-country quest riding her Indian Scout motorcycle, filmmaker Indy Saini (#232924) challenges her own fears, facing harsh weather conditions, exhaustion and an existential crisis, to discover who these women are, one fascinating personal story after another.
Alongside the personal sometimes quirky moto customizations, a deep sisterhood emerges among a truly disparate group of women she finds from coast-to-coast, including a mother and sculptor, a veteran of the war in Iraq, a survivor of a near fatal crash who came back to win an epic 11,000-mile motorcycle rally, to a group of millennials in the Midwest who formed their own motorcycle group, and more. Ultimately, the film reveals the extraordinary heart and desire behind the path each of these women have chosen to take and the special relationship each has with the motorcycles that are taking them there.
MOA member Valerie DuMond (#213012) is in the documentary and will be there along with the film’s director, Indy Saini. Visit womeninthefrontseat.com for more information.
At 8:30 p.m. on Saturday night, The World’s Fastest Indian stars Anthony Hopkins playing Burt Munro, a New Zealand motorcycle racer, and his highly modified 1920 Indian Scout. The film chronicles Munro’s struggles to get his race bike to the Bonneville Salt Flats to test both the machine and his own personal limits.
Despite many bumps in the road and adventures lying in the path of Munro and his dream, the racer finally arrives at the famed Salt Flats only to be blocked by race officials for not registering his motorcycle for competition in advance and not having the mandated safety equipment. In a show of sportsmanship, however, various competitors and fans in the Bonneville
series intervene on his behalf, and he is eventually allowed to make a timed run. We’ll not ruin the movie’s conclusion, lettting you find out how it ends in Doswell!
Both movies are free to rally attendees, but space may be limited within the Meadow Pavilion so arriving early is suggested.
In addition to those movies in the Meadow Pavilion, in the Rally’s Overland Area, Why We Ride will be shown at 8 p.m. on Thursday and on Friday at 8 p.m. Long Way Down or Long Way Round will be shown.
On Saturday evening, Rally for Rangers, a nonprofit organization whose mission is to protect the world’s special places by empowering park rangers around the world and providing them with new motorcycles and equipment will be premiering their latest documentary showing the work they are doing at the MotoPro Tent.
Here’s your chance to put on your thinking cap for fun and for prizes! During our Trivia Night on Friday evening, players can match their wits for a strictly fun game of trivia. Join us for two hours of hilarious knowledge-based entertainment in the Meadow Pavilion at 7 p.m. Sign up in teams of 10 or individually. Prizes awarded to the first-place team.
Register early at bmwmoaf.regfox.com/2023moa-national-rally-trivia-night to ensure a spot. Purchase an entire team of ten spots or just one spot and join a team! Check-in begins 30 minutes prior to game time, and one smart phone per team will be required.
BMW MOA members have a chance to win three BMW motorcycles to be given away at the 50th National Rally. The three BMWs up for grabs in the BMW MOA Foundation’s Speed Raffle include an R nineT “Rally Edition,” a 1976 R 90/6 customized by Zack Witkowsky of Black Wolf Touring and Custom, and a 2023 R nineT 100th Anniversary Edition from Extreme Motorcycles of Columbus, Georgia.
Drawings will be conducted each night on the entertainment stage to determine winners. MOA members and guests at the 50th who purchase a three-day rally admission will automatically be entered in the nightly drawings for each motorcycle. Members who purchase day passes or cannot attend the event can purchase tickets through the MOA Foundation website or in the Foundation booth at the Rally. Tickets for this Foundation fundraiser are available beginning May 10 through drawing time each night for $25 each or five tickets for $100. Get a closer look at all three of these awesome machines at the MOA Foundation’s booth at the Rally. For more information about Foundation fundraisers, visit bmwmoaf.org.
In addition to the three fantastic BMW motorcycles the MOA Foundation will be giving away at the Rally, the Rally Grand Prizes are sure to make some lucky Rally goers very happy. As of the day this issue of BMW Owners News went to press, Rally Grand Prizes include gift certificates from great companies including Bike Tour Asia, IMT Bike Tours, MotoQuest Tours and Rentals, Bob’s BMW, Moto Camp Nerd, Big Ear and the BMW Performance Center. More are expected to be added as we approach the Rally date.
As indicated above, only MOA members and guests who purchase a three-day rally admission are eligible to win Rally Grand Prizes.
See you in Doswell!
Other Grand Prizes provided by:
once on pavement, and another time on dirt. We rode to the top of Mount Evans on the highest paved road in North America. We saw all sorts of wildlife, and not that many people. We’d had a few spills along the way, and a few broken pieces of plastic on a couple of our bikes, but fortunately no broken bones. In short, we’d had a real
The week ended with a wrap-up celebration BBQ on Friday night. Everyone was worn out but also energized and in great spirits. We’d made new friends, had blown off some steam, and seen some incredible scenery. Spouses were invited to come to the BBQ, and Marty introduced me to his wife, Michelle. Later that evening, Michelle
“Thank you for what you’re doing,” she
“Sure, it was great to have Marty along
“No, you don’t understand,” Michelle said. “The pictures that Marty posted on Facebook this week from the ride are the first pictures of him smiling I’ve seen in a really long time. I can’t believe how much a five-day motorcycle trip seems to have
For once, I felt like I did understand. This time I was there.
profit based in Evergreen, Colorado that depends on donations from people—people who understand the therapeutic nature of motorcycling—to help the veterans it serves. For more information or to donate, visit their website at www.motorelief.org or email
Let’s face it, few of us live near enough to the rally site to sleep in our own beds every night, so the vast majority of us are going to be riding (or driving) to the Rally from places all over the continent. This page will help make the trip more fun, whether you’re coming to the Rally, going home afterwards or just looking for someplace fun and interesting to ride to while you’re in town.
Thanks to MOA member Johnathan Gifford, we’re pleased to provide you with downloadable routes for your convenience. Check out the entire collection at Ride with GPS (ridewithgps. com) and plan your ride today! Check out day rides like “Lake Anna,” “GS Fun Run” and “The 5 & Dime” (plus more) or try out three different ways to get to this year’s rally without using Virginia’s interstate highways too much.
Ride with GPS is a great way for the MOA to share and distribute maps, GPS routes and turn-by-turn instructions. As with any great service, some best practices in the form of tips and tricks are in order.
Each route in Ride with GPS is equivalent to a track in the world of Garmin GPS units and BaseCamp software. So, for all the routes, make sure you get the entire collection of routes in Ride with GPS. Ride with GPS allows you to download many different GPS files
types, including GPX, for the BMW Navigator series and other Garmin products.
When downloading GPX files, only download the “GPX Track” version.
The “GPX Route” version will leave you at the mercy of the settings on your Garmin GPS and will take you off the planned route and maybe to unexpected places and road conditions.
Once you have the “GPX Track” version loaded on your device and want turn-by-turn navigation, convert the “track” on your Garmin GPS to a “trip.”
If you don’t have a dedicated GPS device and use your phone for navigation, Ride with GPS also has a number of file formats to work with various navigation apps for phones.
Ride with GPS also has its own phone app that will also help guide you! Download now for Apple iOS or Android.
You can also visit some other pages right here on the Rally website. Many connect to Ride With GPS for your convenience. Alternately, you can look at a page with all the articles on the site tagged with the Ride! category.
• Ride In: US 301 from the Northeast
• Ride In: US 33 from the West
• Getting through the I-95 corridor
• Discover Appalachia
• Top 10 Must-Ride Roads in Virginia
• Top 10 Must-See Military History Sites in Virginia
What could be better than a truckload of BMW Motorcycles? How about day of demo rides on all the latest BMW models and mixing it up with your friends at The 50th! After a few years away, BMW Motorrad is sending their full-line demo truck to Doswell for the MOA National Rally.
You’ll be able to check out new models from the 2023 lineup, including the R 18 B and R 18 Transcontinental. In order to take a bike out, you’ll need a valid motorcycle license–riders with learner’s permits will not be allowed to participate. As expected, BMW emphasizes riding in the proper gear, so you’ll need (at a minimum) a DOT-approved helmet, eye protection, a long-sleeve shirt or jacket, long pants and closed-toe, over-the-heel shoes or boots. Riders and passengers must be 18 years old. Anybody consuming alcohol is invited to participate on another day.
You’ll need to arrive 10 minutes before your time slot, ready to ride, and are expected to attend the roll call and rider’s meeting to ensure you get to ride the bike you want.
For more information, visit the demo truck on site at The 50th.
Are you one of those non-camping Rally-goers who likes to stay at motels, hotels or a local roadside inn when you’re on the road? Consider stepping up your game and staying at the Belle Grove Plantation. Situated along the Rappahannock River only 32 miles from the rally site, the Belle Grove Plantation is known not only for its historical significance but also as a well-appointed Bed and Breakfast (B&B) with four rooms decorated with numerous period antiques.
I’ve stopped at Belle Grove Plantation on numerous occasions during our annual Presidents ride visiting the various birthplaces of U.S. presidents born in Virginia. James Madison was born at Belle Grove Plantation, but it was only a rest stop on our rides. I only had a brief look at the inside of the plantation house, but I was so impressed with the location, grounds and what I saw of the interior that I vowed to someday stay there.
My wife and I often celebrate our anniversary by staying at a B&B during our travels, and Belle Grove Plantation never disappoints. Michelle, the owner, made it her mission to make Belle Grove as authentic and true to the period as possible, from the antique furnishings and curtains to the color palette of the
walls and trim.
What made our stay at Belle Grove even more special was the food that Michelle (also a chef) prepares for her guests. Her meals are a foodie’s delight, and I hope my photographs entice you to visit and partake of her gastronomical offerings.
Another Belle Grove feature that I will recommend is their Formal Afternoon Tea Service. Aren’t we a High Brow bunch of motorcyclists, spending money on expensive machines, clothing and accessories. Why shouldn’t we also partake in an elegant pastime and have a gentle discussion of the best oil and tires for our rides, all the while extending our “pinkie” as we raise a cup, sip a tea and nibble a pastry?
For more information about house tours and how to reserve a room, meal or tea service, visit Belle Grove Plantation’s website at bellegrove.org.
By Rob Nye #81219
Founded in 2011, The GS GIANTS have a history of hosting an annual “pre-party” followed by a tour to the MOA National Rally. In a nod to our roots, after our GO BIG event in Falcon, Missouri, beginning on June 1, the GS GIANTS are hosting a self-guided dual-sport adventure to the MOA National Rally in Doswell, Virginia.
This is what I like to call a Rolling Rally and is an all bikes, all abilities tour. We'll enjoy some pavement, a bunch of the Trans America Trail and more. While some of the daily distances may seem aggressive; they are high because they follow established dirt routes that take many twists and turns but are easy to adjust, based on time and desire. Daily stops are pre-arranged and suggested routes are provided, but there’s no ride leader, other than the liaison for the overnight arrangements. Riders ride at their own pace in small groups of old and new friends. We’re united at
the end of the day for an evening of fun before turning in to do it over again the next day.
In a Rolling Rally, riders are provided with a route for each day’s ride and are encouraged to modify at will. Often there will be a discussion over morning coffee or around the campfire the previous evening about what to expect. For this ride .GPX files will be provided along with a route sheet.
Our rally to the 50th starts in Falcon, Missouri, on Sunday, June 4. After a weekend of fun, we’re planning an easy swift day on pavement to a casino on the banks of the Mississippi River. Why a casino you ask? Well, it’s the cheap rooms, food and the 24-hour security in the parking lot that has odds I like–especially after a long weekend in a tent. Additionally, this is where we pick up the Trans America Trail.
Developed by Sam Correro, the TAT loops around the United
States with spurs connecting the east and west coast. Over the next five days, riders will have the choice of riding a paved or dual-sport route to the next destination. The provided routes tend to be a bit longer than the fastest or shortest options and riders are encouraged to track their time as the day progresses and adjust accordingly.
Monday’s ride takes us east to the Pickwick Landing State Park in Counce, Tennessee. There, riders have the choice of camping or staying in cabins or a full-service lodge, all on the water.
If there’s a day to be considered technical, it would be Tuesday, where we continue on the TAT to the Trials Training Center in Sequatchie, Tennessee–a somewhat remote facility offering cabins and tent space, but riders will need to bring their own dinner.
Wednesday and Thursday have the potential to be the best days of the tour.
Wednesday’s destination is the Iron Horse Motorcycle Lodge in Robbinsville, North Carolina. Available cabins, bunk rooms, glamping wagons, tent sites and a family style dinner will make this a great stop. It’s also close to the iconic RT 129, aka Deals Gap, aka the Tail of the Dragon. From there, riders have the choice of riding dirt or pavement to and from the Iron Horse. As always, they’re encouraged to “mix n match.”
Thursday we’ll be at the Willville Bike Camp–a motorcycle-only campground along the Blue Ridge Parkway in Meadows of Dan, Virginia. The last stop before the rally, Willville will be a great spot to grill up dinner under the pavilion and enjoy one last night together around the fire before heading to the 50th BMW MOA National Rally.
Visit gsgiants.net/forum/ for more information.
See you there!
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There’s more to do in the area than you think! Here are some ideas for even more fun for you and your family to have while you’re at the Rally. Or just send your family off to enjoy the area while you take in all the seminars, events, vendors, training and camaraderie that’s always been part of your rally experience - either way, you’re all set all weekend!
Every day during the Rally
• Take Me Out to a Ball Game with the Richmond Flying Squirrels, the AA affiliate of the San Francisco Giants–and guess what? They’re playing home games every night of the Rally! We’ve worked with the Flying Squirrels to secure discount tickets for any Rallygoers who want to make the quick ride downtown and visit the Diamond for a game. Visit milb.com/richmond for game times.
• Experience the supernatural side of Richmond with nightly (of course) Ghostly Walking Tours thanks to Haunts
of Richmond (hauntsofrichmond.com). Dive into documented accounts of historical hauntings and true stories of RVA history with a dedicated guide–your Ghost Host–making sure you don’t miss a thing! Start with a 60-minute Richmond Ghosts Walking Tour or the slightly longer 90-minute Extended Walking Ghost Tour (starting at 8 PM each night). Get deeper into specific aspects of RVA’s spooky history with the Phantoms of Franklin Ghost Tour (Thursday, 8-9:15 p.m.), Shadows of Shockoe Ghost Tour (Friday, 7-8:30 p.m.), Haunted Capitol Hill Ghost Tour (Saturday, 7:30-9 p.m.) or Church Hill Chillers Ghost Tour (Saturday, 9-10:30 p.m.). Each tour investigates different landmarks in RVA-see the Haunts of Richmond website for full info and to register. Tours have a max of 15 participants and cost varies. Go early and get dinner downtown!
• Just a quick ride down US 301 from the Rally Site is Hanover Tavern, a bonafide historical landmark in next door Hanover County. Learn a bit about 18th-century life with a self-guided audio tour or venture back to 1942 and help the FBI find the spy in the Tavern with the Saboteur! Escape Challenge (max of 10 participants per time slot). Visit facebook.com/Hanovertavern/ for more information.
• For those of you who are into museums, there are two fantastic/must-see spots in RVA: the Children’s Museum of Richmond and the Science Museum of Richmond; both are tons of fun for all ages! Both museums are open from 9.30 a.m. to 5 p.m. each day of the rally. Ticket prices vary, but some folks can get in for free. The Science Museum has a special program called “Playing with Lights” running during the rally and featuring 22 exhibits dedicated to understanding how light affects our lives. The museums are next door to each other at 2626 W Broad St, Richmond.
• No matter what you like to do, RVA has got you squared away with a wide variety of fun activities. Start with axe throwing at the Virginia Axe Company (thevirginiaaxecompany.com). Visit any time between noon and 9:30 p.m. Thursday, Friday or Saturday, or
between noon and 5:30 p.m. on Sunday. Follow up target practice and team building with some brisk rounds of laser tag at Mission Laser RVA’s 7,000-squarefoot multi-level arena at 889 Research Rd in Richmond. Visit missionlaserrva. com for more.
• Bogeys Sports Park (bogeyssportspark. com) is your go-to destination for all things golf–plus batting cages! Open every day from 10 a.m. to 7 p.m. From the driving range to up to 36 holes of “Little Links” and regular mini-golf, your need to swing golf clubs is sure to be satisfied. If you’re more into swinging bats, BSP has you covered in slow- and fast-pitch softball and baseball scenarios. Prices start at just $3.
• For all the speed freaks coming to the rally, check out K1 Racing (k1speed.com/ richmond-location) to satisfy your indoor go-kart racing needs. Race at speeds up to 45 mph with K1’s all-electric fleet. Purchase 1-3 race passes or get the Speedpass for $65, which includes a cool T-shirt!
Thursday-Friday-Saturday
• For serious golfers, RVA has two prime destinations: TopGolf (2308 Westwood Ave, Richmond) and Drive Shack (1647 Four Rings Dr, Richmond). At Drive Shack, up to six people can have fun (and a little friendly competition) and grab a quick meal from 10 a.m. to 11 p.m.
on Thursday or 10 a.m. to midnight on Friday and Saturday. Prices vary based on the time of day. TopGolf is wellknown nationwide for their bowling alley-like approach to swinging a club, and like Drive Shack can handle up to six people per “lane.” Hours are the same as those for Drive Shack, and similarly, prices vary based on the time of day.
Thursday & Friday
• Bus tours are available to the UdvarHazy Center (part of the National Air & Space Museum), where you can see the Space Shuttle Discovery, a retired SST supersonic airliner, an SR-71 spy plane and many more intact aircraft important to national and world history. Includes a windshield tour of DC monuments and a stop at Arlington National Cemetery. Visit airandspace.si.edu for more information.
• For MOA members and other rallygoers staying at the Virginia Crossings Hotel and Conference Center, we’ve cooked up some really special breakfasts and dinners for you on Thursday & Friday. Each meal will feature rally-related guest speakers, so be sure to sign up (rally. bmwmoa.org). Breakfast is 7-9:30 a.m. with dinner at 6-9 p.m.
Thursday
• Movie Night at Meadow Pavilion - join us for a fantastic movie just up the hill at
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the rally site.
• Live music at Industrial Taphouse (10392 Leadbetter Rd, Ashland) Shows start at 7 p.m., but happy hour runs 3-9 p.m., so don’t feel like you have to wait for showtime to arrive. No cover charge and no reservations. Visit their Instagram or Facebook pages for details.
• Trivia Nights are big everywhere, and RVA is no exception! Intermission Beer Company (10089 Brook Rd, Unit A, Glen Allen) runs theirs from 7-9 p.m.; prizes vary but even if you don’t win, you can have some great pizza, pretzels and beer over at Vito’s Pizzeria (9555-M Kings Charter Dr, Ashland). the contest runs 6-8 p.m. Pit your knowledge of obscure minutiae against other patrons.
• If trivia isn’t your thing, head over to Karaoke Night at Isley Brewery (1715 Summit Ave, Richmond) to sing along with your friends and everybody’s favorite songs. Happy hour runs 4-6 p.m., so pre-game to sing your heart out from 7-9 p.m. For more music fun, check out Music Bingo at Benchtop Brewing (434 Hull St, Richmond) from 7-9 p.m. - five in a row and you win!
Friday & Saturday
• Join comedian Steve Trevino - known as “America’s favorite husband” - at The Funny Bone Comedy Club & Restaurant (11800 W Broad St #1090 in downtown Richmond) and laugh yourself silly. Trevino has played sold out shows all over the country and appeared on Amazon Prime, Netflix, HBO Max, Showtime and more as well as opening for Pitbull. Two shows each evening, 7:30 and 10 on Friday, 7 and 9:45 on Saturday. Grab dinner while you’re there and remember these are adult-only (21 & up) shows. Tickets start at $37.
• Comedy Club Series Kickoff at The Park–check out this new comedy series featuring a variety of top names in modern comedy. Shows run 7-9 p.m. and tickets are $15 or $20. Six cuisines to
choose from on the grounds! If comedy isn’t your thing, there’s more to do at The Park, including mini-golf and duckpin bowling. The address is 1407 Cummings Dr, Richmond, but use 2601 Durham for your GPS.
Friday
• Richmond has a lot to offer foodies, and you can take in both the food and the great summer weather with the Scott’s Addition Food Tour from 2 - 4:30 pm and still get back to the rally grounds in time for the evening entertainment! The tour stops at up to six different popular local restaurants/breweries and costs $72 per person. Call (888) 651-9785 for more information.
• Cars & Coffee Car/Motorcycle Show at Regency Square Mall (1420 N Parham Rd, Richmond/Henrico) One of the “Best Places to Show Off Your Ride” (according to Richmond Magazine) is not far from the rally site, and easily accessible. Visit
between 8-10 a.m. and enjoy some local cars, motorcycles and hospitality.
• Enjoy live music at O’Toole’s (4800 Forest Hill Ave, Richmond); Barry Charlton has gotten the band back together and will be performing at this popular local pub for your listening pleasure. Get there early and enjoy dinner!
• You can also drop into Intermission Beer Co (10089-A Brook Rd, Glen Allen) for Family Game Night, 5 - 9 p.m. and play one of their games or bring your own! (because everybody knows no motorcycle trip is complete without your copy of Sorry! in the saddlebag—lol) No cost beyond your share of their delicious food and fantastic beer.
There’s so much to do in around the Richmond area, and what’s listed above is just a small sampling!
See you at the Rally!
Hi, I’m Steve and I’m a motorcycle gear addict.
I own somewhere north of a dozen jackets and pairs of boots, plus at least 20 pairs of gloves. I am down to three helmets after recently culling the herd of those which had celebrated their fifth birthday. I may also have the world’s largest collection of neck gaiters (I’m sure that someday Steve’s Neck Gaiter Collection will be a widely available POI).
Of all my kit, boots are the trickiest. While I want the optimal combination of protection and comfort, looks matter. I ride an RT and am “inseam challenged” so prefer a thick lug sole and need a medium width. But most of all, I’m particularly sensitive to hot feet. This takes synthetic material off the table and makes even leather GORE-TEX boots, like my beloved Sidi On Roads, intolerable above 80 degrees.
These days, it’s surprisingly hard to find high quality, protective, real leather, non-waterproof boots that don’t have hot nylon linings. I was interested in Aerostich’s Combat Touring or Combat Touring Lites, but they aren’t available now. REV-IT! Portlands and the pricey Belstaff Endurances were on the table, but I’d been thinking about Gasolina boots for several years and had browsed the company’s website dozens of times. I was looking for summer boots in ankle height, ones with a lugged soles and perforated outers, and I finally pulled the trigger on the Gasolina Shortcut boots.
This is my quick take on them.
Gasolina is a boutique company that makes leather products, primarily motorcycle boots and jackets, in their own shop in Mexico where they produce a limited product line focused on a cafe racer style. Gasolina markets their products online rather than selling through retail shops.
Gasolina boots are semi-custom: while they use standard sizing, customers can select height (calf or ankle height), stitching (yellow or black), soles (thin or lugged), and width. Depending on the options and shipping method a customer selects, a pair of Gasolinas will run $300-$375. This isn’t cheap but is certainly in line with high quality leather boots from other manufacturers.
Let me start with the positives. They
were, of course, exactly what I wanted in terms of width, height, sole, and leather outers. Opening the box released that wonderful new leather smell. They were stiff but loosened up quickly.
I like the fact that they were made by craftsmen in a neighboring country, and the company is responsive to customer service emails. The boots can also be re-soled, if necessary. I found them to be acceptably good for walking. While they aren’t hiking boot comfortable, it wouldn’t kill me if I needed to get somewhere on foot.
According to Gasolina’s website, the outer leather is 1.8-2mm top grain. That’s a positive. The toe and heel protection was also more robust than I expected, and there is additional leather reinforcement on each ankle–not as good as the hard protection but at least something. Inside the boots, the lining is a breathable leather rather than nylon.
Still, I do have a few concerns and quibbles. Since Gasolina makes most of their boots to order, they are not a spur of the moment purchase. Mine took three months from order to delivery. Like Model T automobiles, they come in any color you want so long as it’s black.
Unlike perforated leather gloves or jackets, the boot’s perforations only go to the leather lining. I’ll be anxious to find out whether this provides the hot weather ventilation that I wanted.
All things being equal, I’d prefer a smooth to a pebbled leather but the boots certainly aren’t ugly, so that wasn’t a deal breaker, and like most BMW riders, I have a fairly high tolerance for ugly gear if it performs.
Finally, with the zipper in the back and multiple buckled straps, putting them on is a little more difficult than boots with velcro or laces. While the zippers are robust, the straps are relatively thin, so I’m afraid that may be the first thing to go.
But what about the looks? I’m one of those riders concerned with the style of my gear when I’m riding even though no one sees me except other customers at convenience stores as I’m guzzling Red Bull during pit stops. I may not be as fashion conscious as the riders of a large, unnamed American motorcycle manufacturer, but it does matter to me.
To be frank, Gasolina boots might not look right for the GS and S bike clans of the greater BMW tribe but would be great for cruiser and roadster types. For us touring folks, they look sharp with riding jeans, but with ballistic textile pants I’ll probably stick to my Sidi Off Roads or Canyons. Riders unconcerned with looks like the guy I once saw in a banana yellow Roadcrafter suit topped with a yellow helmet, could pair them with anything.
I have to confess that 75 percent of the boots I own are not in my current rotation and sit gathering dust in the closet. I order most of my gear online and often decide that I don’t like something that seemed like a good idea when I bought it. But I will wear the Gasolinas, probably a lot. The company offers a 10% discount for repeat customers, and I may order a second calf height pair. Ultimately, this was a $300+ gamble that paid off.
Gasolina boots can be found at gasolinaboots.com
While parked at the ferry terminal taking our bikes from Quebec to Newfoundland, a fellow rider from Montreal asked where we had ridden from. I told him we were from British Columbia, 4,000km (2,500 miles) away, and he seemed impressed by this fact. He gave our G 650 GS motorcycles a good examination and asked what would soon become a common question on our cross-Canada expedition, “How many sets of tires have you gone through?”
By this point we had travelled 11,000 km (6,800 miles) and I looked over at Janel and shrugged, saying, “This is our first.” The Montrealer then took another look at the tire tread and used some colorful language to suggest I was lying. For the remainder of our trip this argument was repeated over and over and over again. People had a difficult time believing how far we had come on one set of tires. The arguments always ended at the same conclusion: questioners wanted to know what brand of tire we were using so they could strap them on their motorcycle for their next trip.
We didn’t come to our tire selection randomly. As tires were one of the most critical components of our four-month trip, I wanted to ensure we had the best possible tires for the job. We needed a tire that was good on pavement for the highways, but also good on dirt for the roads in northern Quebec and Labrador (and as we would also later discover, Saskatchewan). Lastly, we really needed a tire that would last the duration of the expedition. We were looking at around a 25,000-kilometer (15,500 mile) trip, our bikes fully loaded with all our clothes, camera gear and of course, Janel’s hair dryer. Changing worn out tires every 8,000 kms wasn’t ideal, and with the COVID-19 shortages, we weren’t even sure we could get decent tires when required. There were a lot of boxes to check, and I spent about a week researching to find what I hoped would be the perfect tire.
The tire I finally decided on was the Motoz Tractionator GPS. First things first, a common misconception is Motoz is pronounced “moto zee” (or “moto zed,” if you live in Canada or the
UK), when it is in fact pronounced “motOz.” Based in Australia (hence, Oz…?), with distribution worldwide, Motoz is slowly upping the game on the lifecycle of adventure tires. Suggested to last over 20,000 kms, Motoz Tractionator GPS tires are 50/50, but are claimed to have a comfortable ride at highway speeds. Now that we’re home safe from our cross-Canada trip, I thought I would share my thoughts on the tires and let you know if they held up to the challenge.
Easy part first: the tires were on our G 650 GS motorcycles. Janel’s is the regular G 650 GS with a 110/80-19 on the front and a 130/80-17 on the rear, and I have the Sertao with a 90/90-21 on the front and a 130/80-17 on the rear.
We completed just under our estimated distance with a total of 24,235 kms (15,060 miles). About 90 percent (~21,000 km) of it was on pavement, with 10 percent (~2,420 km) being on dirt. I know, it is a 50/50 tire, however, almost 2,500 km on dirt roads is still a fair test.
This is where things get interesting. We left for our trip in June thinking that summer had arrived. We were so very wrong. Our trip consisted of riding in temperatures between -4 degrees Celsius (24.9 degrees Fahrenheit) up to 40 degrees Celsius (100 degrees Fahrenheit). We rode on dry pavement, on flooded roads, through mud several inches thick, on rough dirt roads, on some nicely grated dirt roads, and even snow. I truly believe we gave the Motoz Tractionator GPS tires a real run through the paces.
Each bike had between 225-250 pounds of gear and human on it most of the time. We did do a few day trips without all the gear on the bikes; however, these rides were short and sweet (literally— they usually ended with ice cream or cookies being devoured).
On pavement, the Tractionator GPS tires handled great in any temperature. Obviously, when travelling on flooded or snow-covered pavement we slowed down; however, the tires kept their traction on any surface we rode on.
Off road was similar to pavement. Again, we aren’t super aggressive riders, but we also weren’t going 40 km/hr (25 mph). Even on the dusty, sandy Route 389 in northern Quebec, we didn’t have any issues with the tires slipping at 80 km/hr (50 mph). There was never any fear that the bikes were going to slip out from under us. Due to the fact that Janel (a very new rider) never wiped out on any of the dirt or paved roads due to tire slippage, I have to give the tires 10/10.
Note: we didn’t go through any deep sand.
The rear Tractionator GPS tire has a strip that runs the length of the tire allowing for a much smoother and quieter ride than for example, the Motoz Tractionator RallZ. Initially, I did notice an increase in noise from my previous tire, the Heidenau K60 Scout, but not enough to annoy me. After about five minutes of riding, I never noticed the noise again. Overall, I would suggest the tires are on the quieter end of adventure tires. I think the only way to get a 10 here would be if Motoz tires could make the world a quieter place, so 9/10 on noise.
The tires cruised well at highway speeds up to 120 km/hr (75 mph). Anything above 120 km/hr (75 mph), Janel and I both noticed there were small amounts of vibration that would continually get worse as our speed increased. This vibration wasn’t enough to cause any steering issues, it was more just a nuisance, especially the few times we had to travel the Trans-Canada Highway with much higher speed limits. On dirt however, our speeds were never in the vibration range and there wasn’t any additional vibration from the tires. Honestly, that was the only handling issue I noticed. I know for some people vibration can be a deal breaker so for handling due to the vibration above 120 km/hr (75 mph), I would give the tires an 8/10.
Now the real question, did the Tractionator GPS tires make it the whole 24,235 km? Yes, they did. Once we returned home, I took the tires in to be switched with a new set. My mechanic told me not to bother with the front tires as they still had over 50 pecent tread, but the rears were down to the wear bars. 24,235 km and we still had 50 percent traction on the front!? To me, that is just incredible. Even the rears were just at the point of being toast, which is pretty amazing. This is an easy rating: 10/10. If someone knows of a longer lasting tire, please email me as I would be interested to test it out against these beasts. Otherwise, if you are looking for a tire to last your trip across a continent and back, you found them.
The Motoz Tractionator GPS tires were the perfect tire for our trip. Of course, someone else might want something more off-road aggressive if they are riding BDRs across the USA. Others, might want a more highway-oriented tire to conquer the Tail of the Dragon and other curvier pavement. However, if you are in the market for a tire that can handle a variety of weather conditions and terrain, this may be the tire for you. If anything, the Motoz Tractionator GPS tires are a great way to make new friends who are fascinated by a tire that seemingly never dies.
Two notes: As much as Motoz tires are great, they are on the expensive side ($126-274 US dependent on size). However, for how long these tires last, I believe they are worth the extra cost. They can also be difficult to obtain in North America. If you do want a set, reach out to your local shop sooner rather than later or contact Pacific Power Sports in Ontario at pacificpowersports.com/. They usually have a good number of Motoz on hand.
Susanna and I are starting to sort out our camping gear for the upcoming MOA National Rally in Doswell, Virginia, later this month. My winter has been very slow as far as interesting Airhead repairs go.
My health issues continue to take away from my endurance and ability to perform hard work. I underwent a cardioversion procedure a couple of days ago, and I’m hoping my corrected heart rhythm will give me some more energy to do things. There is a lot of travel in our plans for this summer. The graduation of the oldest grandson from the University of Vermont is the first journey in the works. Three weeks following that is the rally in Virginia. We will fill in the three weeks between the two events with visits to family and friends that we seldom get to see from our home in Colorado. Later in the summer we’ll be spending a week at the Pyrotechnic Guild International Convention in Oshkosh, Wisconsin.
I have been fortunate in having real friends that are there to support me in times of need. When I was in that septic coma in 2008 following a botched gall bladder surgery, many of those friends rallied to support Susanna and just hang around in my hospital room, telling me jokes and reading to me as I lay unconscious on a respirator–real friends. Susanna came to see me one afternoon, and the nurse was playing show tunes. She found that amusing.
My BMW work really fell off this last fall and winter. Bob Clement, my friend in Montana, tells me he saw a similar slowdown. I’m looking forward to a few days of total immersion in the BMW/ Airhead world at the National Rally and Airhead Central. Since we will be in a car, I’ll bring a few parts and tools to help out. I’ll also be doing an “Airhead tech Q&A” on Friday. We will be camping at the rally, so I’ll be around a lot. I’m looking forward to spending some serious time with my BMW friends!
We choose to camp at the rally this year, and I know I’ll pick up a few stories and a few pictures for future columns. Camping does put me in a lot more contact with the Airhead BMW owners at the rally though I also enjoy looking at all the newer models. Volunteering does that also. I plan on helping out at the Ambassadors booth for a few hours. Just sitting on one of the Airhead Central
couches with my feet up always gets me in contact with Airhead riders from all over. I’m sure all the automobile driving will be a strain, but the payoff will be the time with my friends from all over, never mind enjoying this wonderful country we live in, and I know Susanna looks forward to a lobster by the ocean when we arrive in Maine!
Matt acquired his first BMW in 1972, upon his return from Vietnam. He hired on at Doc’s BMW of Colorado Springs in 1977. Since then, his life has been a mixture of travel, owning/working in various shops, as a nurse, and being very involved in his local community. He has owned around 15 Airhead BMWs over the years, but his first bike, a 1972 R 75/5, is parked by the front door with 434,000 miles on the odometer.
Some of you have heard the story of how an R 90/6 captured my attention when I was elementary school age and remember that now, about 45 (ouch!) years later, I’ve finally taken the plunge into owning one. Of course, now it’s a vintage bike, one we affectionately refer to as an airhead, and that comes with its own joys and sorrows, no matter how well maintained it was before I got ahold of it. For example, I knew going in it had leaky pushrod tube seals and needed the starter replaced, so it was never going to be a matter of just replacing the battery and hopping on for a ride.
Over the next few columns, I’m going to be talking about rehabbing this 1976 R 90/6, but if you don’t own or aren’t interested in owning a classic bike, don’t just flip by. Much of what I’m going to be discussing here could apply to any used bike more than a few years old. Motorcycle technology has a lot of fairly steady throughput, but it also can jump in leaps and bounds from year to year, something we’re especially aware of as our motorcycles become more electronically advanced in regards to power delivery and safety functionality. Whether you’re new to the community or an old salt, vintage bikes can teach you a lot about motorcycling and motorcyclists–including yourself.
Perhaps the greatest appeal for me was the opportunity to engage in a
unique riding experience. I know from my own past there is nothing like riding a late-1970s Honda CB750, and I want to experience the BMW version of that. As great as my 2015 R 1200 GS is, it will never be a mid-‘70s naked bike, and it simply cannot provide the raw, visceral experience I expect the R 90/6 will provide.
MOA member Scott Lindroth (1975 R 90/6) agrees with me; he said, “One of the things I love about my airhead is getting a sense of what it feels like to ride an
brake caliper, master cylinder and carbs I rebuilt–not to mention the clutch I replaced.”
Modern bikes–especially since we’ve entered the liquid-cooled boxer era–simply don’t need a lot of the common maintenance tasks required by older bikes. For example, modern digital ignition systems have eliminated the need to adjust points occasionally, and I find myself having completely forgotten how to accomplish this basic task that was once a regular part of my life as a driver and rider.
older bike. Operating the stiff clutch and throttle–and so-called brakes–are more work. They force me to be more actively engaged with the ride than I am on my [Triumph] T120.”
Another appeal of the airhead is an opportunity to learn more about not just the history of the venerable BMW boxer engine, but about the skills needed to keep an older bike running and safe on the road. Scott continues, “Having worked on the bike myself, I think concretely about the moving parts in the
Riders of any age can learn to work on vintage bikes, and it’s even more beneficial that for most tasks, you don’t need anything more than basic hand tools. Sure, you’ll need some specialized tools if you want to get deeper into rebuilding components like the engine, clutch or transmission, but for most things an airhead will need, a common set of metric tools will do the trick. Of course, if you don’t already have these tools, buying them will offset any possible savings you might have enjoyed over the purchase of a newer bike, but buying tools is its own joy, and knowing you’re going to use them to increase your understanding of the machine under you is a real treat.
Speaking of cost, in a lot of cases, buying a vintage bike can cost less than buying a new one. This is of course dependent on the condition of the vintage bike and exactly how old it is.
Prices for running airheads are on the rise again, but in a lot of cases you can still get one to scratch your itch for under $5,000. Naturally, the more storied ones will cost more–I’m looking at you, R 90 S–but an R 75/5 or R 100/7 is sure to be an achievable goal by anybody willing to save up for a while. Of course, if you’re trolling Bring a Trailer and looking for a restored R 80 G/S, you’re going to pay a lot more than you think for it, but I still believe if you’re patient and put in the legwork, you’ll find a bike to fit your budget sooner or later.
A great way to help yourself find that vintage bike is to dive into the community of riders who love these bikes. Not only will this start teaching you many of the things to help ease your ownership, but you’ll start to learn who you can turn to with questions. Plus, once those folks realize you’re serious about riding and maintaining one of these vintage gems, they’re more likely to help you network, which itself can lead to finding your bike. For every story about a timely Craigslist find, I’d bet there are five people who found their bike through a friend of a friend, somebody who was ready to move on to a different motorcycle and style of riding.
Connecting with people who love vintage bikes is also a way to start connecting to the history of the marque and model you’re looking at. This is more than just nostalgia, but that is certainly a big part of it. We all like to connect to the things which remind us of the good old days, the way things used to be, or however we choose to engage our retro sensibilities. This can also lead you to other organizations like the BMW MOA, whether it’s a local vintage bike collective or a nation/worldwide organization like the Vintage Japanese Motorcycle Club (VJMC)–which was my very first motorcycle club–or the Airhead Beemers Club (ABC).
New riders and people new to airheads and other vintage bikes can definitely benefit from joining one of these brand- or era-specific clubs. Not only can they connect to other enthusiasts, but these clubs are an incredibly valuable
collector of critical information needed to resurrect, rebuild and restore vintage motorcycles. Participating in rallies and tech days are especially great ways to build those relationships and integrate yourself more deeply into a community that has the possibility of buoying you through your own ups and downs with the vintage bike which has captured your heart.
“For me,” Scott said, “vintage bikes amplify my enjoyment of the ride. I don’t take anything for granted on that bike, and when everything is working–an attainable goal–it doesn’t get any better than that. Vintage airheads don’t throw error codes that put the bike in ‘limp mode.’ It’s been a fascinating and gratifying adventure, one that a modern bike would not offer.”
I admit this column has been all pro and no con. I don’t want anybody thinking owning a vintage bike is a problem-free ride in the park, so next month I’ll take a look at some of the difficult or discouraging aspects of these motorcycles. Until then, if you’ve been dreaming of an airhead, keep dreaming–and start digging into the community of supporters and fans of these classic motorcycles.
Wes Fleming tried being a rock star for 25 years, but gave all that up to focus on motorcycles. His mother still hasn’t forgiven him. The first new motorcycle he ever bought got run over by a car – with him still in the saddle. He discovered BMWs thanks to a friend in 2001 and has been riding trendy, not-so-trendy and sidecarequipped BMWs ever since. Wes currently holds down multiple jobs, including freelance guitar consultant and history professor; when he's not pacing around his empty nest, he's out looking for a great deal on a used motorcycle.
The map promised that Ocuri lay just across the river. Visions of tamales and salteñas danced in my head. I hadn’t eaten for eight hours. The river looked harmless enough, about 80 feet wide, slow moving and no more than axle deep, with perhaps a deeper channel of fast water down the middle. But how deep? I had plenty of time to choose my line.
Henry and Jerry were one hour behind me, with a flat tire and no hand pump. Leo and Jean, in the chase vehicle, were
another hour behind them. They were busy converting the trailer from two axles to one, off-loading all the heavy gear into the 4x4. All of this I learned from a passing truck driver. We had held a ride briefing during breakfast at the Capital Plaza Hotel in Sucre. “Sucre to La Paz via Oruro. Distance 434 miles. Travel time 10 hours. Decision time, folks,” said Leo. “That’s a long day’s ride, with some dirt and gravel on Highway #1. Not sure it’s do-able with the remaining daylight,” I said. Henry eyeballed the map and offered, “What about a short cut over the mountains through Ocuri and Macha on Highway #6? It will save us 50 miles. Couldn’t be any worse, could it?”
All five voted for Highway #6. “Let’s go!”
It was much worse. And then some.
Highway #6 was hard-packed, rutted dirt with washboards, and peppered with potholes and sand wallows. There was no ‘cut and fill,’ no easy gradients. The road chased the contours of the land and stuck to the canyon walls, ridges and mountainsides like wet spaghetti sticks to the kitchen wall. And the river crossings each a roll of the dice. Blindfolded.
By mid-afternoon, I had covered just 104 miles. I was covered in dust, dirt and mud. I was tired, cold, wet and all alone. Oh, and did I mention hungry? The sun was on the slide and we had zero chance of reaching La Paz, still 280 miles away, by nightfall. The situation was grim and getting worse, but serendipity has two faces and I love them both. Someone once quipped that ‘it was always darkest before it turned completely black.’ Not so in this case.
“Señor, this for you.” I turned and there stood Francisco. In his outstretched hand was a well-worn spoon and a chipped enamel bowl, full of boiled potatoes tossed in buttermilk and wild herbs. He could have been offering me Ambrosia, Nectar of the Gods.
I hadn’t noticed Francisco as he went about his work, where the river crossed the road. I had been so intent on the crossing. He had thousands of fingerling potatoes soaking in a shallow backwater by the riverbank. Beside the road, another hollow held hundreds of potatoes on a blue tarpaulin sheet. There, he was gently rolling the
potatoes with his bare feet to remove the tough, purple outer skins. Next, the potatoes, still in their brown inner skin, were taken and laid on the gently sloping hillside, to dry in the sun. There were
Ambrosia, Nectar of the Gods.
Francisco processing some potatoes. enough potatoes to cover a whole football field, I reckoned. His two young daughters and a son were in charge of that operation. His wife, potato chef extraordinaire, tended her wood fire and waved shyly from close by, their crude tent a five-pole construction covered by an orange plastic sheet.
Francisco explained that his farmhouse and fields were just over the hill.
“But I need the river to process my crop for delivery to the restaurants in La Paz. A truck will be along soon to weigh them and put them into boxes. I will be paid well, and then my work here will be done.”
With a glint in his eye and a wry smile on his face, Francisco quipped, “Señor, I am just a small potato in this big valley, but this year has produced a fine crop. My family will eat well until our next harvest.”
The engineer in me cried out for an easier way; a machine, perhaps a combination washer/tumble dryer type contraption. Press the button, sit back, relax, and wait for the ‘ping.’ No, think again Alan. There’s no electricity for miles around and Francisco’s family is together as one, engaged with the land. So, what was the problem? The engineer bit his
tongue, smiled and replied “Muy bien, amigo.”
I rummaged around in my jacket pocket and pulled out a few bolivianos to pay for my lunch. Francisco recoiled in horror. “Señor, you cannot pay for my hospitality. It is not our way. Please, I beg you.”
Try again, Alan…earlier in the week, on the road to Potosi, we had taken teaching supplies and some fun things to the dirt-poor kids at Chaquilla school. I had some leftovers in my top box. I fished out a few pencils, a sharpener, three small sketch pads, a packet of balloons and a bag of hard candy.
“For your little ones, Francisco,” I offered in return. “Gracias” he replied. Quid Pro Quo. Francisco pointed across the river, towards the setting sun and Ocuri. “There you may wait in comfort for your friends and perhaps find a bed for the night. Que le vaya bien, Señor.” The sentiment is the same, but “have a nice day” sounds so much nicer in Spanish.
a windowless chiché joint, its white flag flying, signaling that a fresh brew of fermented corn was now on tap. There was no restaurant, no hotel nor garage.
A young man sat guarding a solitary hand-operated gas pump, on which hung a sign “No gasolina.” There was a bus stop, but no bus had stopped there for years. It was clear that the town’s only contribution to the Bolivian economy was dog poop. It was everywhere. We felt a pervading sense of hostility from the locals. Everyone stood and stared, but nobody smiled, waved, or spoke to us.
Macha, the next dot on this dirt path of a so-called highway, was our only hope of shelter for the night. With dusk approaching, we had to move fast. Only the town drunk offered a friendly wave and an ounce of hope as we pulled away. “Vaya con Dios, compadres. There are three fine hotels and a restaurant in Macha. It is just over the next hill.
He was wrong on all accounts. * * *
Faraway, on the other side of many hills, Doña Eugenia was down on her luck. Bundled up against the cold, she was perched on a crooked metal chair outside her hotel, the Frontera, waiting, hoping and praying for someone, for anyone who might need a bed for the night. The tiny sliver of a new moon did nothing to brighten the night sky or lift her spirits. Since her husband walked out six months ago, she had tried to keep the business from going under. Money, or lack thereof, was not the only issue. Now alone in her mid-sixties, she was running out of energy, enthusiasm, and that most essential ingredient, hope.
With shadows lengthening rapidly, the five of us finally joined forces in Ocuri’s central plaza. On the south side, stood a poorly stocked tienda (variety store) and
If there was any silver lining for Eugenia, her hotel was, for the time being, the only game in town. The Hotel Macha, at the top of the main square, had suffered a small fire in the lobby during the Tinku festival and was closed for
repairs. A third hotel, the San Pedro, was undergoing extensive upgrades. Running water, albeit cold, was being installed in every guest room, along with sit-upon flush toilets. Luxuries that she could only dream of for the Frontera.
True, the Frontera had electricity, with seven light fixtures: one above the front porch, two in the lobby/dining room, one in her kitchen-cum-bedsitter and one each in the three guest bedrooms. She cooked her guests’ meals on a twoburner propane stove and had a coldwater faucet in the open courtyard that she shared with her guests and chickens. Only the dining room had heat, provided by an acetylene torch/fan combination. The lone toilet was an outhouse with a hole in the floor, where the Swahili squat was the order of the day.
All in all, she felt that 15 bolivianos (2 USD) per bed per night was good value for the budget traveler. Macha was not a destination for the rich and famous. It was Monday and, much like any other night of the year, business was grim. There had been steady trade until the local mines closed, then the young folk had moved away. Macha had become a town of old people.
Each Sunday morning, the campesinos (subsistence farmers) in the surrounding valley came to Macha to sell their meager crops and exchange the latest gossip, but nothing much else ever happened in the town that long ago had stopped believing in itself.
Nothing ever happened in Macha, except for the annual Tinku festival. She gazed sadly at the now empty main square that hosted the event every first week in May. This year’s festivities had been particularly violent. One old warrior dancer from Ravelo had died, his jugular cut by glass shards embedded in the gloves of a younger combatant. The mass brawl that followed had been finally broken up by the police using tear gas, dogs, and a baton charge.
“The Tinku. I danced it to the sounds of drums, charangos and zamponas when I was a young girl, dressed in all my finest embroidery. And Arturo was so handsome in his leather Conquistador helmet and feathered plume. So attentive, and what a dancer! He literally swept me off my feet. Back then, the Tinku was a
beautiful Aymaran celebration of vitality and life. Not a dance of alcohol, combat and death, as it is today,” she murmured and spat in contempt at the madness of it all.
The wind from the north had freshened. Dust devils danced on the main square. A shiver ran through her bones. She might as well close up shop, retreat to the lobby and watch her favorite novela on TV, at least until 11 p.m. when power to the village would be cut off. She dragged her chair inside, and as she pushed home the last bolt on the front door, five headlights, three motorbikes and a 4x4, appeared on the mountainside, moving slowly eastwards from Ocuri. * * *
Doña Eugenia could not believe her good fortune.
“You want all three rooms, with seven beds in each room, for just five people?”
“Yes, Señora, we need three rooms for privacy’s sake. One for Leo and me, a second for Henry and Jean, and the third for El Viejito,” Jerry countered. Did he just call me a little old man?
Gears turned in her head. “That will be all 20 beds señor. At 15 bolivianos each bed, that’s 300 bolivianos (40 USD) total. Toilet paper is extra.” Jerry knew that he
was being ‘gringoed’ but didn’t argue. We needed to eat and sleep, not barter. Tomorrow, we had to be on the road at 5 a.m. I had a plane to catch that evening in La Paz, and the airport was still 280 dusty miles away. “Hmm,” I thought, “She must have missed a bed in her calculations. Shut my mouth…”
The only restaurant in town was closed for the night, but we pulled ham, cheese and bread rolls from our cooler, and Doña Eugenia rustled up lashings of fried eggs, fresh from the free- range chickens that roamed the hotel courtyard. We feasted like royalty, with copious cups of hot black coffee and bottles of room temperature Bolivian beer to wash it down. Doña Eugenia did not own a refrigerator, but one is not needed on the Altiplano. It’s cold enough. Always.
For a little while, Henry, Jean and Leo played an animated game of cards that resembled a combination of Old Maid, Stud Poker and Karate. While Jerry smoked a cigarette and passed the time with Doña Eugenia, I mended a tear in my riding pants. That was all the excitement we needed at the end of a cold, long, hard, dusty day.
At 11 p.m. precisely, the power went off. Doña Eugenia was ready. She handed us each a box of matches and a candle. “Now, be careful where you put that,” she
said. Henry spluttered and Jean giggled. It was time for bed; the reward at the end of a ‘day to remember.’
My bedroom door had no latch or lock, and was missing a lower panel, I supposed to let the rooster in to herald the coming of the dawn, just five hours away. It was almost midnight. I sat on the end of the bed and pulled off my riding boots, jacket and pants. In the dim, guttering candlelight, I looked around the room. There were seven beds, one chair and no table. Wait a minute…behind the door, stood a gasoline-powered generator and a battery charger [ 8 ]. In the adjoining wall to Henry and Jean’s room, there was a hole, an open doorway-cum-window of sorts, 3 feet square at floor level. It was covered with a sheet of tissue paper, fixed with duct tape. In front, sat a huge bass drum. After thirteen days of total immersion in Bolivia, it all made perfectly good sense. Bonkers was the new norm. The outside temperature had dipped below freezing, with no heat in the room except for the candle flame. I decided to sleep in my thickest socks, thermal underwear and a wooly hat. Falling backwards on to the bed, I stared at the ceiling. The ceiling stared back. There I was, in all my grimy glory, reflected in a full-length mirror. Was it an everyday mirror or a one-way special, James Bond style? I was too tired to care. I made a mental note to check the home-made videos on pornobolivia.com when I got home. If I got home…
I crawled under the first two layers of rough woven blankets. It was as cold as the grave, the blankets heavier than six feet of wet clay. I looked again into the mirror. I hadn’t noticed it earlier, but there, above the bed, hung a plaque that read adoB zileF. “That’s a reflection, dummy” I chided myself. I turned it around in my head. Feliz Boda. I was in the Honeymoon Suite, in the marriage bed, no less!
So, who were the other six beds for? Family, friends, paying spectators, the film crew…who?
I was having a full-blown giggling fit as I blew out the candle and drifted off to La-La-Land.
“Beautiful, bonkers, backwater Bolivia! Definitely at its best when everything goes wrong. What a brilliant disaster of a ride that was, today. You’ve just got to love this country.”
“De acuerdo” growled the baritone oversized lump in the bed at the dark end of the room.
I re-lit the candle…
Bolivia is rich in natural resources, but it is the poorest country in South America by almost every other metric. Two-thirds of its people live below the poverty line, in rural areas, as subsistence farmers or as co-op miners on the Altiplano, that high elevation, frigid plateau that lies between the Cordilleras Occidental and Real. They live from one hardscrabble day to
another in homes without electricity, heat or running water.
We rode for 14 days through their land, dressed in our state-of-the-art clothing on our high-tech machines, looking much like aliens, I suppose. We struggled with the ever-present cold, with altitude sickness, and with bone-rattling roads, river crossings and choking dust. It was not a comfortable ride, but never once were we threatened or did we feel in danger. The people of the Altiplano are, for the most part, conservative and resistant to change. They are not, at first blush, open nor welcoming to strangers but, like anywhere else in the world, we found that a smile and a few mangled words in their language went a long way towards making a new friend.
Tourists passing through with “terminal selfie syndrome” need not apply.
When Alan retired in 2003, he bought his first motorcycle and went for a ride.
In his travels across six continents, through no fault of his own, he crossed paths with the ghosts of Butch and Sundance, Jimi Hendrix, Che Guevara, Muhammad Ali, Nelson Mandela, and Brigitte Bardot, to name but seven.
Later, he was persuaded to write about his encounters and, to date, despite being an engineer, he has more than 40 short stories in his collection. At 80-something, Alan is still searching for the Meaning of Life, but most days he is happy enough just to find his car keys.
Rush hour on Highway 6.
We’ll all probably agree the planning stage of a long motorcycle ride always presents a few good problems to have. The downside is there’s always some sort of schedule to follow that restricts the quantity (and quality) of points of interest to visit. Then there’s my personal issue once rolling–I don’t want to stop unless I really have to. When I do stop, curiosity always overcomes, and I lavish more travel currency that wasn’t in the original budget. My time-consuming idiosyncrasy results in a struggle to find lodging during nocturnal hours–and forget about a tall Frosty at the closed Wendy’s–I’m routinely looking for a lumpy pillow and the never-used free gym, when most normal people have already booked their rooms, ate, imbibed and turned in for the night.
My route from Seattle to Springfield, Missouri, via Chicago for the 2022 MOA National Rally wasn’t too difficult to figure out, and Dr. Google showed the proposed route was like a number seven, with the long leg of the “7” at the top. Pretty simple.
Over the years, I’d taken various routes on my personal empire-building runs from Seattle to Chicago, the most “excitin” being astride a 1999 F 650 Funduro. These round trips to the middle of the U.S. usually clock around 5,000 miles on the odometer. It was after another fun Funduro monkeybutt from Seattle to Colorado and back that the crosswinds over the Great Plains and the Wyoming wilderness nudged my cerebration towards machines with more ponies and wider seats. After consistently swapping
out various BMWs over the years, I consider my current motorcycle ideal for the business of long-distance jaunt–my 2016 R 1200 RT.
But where should I stop and spend my limited point of interest time?
The MOA Forum was a good place to look for ideas. Under “Quick Links” there’s a “Today’s Posts” dropdown menu. I visit this page almost every day, and sure enough there was an increase in chatter regarding the upcoming National. I located a thread about the Churchill Museum in Fulton, Missouri, a few hours north of the rally site. Seeing I’d be heading south from the Windy City, it looked like Fulton was an ideal location for a free shampoo and waffle machine before camping at Springfield.
Over the years, another museum that I’d passed road signs for, but never visited, was the birthplace of Ronald Reagan in Tampico, Illinois. Usually, after several days after leaving Seattle, “get-there-itis” starts to set in, and I keep on riding to Chicago: looking forward to seeing family, taking in a minor league baseball game and enjoying a Polish from Micky’s in Lombard. Then the 20W incandescent illuminated in my head: A stop at The Gipper’s birthplace as well as Winston’s USA museum (Winston Churchill, that is). Two famous orators of historical significance, linked by the closing and raising of The Iron Curtain. My visits would be
chronologically out of order, but that didn’t matter.
After a few days travel, doing my best to avoid Interstates, I finally slabbed over the Mississippi on I-80, briefly gallivanting along I-88, then into the horizontal zig-zag thoroughfares that negotiate large rectangular fields of Illinois cultivation. I thought to myself that this was definitely tornado country, remembering when I was blown over on my R 1150 R in Iowa several years ago, I scanned for ditches and hedgerows along the way, equally concerned about my machine and personal safety. But the June weather was grey, muggy and occasionally spitting rain. Benign and normal.
This orthogonal safari through the tilled flatland would finally bring me to the quiet village of Tampico, Illinois. Birthplace of our 40th President. I really enjoy small towns such as these, learning early in my cross-country travels that if you needed to get off the bike for shade and a clean restroom, aim for the City Park in a small town. These gems are usually signposted and easy to find, and their sanctuary often replace the sounds of engine and turbulence with a welcome rustle of wind through trees. But I wasn’t in Tampico to briefly scrunch my sweaty toes in freshly mowed grass, it was to scratch a longstanding curiosity itch.
Quiet would be an understatement when it comes to Tampico. With the exception of a few young women and grandparents pushing strollers and herding toddlers and two or three “experienced” looking men at the out-of-gas gas station working on something or other, there were only one or two cars on the main street of Tampico Road. The museum was easy to find, a small, converted store flanked by the closed National Bank and open Garland Funeral. Lots of Reagan memorabilia is in the store, with the bank preserved as a living museum that wouldn’t look out of place in a Bonnie and Clyde movie. In the bank’s street-facing window there’s a sign that proudly asserts “Birthplace of Ronald Reagan.” Between the museum storefront and the bank is a small red door that takes you up a flight of stairs to the Reagan apartment.
After flipping down my sidestand outside this revered building, I quickly shed the ATGATT, took an archival bike photo, then entered the store in search of air conditioning and historical enlightenment. Waiting inside was a pleasant lady, a retired schoolteacher who was more than willing to provide a personal tour of this historical outpost. I believe schoolteachers never really retire, they’re like musicians and just can’t stop doing what they love to do. My guide at the Reagan Museum was no exception, and she made my visit an enjoyable and memorable experience.
We started our memorabilia tour in the store, with my chaperone patiently chatting and answering many questions, then moving on to explore the bank with it’s exquisite woodwork and enormous safe, then finally outside, through the small red door and up the narrow staircase, to the apartment where Jack and Nelle Reagan gave birth to John Neil on
September 16, 1908, followed three years later by Ronald Wilson on February 6, 1911.
The apartment was what I’d come to see and I wasn’t disappointed in the effort that had gone into restoring the building. Revitalization started in 1976 with the peeling back of five layers of wallpaper. Eventually that glued muralassemblage was replaced with a single pasting of similar period design. The apartment’s rehabilitation kept the original skylight, woodwork and wooden floors and doors, and each room displays
Inside the Reagan family apartment.
vintage furniture and household items that reflect how the Reagans may have lived. It was a bonus to experience an immersive tour by walking around the apartment without encountering dusty rooms that were chained off from intrusion. The apartment was large, airy and well conserved by the Tampico Historical Society, with so many wellthought-out details, both large and small. A visit is highly recommended for any history buff.
A few days later, I was back on the road heading south on I-55 from the Chicago suburbs to Fulton, Missouri, and the Churchill museum (not to be confused with Fulton, Illinois, which just so happens to be the birthplace of Jack and Nelle Reagan). My Illinois family told me that there are two seasons there–winter and construction. I arrived during the latter, picking up a large screw in the rear tire after only 80 miles into downstate Illinois. The trip south of Chicago was an endless display of heavy machinery and orange vests for about 100 miles, so the puncture could’ve happened anywhere, but I’m guessing it happened when negotiating bumps and berms getting to a Love’s gas station near Dwight.
The dash of a Wethead RT can display a lot of information courtesy of the Wonder Wheel and, as a general rule, my preference is to keep the default display set to
tire pressures. I’ll often scroll through the bike’s feedback, sometimes for no good reason other than morbid curiosity, such as seeing if the temperature has reached 100°F. I’m always glancing to see if the tire pressures haven’t strayed too far from 36 psi front and 42 psi rear cold. It was after one of these scrollings that I discovered my rear tire, a relatively new Roadsmart III, had deflated to 30 psi. My heart sank, then was almost instantly lifted when I looked up and read a welcoming blue sign that said, “Rest Area 1 Mile.”
The well-maintained Limestone Rest Stop provided a selection of shelters and concrete tables to aid in my unplanned project–in heat just below the dreadful 100°F. Relieved about not backtracking to the nearby town of Pontiac on what was a rapidly deflating rear tire, I parked, quickly removed my gear, and got to work. With the aid of a decent Leatherman, Motion Pro strings, vulcanizing goo of questionable vintage, and a BestRest CyclePump, the offending foreign object was removed, a plug was
set and I was quickly back on the road.
Preferring to support independent motels and not having to get back on the bike to find food after a long day in the saddle, I generally aim for lodgings with walking proximity to some sort of eatery or pub. But fatigue and lack of patience with my GPS resulted in a spiraled VFR route around Fulton, ending up at a clean but pricey Baymont hotel on the outskirts just off Route 54. The hotel’s location resulted in my acceptance of gastronomy from the beckoning neon gas station across an expansive parking lot. People watching over a tall Coors Banquet and family size Funyuns was an interesting way to wind down for the evening, as the gas station also doubled as a Greyhound Bus Stop.
Early the next day, after a free breakfast and loading up the bike, I headed into town to America’s National Churchill Museum at the Westminster College campus.
Until reading the rally thread on MOA’s site, I’m ashamed to admit that I’d never heard of a Churchill Museum in the US. So, a quick recap: From 1940 to 1945, the WWII government of Britain was a coalition of political parties. As the Conservative Prime Minister, Churchill
Winston Churchill statue at Fulton College.
A spiral staircase in the Churchill museum.
had guided Britain through the war and was still very popular, but shortly after VE day (May 8th 1945), the opposition Labour Party secured an overwhelming victory in the 1945 General Election with a platform that focused on social reforms–drastic changes that a weary public were apparently eager to accept. On this side of the pond, we had the equally popular President Roosevelt who was suffering declining health and passed away on April 12, 1945, with vice-President Harry Truman sworn in the same day. The story goes that Harry Truman sent Winston Churchill a handwritten note inviting him to Westminster College in Fulton. “This is a wonderful school in my home state. Hope you can do it. I will introduce you. Regards, Harry S. Truman.”
The invitation was accepted, and on March 5th, 1946, accompanied by President Truman, Winston Churchill delivered the “Sinews of Peace” speech in the college gym. From that speech, the phrase “Iron Curtain” was coined. I didn’t visit the gym, instead I spent my time in the museum located in the lower levels of The Church of St. Mary the Virgin, Aldermanbury.
The museum is well worth a visit. A young docent greeted me upon entry and explained the overall layout, which does a pretty good job of keeping things in chronological order. Famous typed and annotated pages of the Sinews of Peace speech are in a paneled room. Each page is cleverly separated, making it easy to read individual excerpts. I spent at least two hours in the building soaking up everything Winston. There’s a lot to take in.
A spiral staircase takes you from the lower-level museum into the rebuilt 12th century church. Destroyed in the Great Fire of London in 1666 and rebuilt in 1677 under the guidance of Sir Christopher Wren, this particular house of worship was almost completely destroyed for a second time during the Blitz of 1940. Rebuilding the old church didn’t seem to be a priority after the war, so it sat for a couple of decades until Fulton College members of the English-speaking Union discussed a memorial to Winston Churchill, by shipping what was left of the building to the United Sates for restoration. After four years, a few million
dollars in eager donations, and despite the wit and sarcasm of British hacks, the project proceeded in 1965. Of course, the 7,000 carefully cataloged stones were all mixed up by the time they reached American soil, with the church being finally dedicated in 1969.
As well as Winston Churchill, Fulton College has an impressive invitation list of famous speakers, notably Mikhail Gorbachev, Margaret Thatcher and Lech Walesa. But there’s one more connection between Tampico and Fulton. A sculpture of eight modified graffiti’d sections of the Berlin Wall. Located beside the church, large silhouettes of human figures are
carved out of the concrete, with the piece aptly named “Breakthrough.” Created by Churchill’s granddaughter, Edwina Sandys, this monument to Eastern European freedom was dedicated by Ronald Reagan.
“From Stettin in the Baltic, to Trieste in the Adriatic, an iron curtain has descended across the continent,” –Winston Churchill, March 5, 1946, Westminster College in Fulton, Missouri.
“Mr. Gorbachev, tear down this wall!” –Ronald Reagan, June 12, 1987, West Berlin.
A sculpture of eight modified graffiti’d sections of the Berlin Wall.
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The Trans-Labrador Highway is a bucket-list route for many riders scattered across Canada and the US. Considered one of the most remote highways in North America, the highway winds from Quebec’s boreal forests to the rugged coastline of Labrador leading to the island of Newfoundland. Along the highway, there is no cell service between towns for stretches of over 400 kms (250 miles) and no services (including fuel stations) meaning a break down could mean waiting more than a day before a tow truck can even show up.
That said, there is a benefit to a highway this remote: drivers on the highway are a community. If a vehicle is pulled off on the side of the road, everyone stops to check in. This is great in theory, but with so few people living in this remote area of Canada, one might be waiting for an extended period before someone actually drives by. With all this going for us, the one thought on my mind was: “Please don’t let us get a flat tire;” my tire changing skills are not the best, and trial by fire did not excite me. The evening of our arrival into Labrador City had brought with it an intense storm. Lightening blazed across the sky as the rain hammered down on the pavement outside. From the window of the bed and breakfast we called home that night, I watched the rain come down on our bikes and hoped the last day of our 13-day marathon would be blessed by the sun. The previous two days had been long as we tackled Route 389 through northern Quebec. I knew the part of the trip that had worried Janel
the most was now over, and I noticed a big change in her mood. Even with the rain pouring down outside, Janel’s outlook was positive: I saw a pride in my wife that I did not often see. Janel had accomplished something few others had done, and she was proud of herself. Even a torrential rainstorm couldn’t negatively impact her good mood. By morning, the worst of the storm was over, and the sun was beginning to peek through the clouds. With only 250 kms (155 miles) to ride that day, we decided to visit the local museum and Welcome Center Gateway Labrador for a quick history lesson on Labrador before hitting the road to Churchill Falls. However, while there, we were given the unpleasant news (or pleasant news, depending on whether you saw it from mine or Janel’s perspective) that the Labrador Highway had officially been completely paved as of the day of our arrival in Labrador. Yes, the paving of the whole 1,149 km (714 miles) highway had actually been completed the day we arrived in Labrador. The project had officially begun in 1997, and after 25 years of construction, we were going to be some of the first motorcycles to ride the highway in all its paved glory. I was a little heartbroken that our dirt riding was coming to an end so soon, but I knew by the look on Janel’s face that the suitcase of dirt riding stress Janel had been carrying on her back had quickly dissipated with this news. With one of us happy, and the other a little disappointed, we threw our legs over the bikes and carried on to find what Labrador had in store for us.
Route to Churchill Falls
It didn’t take long for us to notice the remoteness for which Labrador was famous. Ten kilometres outside of Labrador City, the largest bull moose I had ever seen with a rack that would make any photographer drool, strode across the highway into the never-ending swampy muskeg. The moose was the first sign of life we had seen since leaving Labrador City and was the only life we would see for the next hundred or so kilometres. About halfway to Churchill Falls we pulled off on so called shoulder of the highway. With limited traffic, the shoulders are almost non-existent and instead just drop off into a four-foot ditch into the muskeg. We chose to use a mileage sign’s base as our pull out for a quick snack break. People around Canada had really hyped up the bug problem in Labrador: black flies and mosquitos are the most notorious. However, when we pulled into our makeshift rest stop, we were pleasantly surprised by the limited number of flying annoyances.
“I think all this bug talk is just hype,” I said to Janel. She looked at me in that look of a knowing woman and said, “Maybe just wait until we have made it across Labrador before you go jinxing us.”
A few hours later a grated bridge welcomed us across the Churchill River and into the town of Churchill Falls. A company town based around the generating station, Churchill Falls has about 730 residents, one gas station and one hotel. For some reason, our GPS wasn’t picking up our hotel’s location. Seeing a police cruiser at a four way stop, I flagged the officer down:
“What da ya at there, b’y?” he asked in a strong Newfoundland accent.
“Thanks for stopping,” I responded politely. “We are trying to find the Height of the Land Hotel.”
“Oh yes, b’y! Alright, watta ya need ta do is head er down that der way…. Ahh f*** it. Ya jus follow me.”
Without waiting for a response, he went up the road and spun back around for us to follow him. We then rode through the small town with our very own police escort to the Height of the Land Hotel in Churchill Falls.
As we pulled into what looked like a recreation center parking lot, the officer stopped and explained that Churchill Falls has one main building that houses the library, hotel, grocery store, and any other thing the town might need. He then gave us directions to the hotel in the building and left us to our own devices.
That evening while we were enjoying dinner, Carvey Noble, the owner of the Height of the Land Hotel came over and introduced himself. Dressed in a khaki short sleeve dress shirt, black work pants, and some serious hiking boots, Carvey gave off the vibe of an outdoorsman who took his business seriously. When Carvey spoke however, he made us feel welcome, and we could hear and feel the pride he took in his home of Labrador.
I asked him some questions about the generating station and the area surrounding Churchill Falls, and while answering my questions, Carvey offered to take us on a tour the following day. We quickly agreed as we (and our butts) were excited to
take a day off from the bikes after 13 days straight of riding.
After a solid night’s sleep, we met Carvey in the parking lot at 8:30 a.m. Carvey was waiting next to his black Hummer and was ready to tour us through this remote area. As we hopped into the vehicle, Carvey told us that our first stop would be the short hike to the actual Churchill Falls for which the town was named.
“Great!” I replied to this news. “I brought my drone, and the light is fantastic for photographs today.”
“Oh, you will want to be careful.” Carvey replied. “If you crash your drone out there, there isn’t any way to get it back.”
This was the point where Janel told the story of how I lost my first drone in the close quarter buildings of Budapest, Hungary. While Janel and I laughed with Carvey at my misfortune from several years previous, I explained how I had already learned my lesson and I was sure my drone would make it back safely.
The trail to the Churchill Falls is only about 3 kilometres (1.69 miles). When we arrived at our first viewpoint of the falls my jaw dropped; we stood at the top of a massive valley with steep green cliffs surrounding the river below. It looked like a combination between South Africa’s Victoria Falls and the Grand Canyon. I took my bag off and quickly threw up the drone.
Flying down to the far end of the canyon I could see the
edges of the falls, and I knew I had to get a panoramic shot of the water smashing down into the river below. As I panned back towards us–to really draw the viewer into the story–I thought “I can’t see the drone, I better not go too wide…” And that was when the drone smacked into a tree, and I watched through the monitor as it tumbled down the cliff and into the river below. Watching the drone roll and roll and roll, hurt my soul a little bit. I turned towards Janel and Carvey waiting to be admonished due to my stupidity, but instead, Janel shrugged and said “Well, I guess we need to budget for a new drone.” Carvey gave a short laugh and said we could go look for it, but it was unlikely we would find it. With my head hanging low, we continued the hike out to the falls.
After spending about half an hour viewing the falls, we hiked back out to the Hummer and Carvey took us to the reservoirs that feed the generating station. Driving along the dikes was a surreal experience, roads made of dirt piled over 10 metres high at points, with water on one side and thick forest on the other. I thought how great it would be to ride the motorcycles along here when Carvey mentioned a lot of ATV riders try to ride up the dikes which often leads to rollovers.
“Maybe another time then,” I laughed.
Somewhere in this valley rests my lost drone.
After our tour of the dikes, we headed down to the Churchill River where Carvey had a boat waiting to take us fishing. As the boat pulled up near to the generating station that is literally built into the valley cliffs, I grabbed a fishing rod and cast it out into the river.
Janel’s mouth dropped open: “You know how to fish!?” she exclaimed.
“Of course!” I said, likely more firmly than I needed; I was still feeling stupid about losing my drone earlier that day. “I grew up in small town British Columbia. I know all kinds or rural things.” It’s always great to still be able to surprise your wife after three years of marriage. Unfortunately, my skills at fishing weren’t up to par, and neither Carvey nor myself caught a single fish. Instead, we had a fascinating tour of the river as we cruised up and down exploring the different areas. It was very peaceful as we were the only people on the river and the water was glass calm. It felt as though Labrador was welcoming us. As per usual on this cross-country trip, we were incorrect.
That evening we watched as storm clouds closed in and a downpour unlike anything we had seen yet crashed down on the small community of Churchill Falls. I enjoyed our day in the sunshine, and the boat ride would have been horrible if it had rained, but come on, enough was enough; it was July! Where was summer!? Why is the Labrador Highway all paved!? Where is my drone!? UGH! With my frustration kicking into overdrive, I went to bed and hoped for a sunny morning.
Rising early, I packed up the bikes as the rain came and went several times in 20 minutes. After fueling up we had about a 300 km (186 mile) ride to Happy Valley-Goose Bay. Dark clouds sat low in the sky as we road east. Trees lined the road tightly creating a tunnel effect as we tore down the newly laid asphalt. Like most of Labrador, there were no services on this route. Unlike the road to Churchill Falls however, there were several pullouts along the way. We took
Churchill river. Lots of fun, but no fish.
advantage of these to stretch our legs, use the bathroom, and have a quick snack. At the first pullout I took my helmet off, and within seconds realized my mistake as I was swarmed by hundreds of black flies. The bugs attacked at full force while I tried to undo my Klim riding pants so I could relieve myself. Janel mocked me for my previous comment about the bugs in Labrador, all while I prayed I would not get a bite in an unkind location. With lessons learnt, each time we stopped thereafter, our helmets stayed on except for when we needed quick gulps of water.
Later that day, we pulled into the parking lot at the Royal Inn and Suites in Happy Valley-Goose Bay and were welcomed to a rather large apartment with chocolate and fancy coffee waiting for us. At this point we were halfway across Labrador. The next half of the trip would take us through the 404 km stretch of nothing, to an old harbor town, and finally to the island of Newfoundland. I am sure there will be more bugs and rain along the way.
If you want to see any video footage of our trip you can on Youtube at @lostingear or for more photographs on Instagram @lostingear.
This beautiful museum loaded with tourism information and located right as you come into Labrador City should be your first stop as you arrive in Labrador. The very kind and knowledgeable staff will give you the up and up on what the province has to offer you on your ride. Plus, it’s completely free! www.gatewaylabrador.ca
There is only one hotel in Churchill Falls and although you might not a get a police escort there, it is a fantastic hotel. Very quiet rooms with AC that will set you up for a comfortable night’s sleep. The restaurant offers a variety of meals including delicious pizza. At $169 (125 USD) a night, it is worth stopping in to explore the area. heightoflandhotel.com
There aren’t a lot of tourism options in Churchill Falls; however, Carvey Noble, the owner of Height of the Land Hotel, runs a small business where he does tours by car and fishing tours in his boat. He knows everything about the area. His prices are very reasonable, and if you really want to learn about Churchill Falls and Labrador, reach out to him via the hotel. It is well worth it. Email heightoflandhotel@gmail.com or call at (709) 925-3211
Dustin grew up in Quesnel, British Columbia, and began riding on the back of his father's motorcycle many years ago. He has a doctorate of Community Health with a speciality in Indigenous health. He currently works several contract positions with Indigenous organizations across Canada. Dustin's publication credits include The Globe and Mail, CBC, and Vice News, along with several extreme sport magazines such as Explore, Sidetracked, Canoe and Kayak, and Paddle Magazine. Dustin and Janel currently live in Powell River, British Columbia.
More than two decades ago, when I first started writing for motorcycle magazines, on a whim I tried my hand at a gear review. Coming from a newspaper family (my dad a reporter for the Denver Post, my grandfather the managing editor of a major Wisconsin paper), and teaching journalism courses myself, I had no way to avoid being schooled in the tenants of thoroughness, fairness and objectivity, but figuring out how to produce writing worthy of readers (who quite often knew more than I about motorcycling) took some time.
My first review was of a nice pair of gloves, I think from Joe Rocket. I tried to emulate the thoroughness of writers from my bible at the time, Motorcycle Consumer News, but looking back, I probably gave readers much more information than they would ever want to wade through and a clinical style that was as stale as last night’s half-finished beer. It got easier with each review I did, partly because of the support and advice from kind-hearted ON editors like Mary Baker, Vince Winkel, especially Sandy Cohen and later, Bill Wiegand, who somehow felt my submissions were good enough to keep feeding me products to test.
Since then, I’ve had the opportunity to write about more than a hundred different kinds of motorcycle accessories, after-market equipment, apparel and even motorcycles themselves. There were some stumbles along the way. For instance, I remember doing my first review of some “Aerostitch” gear, fortunately deciding to show a first draft to founder Andy Goldfine. Andy gently informed me there was only one “t” in the brand’s name. Rule one of reviewing: spell the company’s name correctly.
Living in Wisconsin but facing deadlines with no consideration for the seasons, I also had to take some pretty absurd measures, like finishing a Shoei helmet review on a four-wheeler in a cornfield after a premature snowfall put an end to a cycle field test, or shivering
out in my front yard in near zero temps, waiting for the elements in a 12-volt heated vest to register on an oven probe in my armpit. And, when the rain gods wouldn’t cooperate, I don’t know how many times my wife has had the opportunity to blast me with a high-pressure water hose (in some of my most sensitive parts) to test the protection of supposedly “rain-proof” jackets and pants. Somehow, she always seemed to enjoy it a bit too much.
One thing I decided early on was to heavily research likely products before I committed to testing and writing about them. I couldn’t see the point in writing about gear that riders, especially BMW fans who have a thing about quality, would want to avoid. So almost all of my reviews, by design, have been generally positive. I also tried to give some kind of a nod to science. Faced with trying to determine if Dave Reppert’s Original Grip Buddies/Beemer Buddies really were “the cure for skinny, uncomfortable grips,” I jury-rigged a crude seismograph using a juddering bench grinder that even Rube Goldberg would be proud of. (See photo) And again, facing an unforgiving
deadline, guests at my son’s wedding were perplexed as they watched me pull on a pair of orange Triple Digit Glove Covers over my tux to dunk them in the hotel pool for a leak test! I also once did my best to evaluate the sound levels in two different helmets by taping a mike inside and running up and down my country road, over and over and over again, dumping the results into Adobe Audition to compare decibels. My neighbors, by then, had grown used to that kind of thing.
Reviewing is different now. First of all, judging by the demise of moto magazines, I don’t think people read as much as they used to. And of course, now with YouTube, anyone with an I-phone or a GoPro can be a published reviewer; I go there myself and sometimes find well done, informative reviews, but, as they say, your results may vary.
I’ve decided this summer is the finale for my career as a reviewer, tying things up this fall with what looks like a gamechanging helmet from Klim, an ingenious adventure bike storage system from Mosko Moto and what I already think could be the “mother of all moto tents”
from Redverz. But I want to extend an invitation to MOA members to lean into the fray themselves.
A query to Bill Wiegand here at Owners News or to Wes Fleming for bmwownersnews.org is a great place to start. They are always looking for member insights on new and promising motorcycle gear to make our rides safer and more fun and can offer some great help on your writing. Of course, you might want to invest in a good video camera!
Ron Davis’s newest book from Road Dog Publications, Rubber Side Down, includes four of his favorite gear reviews, one even about adventure rider cooking with Lisa Simon’s Dirty Dining! Rubber Side Down is available from most online booksellers and from roaddogpub.com.
Ron Davis has been a rider, off and on, for about 50 years. Over that period, he’s also squeezed in a full-time career as a high school English teacher and later, a university professor while also working as a social media writer for the Northwest Ontario tourism industry and as an Associate Editor for BMW Owners News. His writing has been featured in a host of motorcycle magazines, and his essays have been broadcast frequently on Wisconsin Public Radio’s “Wisconsin Life.” He has also authored two books on motorcycling, Shiny Side Up and Rubber Side Down, published by Road Dog Publications (roaddogpub.com).
“Man, I stink,” thought Gamble Harris. The pungent aroma of a ripe male biker filled the tent like a congressional hearing. It was the manly perfume of sweat, fermenting laundry and moto boots in their fifth season. The tent warmed quickly in the morning sunlight, making a bad situation worse. “I gotta shower,” concluded Harris. Except there was no shower. Harris would have to rinse off in the warm Atlantic for now. A shower might come later, if it rained.
A saltwater rinse would be better than nothing, but it was nowhere near clean. The Atlantic had a noticeable fragrance in the shallows here, a scent that competed with sweat in a manner that was anything but sweet. This was the added ingredient of sargassum, huge, floating blobs of algae, common to the shores of Florida.
The tent was pitched on the strand of the least populated island in the Florida Keys. (Seasoned Florida Keys explorers already know the name of this place, and there is no need for me to ruin it for everybody.) Harris was 50 feet from the water’s edge, watching a “Bunraku” drama unfold on the tent’s wall. For the BMW R Bike riders among us, Bunraku is Japanese shadow puppetry. The two main characters in this drama were “Shira,” the goddess of chickens, and “Toothless Sam,” an old alligator who lived in the mangroves.
This was the point in the play where the shadow of the chicken stared as if transfixed by the shadow of the alligator, who slowly began to open his mouth. The chicken would eventually stick its head in the gator’s mouth, while the gator slowly closed its jaws. The chicken would then withdraw its head like a cork coming out of a champagne bottle. The alligator had no teeth and the chicken had no brains… They were a perfect two-party political system.
The three of them made the strangest of friends.
It didn’t start out that way. Harris arrived late in life to Key West and blew
what little cash he had on a Duval Street thoroughbred named “Honey Dipped.” She’d been dancing in a joint that combined a Mardi Gras motif with a pirate theme, depicted by performance artists who appeared on-stage wearing dental floss. Our hero arrived at the bar on a Thursday and rolled onto the street 10 days later, $3500 bucks lighter by one single dollar at a time (not including an investment in rum and assorted fruit juices).
Key West, also known as the Conch Republic, is a nation of strange customs. One of these entails hundreds of chickens roaming free throughout town. Looking up from the gutter, Harris discovered a fat-assed hen roosting on the Russel Day-Long Touring Saddle of his 1995 K75. Roast chicken a lá Key West was an idea that appealed to him and the bird found itself unceremoniously shoved into a riding jacket and lashed to the top case.
Finances being what they were, base camp was a barren spot on a desert key with a little pit in the sand to accommodate a fire. The plan was to choke the chicken and roast it on a spit. That didn’t happen. The chicken was too fast. Yet at some point during that first night, the bird laid two nice eggs in a makeshift nest.
“Not exactly golden, but better than nuthin’” thought Harris. He named the chicken “Shira,” mindful that the name meant something significant in some culture someplace. Shira was good for two eggs—sometimes three—every other day. The best part was that she foraged in the dirt, the sand, and the scrub brush for sustenance. She’d eat whatever he tossed on the trash pile too. The chicken was a free-egg vending machine.
The alligator was harder to explain.
“Toothless Sam” crept out of the mangroves on a dark, rainy night. Harris tripped over the gator in the shadows and hit a pile of mangrove roots hard… hard enough to knock the wind out of
him. Extending his arms outward, he put his right hand in the alligator’s open mouth, which snapped shut like a wedding vow.
Harris was shocked to feel nothing more than an insistent pressure on his wrist, which he pulled out of the gator’s mouth with a secondary reflex action. His primary reflex had been to fill his $200 moto pants. The alligator returned every dawn, apparently to brush its missing teeth with the chicken. If Harris had a fish, or the remains of one, he shared it with Toothless Sam. Once, when he was down the beach trying to get a fish on the line, strangers had approached the tent and the parked motorcycle. They were in the process of selecting souvenirs when a 10-foot-long alligator slithered out of the mangrove tangle with a live chicken dangling from in its mouth. Their screams could be heard for miles. From that day on, “Toothless Sam” was on the payroll.
Gamble was used to living on the padded side of the jagged edge. He taunted gravity and centrifugal force from an aging German motorcycle, romanced a tanned slice of a woman 18 years his junior, and squeezed enough juice out of a writing job to cover two alimonies and a kid in graduate school. He’d lived before in a “Main Line” Pennsylvania neighborhood where the gardeners autographed designer lawns and folks made dinner reservations for their dogs.
Harris had had the perfect life.
The house belonged to his paramour. (Nobody over age 50 has a girlfriend.) He paid his share of the operating costs, including the housekeepers, gardeners, and the specialists who showed up to collect the dog poop. The lady was extremely easy on the eyes, with flaxen hair atop a muscular body that reflected years of competitive skiing, rodeo barrel racing and now motorcycling. He’d met her at a writer’s conference, where he was presenting, and she’d sat in the first row. She’d taken his card and called to leave a
message at 2 a.m., only to discover he answered his own phone…on the first ring. That conversation ran three hours.
He had millions of stories. She had millions of dollars. Her house had a room for her shoes. Her German shepherd cost as much as a racehorse. Her tricked out, opalescent white MV Augusta was parked next to his BMW K75 in the garage. But it was the way this woman looked at him, and the way she reacted to the things he wrote for her that sealed his fate. She’d gone after Harris like a torpedo whacking a Liberty Ship. He answered the call of the blond. They had been together for 12 years.
Harris had the perfect writing job. He was the global communications director for an international travel trade association. To qualify for membership in this group, executives had to control corporate travel accounts spanning $10 million in annual airline ticket expenditures. Top tiered membership easily spent 10 times this. The fortunes of Gamble Harris rose and fell on the serrated blades of major newspaper headlines. It was his job to insert his clients into stories about commercial travel through quotes, surveys and “industry reactions.” In this regard, he had the instincts of a literary cockroach. His clients, once as secretive as the Klan, were routinely represented in the biggest legacy dailies and financial journals in the country.
This was his 12th year in their employ. He had survived three association presidents and two executive directors.
Gamble’s paramour insisted they get motorcycles. She claimed the sex would get better. “Better than this and I’m going to need oxygen,” thought Harris.
The aging BMW K75 was Harris’s re-entry bike after a 25-year riding hiatus. This bike was light years ahead of his last machine, a 1975 Kawasaki H2, two-stroke Triple. The K bike’s braking was precise and the cornering damn-near intuitive. Acceleration was crisp though predictable. The K75 came with an onboard burglar alarm, but this bike’s first level of
theft defense was the way it looked. If there was another motorcycle to steal, only a blind person would grab this one. When it came to looks—with its square windscreen, square headlights, and square engine—the machine seemed the invention of Teutonic science fiction. Gamble’s bike differed from the standard K75 in that it sported a rare Sprint fairing. It had all the smooth lines of brontosaurus-sized suppository.
Gamble Harris drank pricey rye whiskey, smoked pedigreed madero cigars, and invested in complicated motorcycle farkle, confident that whatever he spent; he’d make it back in a month or so. He never expected the tsunami from the garden hose.
The travel trade association that was the source of his revenue acquired a new executive director, a fast-talking, human phlegm-ball whose list of professional credits had to be read in the dark. After assuring Gamble that his position was guaranteed, the executive director fired him without explanation. A toxic clause in Gamble’s contract read, “Communications Director to serve at the pleasure of the Executive Director.” The new PR person favored by the executive director was a steamy, tattooed meat-sicle in a little black dress. (This means a womanby-appearance. Statements like this never needed clarification before.)
A week later, Gamble’s paramour opened the breakfast discussion with, “You know how I promised I would never cheat on you? I can keep that promise if you’re out of here by the end of the month. Tuesday would be better.”
His paramour had found a Scooby snack who was six years younger than she was; a glassblower who promised to produce a shade of glass to perfectly match her eyes. Gamble’s parting remark to the lady had been, “Tell the glassblower I said to inhale.”
Later that day, a letter arrived from the bank, announcing his last big client check ($9k) had bounced. Gamble Harris was broke. Not dead broke but close enough to attract buzzards. His bills were paid for
30 days but he only had $4700 bucks to his name. (He’d eventually get most of the $9 grand, but only after months of threats and endless negotiations.)
It was late October, with a chill wind blowing overcast on the day that Gamble Harris said goodbye to his former life. He’d packed the K75 neatly. A three-man, pop-up tent, a Kermit Chair, and his sleeping bag were lashed to the back. Everything else for his immediate comfort fit in the two side bags and the leather tank bag. Tools, oil, spark plugs, his CyclePump, gaskets and various crush washers were jammed into the top case.
“It is astounding how much of your life can fit onto a motorcycle,” Gamble thought, “or as least as much of your life that’s worth saving.” The only dead space on the bike was an-inch thick binder, that held 140-pages of a screen play that had taken six years to write and which he personally thought sucked.
Finances dictated he go someplace warm, where he could camp for next to nothing throughout the winter. The ideal location would be by water, so he could fish and occasionally hose off by jumping in. There might be an opportunity for him to write and make a little cash, at least a couple of hundred a week to start—more later to cover the maintenance, licensing and insurance for the bike. Eventually, he would need a real address. But he could get by for five or six months in his present condition…if he was someplace warm.
The hottest place Gamble Harris could think of was Key West, at the southernmost tip of Florida. The temperature was perfect for the winter and the social climate of Duval Street suited his personality. He had ten glorious days in Key West before he woke up hung over and broke, with a chicken astride his K75. Desperate to change his reeking shirt, he staggered into a swindle of a t-shirt shop and bought a short-sleeved denim shirt, paying extra to have a name embroidered over the pocket. The name he gave them was “Gooley Higgins,” a character he developed in the screen play. He also bought a stupid-looking captain’s hat that only dopes from the cruise ships would wear.
There are two kinds of broke. The first is where you are almost too poor to move in any direction, but you still have an option or two. The second occurs when you are too paralyzed with fear that you are an utter failure, and so you do nothing, guaranteeing failure. Gamble Harris was caught in the gray area between these two brokes. The money situation became critical almost immediately, which is the way most money situations normally go.
After a quick dip in the Atlantic (to switch to a slightly less objectionable aroma), Harris set out to find some means of instant remuneration that did not entail washing cars nor tending bar. He wore his last clean shirt, the denim one with the stupid name embroidered onto it. Aimlessly riding within a 50-mile radius of Key West gradually revealed that work for literary bums was in short supply. Gamble Harris learned the hard way that the things that delight Corporate America generally have no value to the average man or above average women. He expected it would be easy to get another job in his field. Yet his former clients were a “force majeure” in their industry. No one wanted to vex them by hiring their PR pariah.
He pulled up at a public bathroom, one of the few permanent structures on Desolate Key, to rinse his face with lukewarm fresh water. Sitting on a bench outside the restroom—wearing a stupid-looking captain’s hat and a denim shirt with an equally stupid name embroidered on it—Gamble Harris had acquired an official-looking presence.
Bill Avery drove a tour bus for a company that had seen better days. Right now, he had 45 passengers crammed into a vehicle with questionable air conditioning. There was no question about the on-board toilet though. It didn’t work. This was an older crowd, and they needed to stop. He headed for the public toilet on Desolate Key, hoping it was still there.
It was…and it even had a vacuous cleaning attendant sitting in front of it. A
line formed to use the bathroom and folks engaged the attendant in conversation. They seemed to think his name was hysterical. Far from being put out, the attendant began to tell them a story, about the curse of Desolate Key and why he was the seventh “Gooley Higgins” to sit there in vigil.
A more senior member of the audience was the first to remark, “This was the cleanest bathroom I’ve seen since I left home and I appreciate it. Put this in your hat.” He slipped Gamble a $5 bill. Most everybody in the crowd left something. Several commented on the story Gamble told and asked if all of the details were true. Gamble smiled tersely and replied, “My momma is buried on this key, and she don’t tolerate no lies.”
Before the bus pulled out, Gamble passed a $10 bill to the driver and said, “Come back tomorrow. You and I can talk.”
That left $68 bucks in the hat. He took $20 out for administrative expenses, like a tip for the driver if he returned. Of the remaining $48, he’d buy a cheap mop and pail (props), plus some general-purpose cleaner and an industrial strength air freshener.
The same bus and the same driver returned the next day. Different crowd. Gamble was just leaving the rest room with an empty pail and a damp mop. “All clean, folks.” It was a repeat performance from the day before. Today’s story was the “Demon Gators of Desolate Key.” This time everybody gave at least a dollar, in paper or in coins. Many people gave two dollars, and some gave more than that. Gamble counted $109 in the hat. The driver got $20, plus a promise of $20 for every time he stopped here.
“I can make two trips tomorrow,” said the driver. Gamble Harris was a natural story teller, and he had no problem riveting a hostage audience waiting to use the can, but even he saw the limitations in this. What he needed was an act. That was when the chicken started to make the trip to Desolate key. She became “Shira, The Mind Reading Chicken.” Shira couldn’t read anything, of course, and this became her charm.
Gooley Higgins interpreted Shira’s responses. There was a big tip hat for Gooley, and a smaller one for Shira. Shira’s tip hat often runneth over.
Gamble had no idea who was actually cleaning these bathrooms, but he was delighted to take credit for a job well done. He had over $2 grand in his kick when the first signs of trouble appeared. Someone had videoed his act on YouTube and it had attracted the wrong kind attention. The “Friends of The Key West Chicken Protection Society” was conducting an investigation. Then came the day when Harris was late getting to the rest room. The bus was there, and so was a unit of the Florida Highway Patrol.
“They’re on to us, Shira,” said Harris, as he U-turned around on the highway and took off at speed. He’d had company back at the campsite too. A notice from the Florida Fish and Wildlife Conservation Commission was duct-taped to his tent. He had 24-hours to vacate the site. They had also posted alligator warnings on the palm trees.
“There is a good side to every badly tossed coin,” Harris’s grandfather used to say. On the good side of the coin, Gamble Harris hadn’t been arrested for unlawfully employing a chicken or for impersonating a toilet-cleaning technician. The bad side was that he’d have to leave this campsite, which had become a kind of home, for the last two weeks.
But what about the chicken and the alligator? He could take Shira, but Toothless Sam would be on his own.
These were his thoughts when the four-wheel-drive vehicle lurched along the rutted sand track that ended at his bit of heaven. It was a “Defender,” the top of the Range Rover line. Quoting Dorothy Parker, “What fresh hell is this?” Harris asked himself.
But it wasn’t hell at all…It was the punchline.
This jewel box of an all-terrain vehicle lumbered its way to a stop. Its sole occupant–a woman–glared at him through the tinted windshield and
Hollywood-style sunglasses, so he couldn’t see her eyes. But Gamble figured these were set close together, like those of an enraged swan. The driver’s window disappeared into the door, and a voice rich with frost asked, “Is this Secret Cove?”
Gamble Harris thought for a second, then shrugged and said, “I can’t tell you. It’s a secret.”
If Harris thought he was introducing a soothing effect, he was soon disappointed. Unseen through the tinted glass and the sunglasses, the woman’s eyebrows actually came together as she involuntary vented invective.
“Well, this is Secret Cove, which I happen to own, and I want you out of here now,” she said, using the kind of voice British landlords have found effective with Irish tenants for generations.
“The perfect ending to the perfect day,” replied Harris. “Are you going to sit there and watch me pack?”
“As a matter of fact, I am,” said the woman, “to make sure you don’t steal anything.”
“I had this chicken when I got here,” Harris responded, holding up the bird, though it was not quite the bird he had in mind.
“That’s probably the one the authorities are looking for…the mind-reading chicken.” The door swung open to accommodate about 20 feet of sandaled leg…a flawlessly shaped, tanned sandaled leg, followed by another. Both legs terminated in a wispy skirt ensemble that barely covered the lower part of a one-piece bathing suit. This much was visible as the woman exited the car. Each of her willowy movements belied Hollywood scripting. He’d seen her on the silver screen and HBO, just not lately.
The lady with the huge sunglasses, modest build, and endless legs was Mel Rylam, America’s sweetheart once removed through a botched plastic surgery, which gave her a smile proudly worn by any of Batman’s villains. Gamble’s heart skipped a beat…several in fact. He didn’t care about her smile as he always got lost in her eyes. And right
now, those eyes were twenty feet away from his, behind bullet-proof sunglasses, tightly arched together, like a swan who had just gotten kicked in the pills.
For once, Gamble Harris had run out of things to say… which was just as well as Mel Rylam was commenting on the disadvantages of going through life with a name like “Gooley.” It was at this point that a small dog—a cross between a Yorkshire Terrier and barking syphilis— exploded out of the Defender. The dog went on the defense with Harris, snarling and growling, but went bat-s**t nuts when it got a load of Shira.
The chicken sought brief refuge by roosting atop Gamble’s head.
Mel Rylam added to the bedlam by screaming the dog’s name, which was “Manfridi the Magnificent,” followed by the command “Come here right now.” She might just as well have been yelling, “Rip that bird apart!”
The chicken clucked its regrets, flapped its wings, and instigated a short flight over a downed log protruding from the mangroves. This maneuver seemed short-sighted as Shira’s glide path was only an inch or so ahead of the barking dog’s snapping chops. Then the log opened its eyes…followed by its jaws. And just like that, the Mighty Manfridi ran straight into Toothless Sam’s gaping maw, which then closed like the Cursed Portal of Pharaoh’s tomb.
The effect on Mel Rylam was Academy Award worthy. Her first scream stuck in her throat. Her second scream did a little better as a choking shriek. But her third scream was a perfect imitation of an air raid siren, followed by, “An alligator ate my Manfridi!”
It was at this point the slot machine in Gamble’s head came up triple diamonds.
“I’ll save him,” shouted Harris, in his best K bike rider, “Flight-of-the-Valkyrie” sort of voice. He waded into the mangroves and let out a blood-curdling war whoop, followed by, “This gator is huge.”
Harris was actually sitting next to the alligator, and the chicken, while he play-acted the swamp-thing fight of the century. As I said, they were the strangest
of friends. He reached into the gator’s mouth, grabbed the dog, and yanked him out. It was a highly subdued, gooey Yorkshire terrier that Gamble Harris held in his hand.
The rest of the story is purely academic. Mel Rylam was swept off her feet by the courage and ferocity of Gamble Harris—K bike rider. She moved him into her Florida residence that same day. Six months later, Harris optioned his dog-of-a-screenplay to a major Hollywood studio, for $450K. It would be green-lighted into a low budget smash success, and the perfect comeback vehicle for Mel Rylam. She was the executive producer, and, as he agreed to accept a percentage of the film’s gross, they both made millions.
Mel Rylam had indeed purchased 200 acres spanning Secret Cove. She gave it to Harris as a birthday gift. He turned it into a preserve for a single alligator. Every day for the next eight years, Gamble Harris rode a flawless 1995 BMW K75 to his old campsite at the water’s edge, to present Toothless Sam with the prized catch of the day…until the day that no alligator came to his call. Gamble Harris cried for a week.
I’d like to thank the MOA, BestRest Products, and The Kermit Chair Company for continuing to make my column, my FaceBook threads, and my speaking presentations available to my readers. It is to my fans and the editorial team of this publication that I apologize. Without much effort, I annoy everybody. I hope you like this piece… It is my “comeback” story for you.
Sincerely — Riepe
During the several decades I spent writing for Motorcycle Consumer News before its demise in early 2020, I occasionally devoted my monthly column to a rant about some form of unconscionably bad service I’d suffered at a dealership. A few general categories from memory include the following.
Sales staff with obviously no knowledge of, or interest in, motorcycles.
These were sometimes ex-car salesmen who embodied the most obnoxious stereotypes of that occupation. Other times, they were friends or relatives of management—or just kids off the street—who needed a (no doubt low-paying) job. I would have gone into the dealership with questions about a new model, only to discover I already knew far more about it than the salesperson I was querying. In one particularly memorable instance, the salesman wasn’t even aware of the bike in question’s existence, despite it being displayed prominently near the showroom’s front door and on the cover of the magazine for sale at the counter upon which he was leaning. I’m especially weary of urgent prods to buy immediately because hordes of other customers have been looking at the same machine with intense interest; don’t let this once-in-alifetime opportunity get away! If that’s not simply a lie and the bike really hasn’t yet sold in the face of overwhelming demand, what does that imply about this dealership? All those feverish buyers must have found better deals elsewhere.
Parts department staff extolling the virtues of accessories they don’t understand. They might try to hard-sell an item, referring authoritatively to “super-awesome” features they can’t coherently explain when questioned–the customer should just trust them based on their
presentation of absolute confidence and confused/confusing terminology. Or the person behind the counter may have no idea what purpose an item actually serves or how it works–despite all this information being clearly printed and illustrated on the package sitting right there on the shelf next to them. You’d think maybe they’d have gotten bored enough to glance at said info instead of just sitting there staring blankly, which is all they’d done the whole time I wandered around the (not surprisingly) empty shop. Years ago, I would bristle at arrogant buffoonery and insulting pressure tactics by pointing out glaring, easily disproven misinformation, and I’d provide evidence I didn’t need anyone to lazily read the details on a label to me out loud. Now I don’t waste my time, having concluded there’s no way to shame a
shameless person. I’ve also found it impossible to sympathize with parts staff’s offhand complaints about people purchasing online when their store charges vastly higher prices for items they still have to order because they keep almost nothing in stock. Who wants to pay more and make two trips when they can get something much cheaper without ever leaving home? On too many occasions that second trip has yielded the discovery that a third will be necessary, since someone forgot to place the order, ordered the wrong thing, or failed to let me know it was backordered. I’ll gladly pay more to support a local brick-and-mortar retailer if they give me just one reason (e.g., I can examine the item in person, take it home today, or get good advice about my options), but they’ve often failed to do so.
Service department staff who attempt to cover up gross incompetence with assertions that assume I’m an idiot, or at least profoundly ignorant. My all-time favorite here was a mechanic called to the showroom in response to my concern about an expanding puddle of oil beneath a used motorcycle I’d considered purchasing. After a moment crouching beside it, he reassured me the oil had simply “leaked from the filler cap” and was nothing to worry about. I’d already examined the motor, which had no tell-tale trail of lubricant near its filler cap, but definitely did have a clearly visible rivulet running from the countershaft seal to the low point on the case, where it was about to drip some more. Guess how tightly the chain had been adjusted. Besides, if that oil had actually come from the fill hole, it would mean either the crankcase had been overfilled to a catastrophic degree, or it had been topped off (on the showroom floor!) by someone so careless they didn’t notice extensive spillage in plain view of potential buyers. Neither of these possibilities struck me as “nothing to worry about.”
Over the years, I’ve heard countless horror stories about fellow riders’ dealership nightmares. I’ve also enjoyed fantastically knowledgeable, generously patient, and pricelessly helpful education and service from dealership staff who displayed impeccable integrity and were unmistakably kindred enthusiasts, and heard plenty of stories of this sort from others, too. As in any market segment, there are well run motorcycle dealerships, with creative and sincere efforts to engage their customer base in win-win transactions, and other operations that have no interest in the people who enter their front door (or work for them) beyond extracting maximum profit for minimum, or even nefarious, effort. Because MCN focused on motorcyclists
as consumers, I often emphasized our responsibility to vote for good dealerships with our wallets, and—whenever possible—to avoid enabling bad behavior by lining the pockets of lousy dealers. This principle remains valid, but I’m not beating that drum right now.
Instead, I’m feeling deeply grateful for something a dealer can provide in addition to the sale and service of motorcycles or associated parts and gear. You see, the winter weather here has been especially abysmal lately, and I’ve grown desperate for some form of motorcycle-related stimulation. I’m not quite to the point where I’d voluntarily subject myself to 40-degree rain, so riding is out. I’ve watched so many motorcycling YouTube videos my eyes are starting to cross. All my bikes are polished and serviced, with no mechanical projects to start or complete. I’ve talked about motorcycles at length with riding buddies, commiserating about our shared cabin fever. What else is there?! Finally, one of those conversations hatched the idea of visiting our local (multi-line) BMW dealership, as we’d heard they’d just received–quite literally–tons of bikes for the new model year. Enough said; we drove there immediately.
Indeed, more motorcycles were packed into that huge showroom than I’d ever seen there before, and the large accessory and apparel area was piled high with big cartons of new kit waiting to go on the racks and shelves. Neither my friend nor I were in the market for a new bike or needed any gear, yet we spent hours poring over all this stock, studying details and prices, learning about the latest technical features and colorways, and forming opinions that had no apparent relevance to anything currently visible
on our respective purchasing horizons. We might as well have been in a museum, rather than a retail establishment. Just being around all this stuff was immensely entertaining—for free! It was an afternoon well spent without spending a dime.
Unlike a museum, however, this showplace will sell us its exhibits in the future. While we had no immediate needs, seeds were planted, and we were both tempted to buy things just because they held novel appeal in the moment. Some of those seeds will eventually grow and bear fruit in the form of tangible purchases, but perhaps even more importantly, this experience increased our positive emotional associations to this place of business. Aside from any specific item we saw for sale, we’ll be more likely to visit this dealer when we do need something, and we’ll be quicker to stop in on a whim, even when we don’t.
In this case, the good feelings came from seeing a multitude of interesting new designs and well-crafted hardware. We had minimal exchanges with dealership staff and appreciated their willingness to let us peruse their wares in
peace. Previous experience had taught us such personnel would be helpful if needed; we simply lacked any need on this occasion. The dealership scored big points on the basis of its staggering inventory alone. At other times, I’ve spent just as long and been equally enthralled in dealerships with far less on display–not because they were poorly stocked, but because their collections were meticulously curated, with virtually every item on offer an eye-catching, intriguing piece of high-quality equipment. Such boutique dealerships may only sell one or two brands of motorcycle, yet they can create a richly distinguished atmosphere when their staffs have a commensurate depth of expertise and treat customers with equally special handling. Size isn’t all that matters.
Going beyond the provision of excellent goods and services, the best dealerships capitalize on the social dimension so vitally important in our avocation. Dedicating space for riders to hang out (with good coffee and snacks, please!), hosting entertainment events and club meetings, or regularly providing classes on riding techniques and wrenching procedures can greatly fortify
the connection between a community of riders and a business that depends on their patronage to survive—and ultimately thrive.
When a dealership clearly demonstrates a love for motorcycles, motorcycling, and motorcyclists, they don’t just deserve our hard-earned cash—we enjoy giving it to them and look for excuses to do so. I’m not a businessman, but surely this is an enviable position in the marketplace. Also, a dealership that selects its staff carefully and then treats them well ensures good customer service. I don’t know why there aren’t more dealerships like this out there, but I assume it’s fundamentally a matter of supply and demand. When someone who doesn’t really care can set up shop and make money off of us because there’s little competition, they’ll do so. Those who live near a crappy dealer may only be able to improve the situation by taking their business elsewhere, and encouraging fellow riders to do the same, even if it means traveling to the next town. I guess I really am still preaching the MCN sermon, but it’s a worthy theme for every riding congregation.
I’ve enjoyed Ron Davis’s columns and stories for a long time…he does what all the best motorcycle writing does: he makes you wonder why you aren’t out there riding your own bike, right now, except during the long Wisconsin winter, when his work simply helps you stay sane until spring.”
—Peter Egan, Author ofLeanings 1, 2 & 3
ISBN 978-1-890623-74-6, Softcover
252 pages, $19.99 SRP
Mark Barnes is a clinical psychologist and motojournalist. To read more of his writings, check out his book Why We Ride: A Psychologist Explains the Motorcyclist’s Mind and the Love Affair Between Rider, Bike and Road, currently available in paperback through Amazon and other retailers.
Also check out Mark’s podcast version of The Ride Inside, with essays and interviews, available through your favorite podcast app or online at BMWOwnersNews.com.
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Daniel Snope Savannah, GA
Adam Sola Houston, TX
Michael Soppelsa Potomac, MD
Christopher Stone Sicamous, BC
Robert Stultz Rocky Gap, VA
Myron Swanson Aurora, CO
Stephen Taylor Slidell, LA
Vinay Thombre Aurora, IL
John Thompson Ford City, PA
Adrian Thompson Penticton, BC
Joseph Tock Paris, KY
John Tosi Canfield, OH
Chad Tudor Bumpass, VA
Soner Tunay Jacksonville, FL
Patrick Turner Renton, WA
George Tzinas Miami, FL
Claudia Villasenor Fort Myers, FL
John Vinblad Moneta, VA
Graham Vockroth Daleville, AL
Cord Von Derehe Monmouth, OR
Stavros Vorias Canton, MI
Jeff Wahrmund Elgin, TX
Deenah Warren Westfield, MA
Brian Widman Santa Rosa Beach, FL
Shane Wilde Centreville, VA
Travis Wilder Manchaca, TX
Ronnie Williams Stafford, VA
Bob Wilson Millersburg, IN
Rick Wise Grand Junction, CO
Chris Young Parker, CO
Taylor Zalus Tarentum, PA
Jordan Zelener Elgin, IL
Designed to showcase the striking contrast of Steens Mountain and the Alvord Desert, this BDR-X features a 5000-foot elevation transition in remote Southeast Oregon.
Starting and ending in Fields, Oregon, the 265-mile loop can be accomplished in two days. It would be hard to find a more diverse mix of surface terrain making this experience truly unique.
Visit
RideBDR.com/AlvordDesert
6/1/2023 – 6/4/2023
LAND OF OZ RALLY Paola, Kansas moa_84843@yahoo.com
6/2/2023 – 6/4/2023
46TH HIAWATHA RALLY Houston, Minnesota murdaughm@gmail.com
6/2/2023 – 6/4/2023
48TH ANNUAL SQUARE ROUTE RALLY Sabillasville, Maryland rally@bmwbmw.org
6/4/2023 – 6/6/2023
AIRHEADS GATHERING OF THE CLANS Ferguson, North Carolina brent.hcmc@gmail.com
6/8/2023 – 6/11/2023
50TH ANNUAL MOA NATIONAL RALLY Doswell, Virginia ray@bmwmoa.org
6/9/2023 – 6/11/2023
PEMI RIVER RALLY AT NEW HAMPSHIRE MOTORCYCLE WEEK Rumney, New Hampshire bcusack@comcast.net
6/10/2023
THE SELECTED FRIENDS OF WILE E. COYOTE RALLY GET-TOGETHER Doswell, Virginia J. J. Dostal 810-624-5987
6/22/2023 – 6/25/2023
43RD ANNUAL CHIEF JOSEPH RALLY John Day, Oregon bmwro.vp@gmail.com
6/23/2023 – 6/25/2023
MOTOMO RALLY 2023
Crane, Missouri kronie12@gmail.com
6/24/2023 – 6/25/2023
CAMPOUT AT UNCLE TOMS CABIN Pollock Pines, California tourcaptain@bmwnorcal.org
7/13/2023 – 7/16/2023
CASCADE COUNTRY RENDEZVOUS Cashmere, Washington rallymaster@wsbmwr.org
7/20/2023 – 7/23/2023
TOP O’ THE ROCKIES RALLY Paonia, Colorado topotherockies@bmwmcc.org
7/28/2023 – 7/30/2023
CAMPOUT AT BEAR RIVER Colfax, California tourcaptain@bmwnorcal.org
8/1/2023 – 8/4/2023
THE GREAT EASTERN ADVENTURE Bishop’s Falls, Newfoundland & Labrador moores@horizonsunlimited.com
8/4/2023 – 8/7/2023
INTERNATIONAL ROLLING BROCOLLI Vassar, Michigan
J. J. Dostal 810-624-5987
8/11/2023 – 8/12/2023
30TH BLUE BUTT RALLY Virginia City, Nevada bluebuttrally@gmail.com
8/11/2023 – 8/14/2023
KASLO CAMP-N-RIDE Kaslo, British Columbia events@valleybmwriders.com
8/17/2023 – 8/19/2023
MIKE MCPEAK MEMORIAL RALY Village of Nakusp, British Columbia milkemcpeakrally@hotmail.com
8/17/2023 – 8/19/2023
25TH ANNUAL BEARTOOTH BEEMERS RENDEZVOUS Red Lodge, Montana registrar@beartoothbeemers.org
8/17/2023 – 8/20/2023
57TH ANNUAL 4WINDS BMW RALLY Fairmont City, Pennsylvania jmarnell@mac.com
8/19/2023 – 8/20/2023
MS RIVER ROAD RUN Monticello, Minnesota lee@hamlineconstruction.com
8/25/2023 – 8/27/2023
9TH HOPEWELL ROAD RALLY Athens, Ohio samrbooth@yahoo.com
8/26/2023 to 8/27/2023
CAMPOUT AT BADGER FLATS Lakeshore, California tourcaptain@bmwnorcal.org
9/1/2023 to 9/4/2023
RANGE OF LIGHT GYPSY TOUR Colusa, California tourcaptain@bmwnorcal.org
9/1/2023 to 9/4/2023
THREE FLAGS CLASSIC Begins in Puerto Peñasco, Mexico and Ends in Calgary, Canada emailmotopippi@gmail.com
9/6/2023 to 9/10/2023
10TH ANNUAL WAILIN’ WAYNE WEEKEND Nelsonville, Ohio chad@bmwmoa.org
9/7/2023 to 9/10/2023
MIDWAY CAMP-N-RIDE Midway, British Columbia events@valleybmwriders.com
9/8/2023 – 9/10/2023
52ND ANNUAL WISCONSIN DELLS RALLY Wisconsin Dells, Wisconsin barnrazer@yahoo.com
9/8/2023 – 9/10/2023
KENTUCKY STATE BMW RALLY Pineville, Kentucky prorepoms@aol.com
9/21/2023 – 9/24/2023
2023 PURE STODGE IOWA RALLY Elkader, Iowa pstarally@gmail.com
For complete details on any event listed, please visit bmwmoa.org and click on the Rallies & Events tab
8th-10th
ADMORE LIGHT BAR PRO
MULTI-FUNCTION LIGHT BAR
• Tail light
• Brake light
• Turn signals (amber)
BRAKE LIGHT WILL ACTIVATE FROM
• Braking
• Throttle Release
• Downshifting
With Bluetooth onboard you can customize your Pro’s settings using the free AdMore app!
We are giving away many great prizes!
DESIGNED FOR BMW MOTORCYCLES
Also available at select BMW dealerships across the country BE SAFE. BE SEEN.
ADMORELIGHTING.COM/BMWON
9/21/2023 – 9/24/2023
3RD ANNUAL LAUREL HIGHLANDS WEEKEND SPONSORED BY THE BMW MOA Somerset, Pennsylvania gsjay@kaplitz.com
9/22/2023 – 9/24/2023
19TH THUNDER MOUNTAIN RENDEZVOUS Hotchkiss, Colorado aesurvey@aol.com
9/22/2023 – 9/24/2023
36TH ANNUAL HOOSIER BEEMER RALLY North Vernon, Indiana k12lts@gmail.com
9/28/2023 – 10/1/2023
LAST CHANCE TO CAMP-N-RIDE Oroville, Washington events@valleybmwriders.com
9/28/2023 – 10/1/2023
THRILLS IN THE HILLS, TEXAS HOEDOWN Kerrville, Texas chad@bmwmoa.org
9/29/2023 – 10/1/2023
“BACK TO JAMAICA” CAMPOUT Jamaica, Vermont kz1000@hotmail.com
9/29/2023 – 10/1/2023
41ST ANNUAL LAST CHANCE RALLY Wading River, New Jersey pjliskojr@gmail.com
9/29/2023 – 10/1/2023
CENTRAL OKLAHOMA BMW ROAD RIDERS ANNUAL CAMPOUT Talihina, Oklahoma tburull@hotmail.com
10/8/2023 – 10/22/2023
BMW MOA & IMTBIKE CELEBRATION
TOUR OF SPAIN Madrid, Spain tours@imtbike.com
10/13/2023 – 10/15/2023
48TH FALLING LEAF RALLY Steelville, Missouri rally-coordinator@gatewayriders.com
10/28/2023 – 10/29/2023
OCTOBERFEST
Manchaster, California tourcaptain@bmwnorcal.org
11/3/2023 – 11/5/2023
53RD SOUTH-CENTRAL BMW OWNERS REUNION Fayetteville, Texas vp@bmwclubofhouston.com
For complete details on any event listed, please visit bmwmoa.org and click on the Rallies & Events tab
Every milestone needs a commemorative t-shirt. But something as meaningful as 50 years demands more than just one! We’re celebrating every month with a new design worthy of the 50th Anniversary of the MOA. Grab one shirt or the entire series and show your MOA pride.
50th Anniversary shirts will be available in limited quantities online each month or pre-order the entire series at a discount to guarantee you get yours!
Managing Editor BILL WIEGAND | bill@bmwmoa.org
Art Director KARIN HALKER | karin@bmwmoa.org
Digital Media Editor WES FLEMING | wes@bmwmoa.org
Associate Editor RON DAVIS
A ssociate Editor JOSE ABILES
Chris Eugster, Steve Ladd, Pat Carroll, Craig Szelestey, Simon Cox, Annette Bennis, Nick Greear, Derek Molina, Lew Soltis, Adam Chandler, Jose Abiles, Rob Nye, Steve Metz, Matt Parkhouse, Wes Fleming, Alan Toney, Eric Bell, Dustin Silvey, Ron Davis, Jack Riepe, Mark Barnes, Rob McInerney.
Advertising Director CHRIS HUGHES | chris@bmwmoa.org
Business Development Director CHAD WARNER | chad@bmwmoa.org
Executive Director TED MOYER | ted@bmwmoa.org
Membership Associate TONYA MCMEANS | tonya@bmwmoa.org
Digital Marketing Manager RAY TUBBS | ray@bmwmoa.org
Membership Manager PAULA FITZER | paula.fitzer@bmwmoa.org
Chief Operating Officer BECKY SMITH | becky.smith@bmwmoa.org
BMW MOA Headquarters 2350 Hwy. 101 South, Greer, SC 29651 (864) 438-0962
Membership in the BMW Motorcycle Owners of America is open to all riders, regardless of brand affiliation. Although we are united by the BMW marque, adventure-minded motorcyclists will find a home here. Join today by visiting bmwmoa.org or call one of our friendly membership associates at 864-438-0962.
For a complete listing of membership options, please visit bmwmoa. org or call 864-438-0962.
BMW ON (ISSN:1080-5729) (USPS: 735-590) (BMW Owners News) is published monthly by BMW Motorcycle Owners of America Inc., 2350 Hwy 101 South, Greer, SC 29651. Periodicals postage paid at Pewaukee, Wisconsin and additional mailing offices. Opinions and positions stated in materials/articles herein are those of the authors and not by the fact of publication necessarily those of BMW MOA; publication of advertising material is not an endorsement by BMW MOA of the advertised product or service. The material is presented as information for the reader. BMW MOA does not perform independent research on submitted articles or advertising.
POSTMASTER: SEND ADDRESS CHANGES TO BMW ON, 2350 Hwy 101 South, Greer, SC 29651 ©2023 by BMW Motorcycle Owners of America Inc. All information furnished herein is provided by and for the members of BMW Motorcycle Owners of America, Inc. Unless otherwise stated, none of the information (including technical material) printed herein necessarily bears endorsement or approval by BMW MOA, BMW NA, the factory or the editors. The editors and publisher cannot be held liable for its accuracy. Printed in the USA. Volume 53, Number 6
In the old mining town of Lowell, Arizona, not far from Bisbee. Nationally, Arizona ranks #7 in alien sitings.
With Platinum Roadside Assistance and Tire Protection added to your BMW MOA membership, you’ll never ride alone again. BMW MOA’s 24/7 Platinum Roadside Assistance gets you to a repair facility fast and will even replace a punctured tire for free! All that for only $109 a year, which includes the cost of your MOA membership.
Join online at bmwmoa.org or convert your current BMW MOA membership by calling 864-438-0962. BMW MOA Platinum Roadside and Tire Protection, available exclusively for BMW MOA members.
