A Motorcycle Oriented Weekend...

Hopes of getting a jump on spring riding, and having the state and various municipalities sweep the streets of excess gravel and salt, were dashed in southeast Pennsylvania today, as a winter gale dumped up to 10 inches of snow in a broad swath ranging from Harrisburg to Philadelphia. This was just a small cross-section of a late winter storm that covered an area from Tennessee to New York, and from Atlanta to Boston. Under normal circumstances, I would be really pissed at getting all this snow at the beginning of March, but my bike is laid up getting a custom seat and some beautification done on the headers and the muffler. It will be March 20th at the earliest that I can get out, so I am content to sit here by the window, sipping coffee, and alternately typing a few lines.

Today's storm mocks the promise of an early spring. This is the front yard looking left.

(Photo by the author -- Click to enlarge)

I am listening to classical musical at the moment -- classical motorcycle music: Steppenwolf’s “Born To Be Wild.” Yet I can still hear the scrape of the snow shovel from outside as my girlfriend, Leslie, shovels out my car. I’m glad I got her that ergonomic snow shovel for Valentine’s Day.

Looking right, at 12 Noon, the street is obscured by densely falling snow. 

(Photo by the author -- Click to enlarge)

Last year, we hired a small company to plow the driveway. They were called "Two Douchebags With A Plow." It snowed about five times in 2008, usually on a night when we were having company. I found myself often asking, "Where are The two Douchebags With The Plow?" Or, "Do you think we should call The Two Douchebags With The Plow again?" We hired two other guys to plow the driveway this year. They are former investment bankers from Wall Street. They asked for a flat fee of $2.5 billion to not only plow the driveway, but to shovel the walkways and establish confidence in the economy. 

While this winter scene looks very pretty, I'm already sick of it. 

This is the view from the right side of the front porch.

(Photo by the author -- Click to enlarge)

Despite the fact that I couldn’t ride, the past weekend held strong motorcycle content. It started with a lunch meeting of some good old moto saddle tramps. These were my riding partner Dick Bregstein, Rogers George, and his wife Val. Bregstein and Rogers drink the BMW Kool-Aid, while Val rides a Honda Shadow. The meeting convened at the Himalayan Exotic Restaurant, which offers the hottest (spiciest), best, and cheapest all-you-can eat Indian buffet for $7.99. Bregstein and I have lunch here at least twice a month as it is centrally located to our jobs and the owner, Sam, treats us like we are dignitaries. This appeals to me on a number of levels.

In addition to being riders, each of these folks is also a writer. Bregstein wrote professionally as a public relations wordsmith. Rogers George has built a career as a technical writer and maintains a rather interesting blog. Val George has specialized in a series of editorial efforts on a number of topics ranging from customer service issues to care for the elderly. Among the topics discussed at lunch were the essentials of a good ride report.

Bregstein contented that a good ride report should have enough factual material to interest novice, re-entry riders, and seasoned road fanatics. Rogers stated that a decent ride report should be a mix of local color and history, as well as technical riding data. Val thought there should be a strong, personal, introspective touch in each story, explaining something about the author (his or her beliefs in regard to riding in general and the ride under discussion in particular). To this mix I added that every good ride report should include an element of danger, a near topless woman, and a motorcycle that makes a noise like its metal parts remember when they were magma.

My three companions concluded that it was only a matter of time before I would be exposed for the literary charlatan I really am and for the fraudulent biker stories I regularly perpetrate.

Rogers’ blog -- Mushrooms to Motorcycles -- takes a “Poor Richard’s Almanac” approach to life and covers a broad range of topics from rides he’s taken to construction projects he’s undertaken. He made an announcement that he was thinking about a stronger emphasis on motorcycle stories, as opposed to the mushroom side of life, and posted a new essay on getting ready for a ride to Florida. Rogers has diverse interests, one of which includes poetry. He regards poetry as mathematical equations, which is why he sucks at writing it. His motorcycle stuff is good though, and i recommend it.

Actually, all of Rogers writing is precise and methodical, like his outlook on life. His blog is more of a personal journal, like a behind the scenes account of the seamier side of Mayberry, RFD. The trouble is that there is nothing really seamy. I have never even heard Rogers curse. I suggested that he add little nuggets to the text that imply he has a secret life where heavy drinking, hard motorcycle riding, and cross-dressing were occasional events

“It seems to work for you,” was all he said. Underneath his pleasant "Mr. Rogers" personality, he is a bitter s.o.b.

I actually have one funny Rogers George story. Rogers is actually a very proper individual and gives the impression there is starch in his shorts. David Hardgrove and I were out tooling around in a convertible one day, showing Rogers, (who was following behind on his "R" bike) a shortcut to Delaware, when we passed a stunning woman in a skin-tight outfit, on a street corner. Hardgrove and I nearly snapped our necks taking in her perfect form.

Rogers noted this performance, then turned to see what we were looking at. (He would have missed her, keeping his eyes on the road.) In the most uncharacteristic manner, he beeped his horn and waved. 

She waved back. 

All Rogers would say later on was, "I don't think that outfit was the most practical choice if she intended to walk far." Hardgrove and I were astounded.

Last weekend also led me up to the local BMW dealer -- Hermy’s Tire and Cycle -- in Port Clinton, Pa. The shop is located 60 miles north and west from my desk, at the end of a series of nice roads that wind through horse and agricultural country. You pass through several little towns that are pretty non-descript, until you come Fleetwood, Pa. The focal point in this little urban center is a brick factory rising up next to the very active railroad tracks. This factory was the home of Fleetwood Metal Body, a premier builder of luxury car bodies since 1909, purchased by Fisher in 1925, and integrated with General Motors in 1931. Fleetwood car bodies were used by Bentley, Cadillac, Duesenberg, Lincoln, Mercedes-Benz, Packard, Pierce-Arrow and Rolls Royce.

Main Street in Fleetwood, Pa. Note mural painted on corner building.

(Photo courtesy of Wikipedia -- Click to enlarge)

A trip to Hermy’s is like dropping in on a relative you really like. Donuts and coffee are within easy reach, and glass counters -- like the kind you’d find in a jewelers -- display stuff ranging from marque watches and key chains to the coolest stuff dejour. Yet it cannot be denied that the hottest things in the shop are the BMW’s and Triumphs parked on the showroom floor. The new K1300GT called out to me as I walked in the door.

“Hey you, Fatass,” it said.

“I beg your pardon,” I replied, looking around for the source of the voice.

“You heard me. Over here.”

The K1300GT looks like sex on Metzler tires. The machine is a lot more compressed-looking than its counterpart in the “R” bikes. In fact, it looks like a comet waiting for ignition.

‘I can be yours,” said the bike. “All you have to do is lose 1100 pounds, write something that people will pay real money to read, and cash the checks.” Then the bike laughed and spit on my boots. If nothing else, BMWs are painfully honest motorcycles.

My purpose in visiting Hermy’s was to return a bagful of fancy electronic stuff that would carry the voice of my Bluetooth-equipped Garmin GPS into my Nolan helmet. After hours of experimentation, it appeared that the Bluetooth option would work for my cell phone, but not for the GPS. (Not unless the lady who lives in the GPS unit called me via my cell phone to give me the prompts for turning.) The solution called for connecting the GPS to the helmet via a cable, which I thought was utterly stupid in this era of electronic wonder. I attempted to be more like Rogers in accepting this disappointment, but saying, “Good heavens,” didn’t hit the mark. Uttering, “Fuck this,” made me feel instantly better.

I’m told Scala makes the unit I want.

There are two women behind the counter at Hermy’s, who play a vital role in separating a man from his money. The first is “The other Chris,” who has warm, penetrating eyes that extract honesty from consumers attempting to return stuff. She can tell at a glance of you dropped the part in question into the toilet, used it, or let the dog play with it.

And then there is Suzy. Suzy has the kind of smile that makes guys spend money just to prolong the conversation.

“I’m so sorry this purchase didn’t work out for you,” said Suzy, with a voice that sounded like bubbles escaping from a glass of champagne. “Can we get you anything else? How about a nice Givi topcase that looks like it costs the same as the stuff you’re returning, but will inevitably run a century note higher?”

“Okay,”I said.

Suzy looked at Chris, and they exchanged a “high five.”

If Hermy’s had a bar, I’d still be sitting there. Real bikers, the kind who find nutrition in milege, tramp through this place on a regular basis. The best thing about Hermy's is that you’re always running into folks you know, or people who know you. My vicious negotiating with Suzy was interrupted by the arrival of Roddy Irwin from the Mac-Pac. Roddy is a tree surgeon, whose business card is a laugh of recognition, which he passes around freely.

We shot the breeze for a bit and were then joined by Gary Christman, who won a Twisted Roads tee shirt in last week’s contest. I am always amazed when somebody comes up to me and asks, “Are you Jack Riepe?” My first inclination is to say, “Why? Were you presented with a kid who looks like me?” (Apparently, a growing number of women are claiming they were random victims of my “battered baby harp seal look.”) Gary was cited on this blog (last month) for running out of road in Alaska.

Then another gentleman named “Vince” introduced himself as a reader of my work and paid me a nice compliment about my writing. I can’t tell you how good this is for my ego.

I have been thinking about getting a Givi topcase for the longest time. The one I looked at is the larger than the OEM BMW K75 topcase and can be wired for a stoplight. The mounting rack is more practical than the original on the K75 too, as if offers a broader area for carrying stuff like camping gear, or a case of beer.

Addendum

Those of you who have ridden with me before know of my fascination with tee shirts. Most of my more elaborate rides are commemorated by tee shirts that highlight some of the events’ more obscure details. For example, I am putting together a ride to Crapo, Maryland (actual place) this summer. That deserves a tee shirt. I am also doing my first annual “Toys For Tarts” ride this fall, which will acknowledge the efforts of performance artists in the tri-state area, many of whom are so poor that they must earn their living without wearing clothes. That ride will get a tee shirt too.

But now for the first time ever, I am announcing the highly coveted “Twisted Roads” Tee Shirt. Made of high quality materials and treated with long lasting dyes, these shirts make a fashion statement and an editorial statement that cannot be ignored. They are also restricted to a limited printing of 26,000. Once they are gone, that’s it.

Announcing the "first ever" Twisted Roads Tee Shirt

Red type reads: Raw Biking Adventure... Romance like broken glass.

(Only $25, plus $3 S&H -- Ordering Details Below)

Designated as the occasional blog prize, the Twisted Roads Tee Shirt is also available for purchase. Why wait to try and win one of these things when you can buy one for $25 (plus $3 S&H). They make great gifts. You can even wrap a set of tire chains in one and make a great impression on that mother-in-law who just won’t stop bitching. To order one of these rare shirts, send your name, address, telephone number and shirt size to jpriepe@aol.com. All data is destroyed after shipping and billing.

©Copyright Jack Riepe 2009
AKA The Lindbergh Baby (Mac-Pac)
AKA Vindak8r (Motorcycle Views)
AKA The Chamberlain