What We Don't Talk About...

As motorcyclists, there are some things that we just don't talk about.  Maybe they get discussed with others who ride, maybe they are just the unspoken realities of what we are doing.  And lets be honest here.  What we are doing is hurling ourselves down a roadway at the same or faster speeds as any other vehicle on essentially two thin strips of rubber ingeniously attached to a high powered engine.

I am a late comer to this concept.  I have always wanted a motorcycle but for whatever reason it never happened.  My family was staunchly anti-motorcycle growing up, and as I progressed through higher education and career it never came together.  Honestly, the tipping point was renting a scooter in Vietnam.  Not only did I not get us killed, I showed a fair level of aptitude for navigating the terrain and difficulties.  We rode double on the scooter on dirt paths between rice paddies and got stuck in traffic after an evening celebration.  I had reached the point where my ambition and sense of caution were in balance.

Molly and I moved back to Maui, where I purchased a used scooter.  I was riding this thing on a segment of the Hana Highway, which wasn't all that smart.  The scooter was a death trap but did serve the purpose of setting a precedent - I could ride in any of the conditions the island could throw at me.  I quickly traded up to my current ride: a 1999 BMW F650.

Oh, the places you will see

I blame the BMW bike thing on my Dad.  He fed me a constant stream of Jack Higgins novels as a kid.  All the spies, IRA operatives and assassins in those books rode BMW motorcycles.  What can I say?  It warped my fragile little mind.  I equate my bike with the Subaru Forester.  It isn't sexy.  It isn't fast (For a motorcycle, but it is still faster than a car).  It doesn't do anything particularly well, but doesn't do anything poorly.  What it is, is a very dependable, well-made motorcycle.  And it comes in Roadstripe Yellow.  I call it unapologetically ugly.  Molly insists it isn't ugly but can't come up with a different adjective.  

What we don't talk about is the inherent nature of riding on a motorcycle.  When you first sit on a bike, especially if you are coming into this as an adult, any activity is exhilarating.  Coasting across a parking lot is flying.  Working with the dreaded friction zone while executing a turn makes your heart pound.  But all too quickly, these accomplishments start to fade as your proficiency and comfort level expands.  The next rush is riding on a highway.  55mph!  These people are crazy!  About the same time, you will start to appreciate roads with a little more wiggle in their walk.  You start looking at the incline and finding that sweet spot of outside, inside, outside on a right hand curve.  You are looking at these things even while driving that boring old car.

The chips start to fall faster.  Freeway.  75mph.  85mph.  Learning how your bike responds.  Where does it shimmy?  At what rpm does the bike vibrate differently than the rest of the ride?  Where is the sweet spot for max power with the best engine braking?  How do the brakes respond when climbing a hill?  Descending?  It is a very complex and constantly evolving relationship.  

Take care of the bike and it will take care of you

This relationship is always changing.  New tires?  The bike will ride completely differently.  You get the rear suspension serviced?  Now the bike turns strangely.  Your back is sore?  The ride is going to be stiffer.  Your right knee hurts?  Now you can't turn to the right as smoothly.  The relationship between rider and bike is symbiotic.  Your state of being effects the ride of the bike as much as the bike's condition does.

This all sets the stage for a situation where you are constantly pushing the limits of your ability as a rider in a fluid set of conditions.  The rider is always one bad turn, one bad shift away from a wreck.  Maybe your jaw is locked from too much truck stop coffee and the bike just blew out an exhaust gasket.  The twisting road you are on is unrelenting and the descending grade, combined with an engine that isn't 100%, puts you in a bad spot with your gear ratios.  You are either running too many rpm's or too few.  You have just entered the majestic Redwoods and that edge of focus you need is just a touch blurry.  The RV that you have been stuck behind for the past 5 miles finally pulled their head out of their ass and let you pass.  You celebrate the new found open road by gunning it around the next turn and just don't quite lean hard enough.  The curve in itself isn't unusual.  Yes, it is a gnarly hairpin turn but this is the Pacific Coast Highway - 400+ miles of gnarly hairpin curves.  

In my case, I  laid on my brakes, kicked the back end around a bit and came to a screeching halt with my front tire about 10 inches from the guardrail.  As I am under orders from a higher authority to take pictures, I figured I would hop off the bike for a bit.  I backed it up and took a few pictures.  

The turn that almost got me

I came up with a couple solutions to avoid similar heart pounding moments of terror in the future.  There were a few vehicles on the road, obviously locals, who were driving well.  They were also extremely courteous.  When they pulled over to let me pass, I would pull up to their window.  My usual spiel was that I was making lots of stops to take pictures and they were doing great.  I told them that unless it bothered them having me behind, there was no point in leap frogging each other every 30 minutes.  This worked out great.  They kept a solid, constant pace that wouldn't drive me nuts and kept the vroom vroom instincts in check.  And I actually stopped to take pictures.

Riding a motorcycle is a saga of near misses.  Getting cut off on the freeway by someone who hasn't read all the bumper stickers about looking twice.  Having your head start to drift into the oncoming lane on a botched left turn.  The bike drifts to the center line on a right turn where you missed the angle by a degree.  Some genius runs lines of road patch material down the middle of the lane for 40 miles.  Those lines of unsurfaced tar are like ice with a little condensation on them.  A simple mechanical failure can be catastrophic if you don't respond at the right time in the right way.  And all of this is while riding the thin edge of rubber where the tires make contact with the road.

Don't get me wrong - there are plenty of ways to help combat this.  Motorcyclists love their sound bytes:  "Dress for the slide, not for the ride."  "A.T.G.A.T.T. - All The Gear, All The Time."  "When in doubt, give it throttle (contradictory as it seems, this is excellent advice.  Especially on a botched turn.)"  I personally ride in, bare minimum:  reinforced boots, armored jacket, gloves, full face helmet and pants.  The pants are the only things that aren't armored.  They are worn for around the town, short rides.  Better than nothing, but not by much.  Anything longer and I have a pair of armored pants as well.  No, it is not always comfortable.  It sure as hell wasn't comfortable being stuck in stop and go traffic in East LA.  I had to peel the pants off inside out because they were soaked.  But, if something had happened, I was prepared.

By dressing for the ride, you put yourself in a different mindset.  It is the same as when I put on a chef's jacket.  The mental state changes.  The focus increases.  Outside distractions become just that: outside.  To me, this is as important a feature of the riding gear as the actual armor.  The act of putting on the gear prepares you for the ride ahead.  Maybe other riders can make this mental shift in street clothes.  I don't know, and never will.

I think these are important

Maintenance is another way to ensure a safe and successful ride.  You have to be able to rely on the bike.  If the engine cuts out on a motorcycle while you are in gear, you are hitting the asphalt.  The engine cuts out on a car, it will mess up the car but there is no imminent danger to the passengers.  Maintenance was the overall reason for this whole journey.  I couldn't keep the bike maintained on Maui.  There aren't many mechanics who will take in a BMW and even those don't do a good job.  I am capable to do some things but I don't have a shop.  The repairs I am doing in Idaho are relatively easy, but I couldn't do them without access to my Dad's auto shop.  Parts for the bike are few and far between on Maui as well.  Everything has to be shipped.  On the mainland, no big deal.  There are shops with resources throughout the US with access to parts overnight and a fair amount of them will ship for free.  I just couldn't keep up with it and I didn't have anyone I could trust to do the things I can't.  And if the bike isn't maintained, it isn't safe.

I did not have to pull the radiator, which made me a Happy Panda

The first stop for this trip was a real, live BMW motorcycle mechanic in Santee, CA.  I got new tires and a small horde of accumulated minor problems repaired.  In general, the bike is extremely well designed and very reliable which helps.  I did run into one issue on the road.  I blew out 1-3 exhaust gaskets just south of the Redwoods in northern California.  What this means is there is a small loss of power, the bike backfires around the header when you let off the throttle, and a relatively quiet motorcycle now sounded like a Harley.  Praise Jeebus-Buddha-Hari Krishna-Vishnu that I had earplugs and sound cancelling ear buds because it got real loud, right in the front of the engine.  It also vented hot exhaust gases directly onto my right leg but hey, guess who has reinforced boots and armored pants.

I ended up wrapping the header and the front of the engine in Aluminum Foil to keep everything clean and at least insulate the exhaust valve a bit.  It worked moderately well and I rolled into Caldwell with the bike still kicking.  I say 1-3 exhaust gaskets because there are 4 and I can guarantee that at least 2 were toast.  I am replacing all four anyway.

After spending nearly 1900 miles on my bike in a less than a week I have come to a conclusion.  Riding a motorcycle is like being a Knight (it is also like being a Cowboy, but I never wanted to be a Cowboy).  It doesn't matter how gross, tired or hurting you are, you take care of the bike (or horse, if you missed the analogy) first.  I would stop, pop the bike up on the center stand, unload my gear into a pile right in front and go through the thing from front to back.  Oil, Chain, Coolant, Tires, Aluminum Foil-reinforced engine, signals, everything.  When I was satisfied that the bike was tip top, then I got to take care of myself.  This was my routine to make sure that the bike took care of me as well as I took care of it.

The last thing that we don't talk about is how addictive riding is.  I am selling my bike.  For various reasons it was the right decision.  I have found a great home for it with Evan and it is a fantastic bike for him.  The design of the bike will extend his riding season earlier and later in the year.  It is very forgiving to ride and parts and mechanics are readily available when you don't live in the middle of the Pacific Ocean.  But even after riding 1900 miles in a week, I haven't woken up not wanting to get back on the bike.  Yes, I am happy to have the 4 days off in Idaho.  I needed to fix the bike and write a slew of blog posts that Facebook won't share.  But I have already started shopping for my next ride.  I won't get another bike while on the island, but if we move to the mainland, I am going to need transportation right?  Right?  Molly?  Bueller?