Scrambled Eggs and Emotions -- April 19, 2009

Our routine was always the same. Scott Volk and I would start our Saturday bike hikes (as we called them) around 6am. We’d push off from his front porch on ten speeds loaded with lunch, water, and tools, heading down Nelson Avenue to Hague Street, turning right to pedal up hill to Kennedy Boulevard, then turning north on the “boulevard, the longest thoroughfare in Hudson County. There was something of a dip in the road where the Boulevard crossed from Jersey City into North Bergen, and then a slight uphill for the next five blocks. The clicking from the ratchet on the back wheel would become a steady buzz going through the dip but then become a slower litany that announced the cranking of the sprockets going uphill.

The year was 1968. I was fourteen.

Some of those rides were shorties, averaging about 40 miles. Others would go as far as 115 miles (to Peekskill, NY, coming back over the George Washington Bridge). We always headed north, as that was shortest way to get into what passed for country, highways and roads lined by cliffs and trees. There was never any complaint that we were passing through familiar territory once again. That was the price of getting out of town. We were pedaling north toward freedom... Long sweeping hills where we would hit impossible speeds on the downgrade... New things to see upclose... And an invisible line, the New York/New Jersey border, about 24 miles away. We were the only kids in the 7th and 8th grades who routinely rode their bikes into another state, looking for a good time. (This would become my lifestyle as I got older.)

The good times might be climbing on cliffs in Palisades Interstate Park (now illegal, the penalty is death), visiting historical sites (largely associated with the grand retreat of the Continental Army on their way to the next defeat), or riding through neighborhoods where people had real money (Alpine, NJ, Croton-On-Hudson) and imagining we might have some too someday.

Yet in those first few blocks, as my bike (which came from Sears and featured some really neat stuff on it, like drilled rims so the brakes worked in the rain) cleared the dip and started on the first mild uphill, I would always think, “Shit, I’m going to be doing this for the next eight to ten hours.” It never occurred to me to say, “I really don’t feel like sweating my ass off all day.” For one thing, my friend would have thought I was a pussy.  And for another, I'd waited all week for this. We were city kids. What else was there for us to do? Jersey City was the dog shit and broken glass capital of the world.

This was our way out.

I think of the halcyon days of my youth every time I get on this motorcycle. My routine is always the same. I get the bike to the head of the driveway and drag my left foot to the peg, a simple action that has come to hurt like hell for the last two years. And I always think, “Shit. I’m going to be doing this all day. Do I really feel like dealing with the pain in my knees and dodging killer traffic for the next eight hours?” The answer to that question is always the same: What the hell would I do anyway? And Bregstein would just think I was a pussy. The inside of my head has become the dog shit and broken glass capital of the world. 

This bike is the way out.

I had just gotten my left foot up to the peg with a minimum of grimacing. In fact, it was easier than I expected. I looked over at Michael Cantwell on his blue K75, loaded for the 400-mile ride home, and said, “Follow me.”

“I have to,” he said through his helmet. “I don’t know where we’re going.” Cantwell had been saying profound things like that for the last two days. Quoting him in this story would be liking paraphrasing a cigar store Indian.

The morning was exactly as I like them, deep gray, with a promise of rain that wouldn’t come until the next day. It was this forecast that caused Michael to cut his trip by a day, and to be headed back to the Adirondacks, out of the wet. Yet this was the third Sunday of the month, April 19th, and we’d be having breakfast at the Pottstown Family Diner -- with the assembled company of the Mac-Pac (the premier chartered BMW riding club serving southeast Pennsylvania.)

It’s a fast run to the diner, about 18 miles. There was absolutely no traffic and 7:30am is too early for most of the chrome and leather boys. But was not too early for one of the harpies from “MacBeth” to be out driving a mini van. This personification of stupidity was stopped in front of me at a light in the town of Eagle. She signaled left (from the far right, ignoring the left turning lane), and I went to get around her on the right shoulder. Amazingly enough, she started to turn right (despite the fact there is no road there but a low wall). Michael and I hit our horns at the same instant, bringing her to a stop. I showed her the roost for the state bird of New Jersey (the finger) as I got around her.

And even then she decided not to take the left turn she signaled for.

Nine out of ten of the vehicles that will tailgate me, turn in front of me, or do something stupid around me will be minivans. What is it with minivan drivers? Do you have to be really stupid before they sell you one, or do you get a lobotomy at the dealer’s?

There were about 60 bikes parked behind the diner. The majority of these were Beemers, ranging in age from brand new to 40 years old. There were also Ducatis, Triumphs, a semi-precious MV Agusta, a Harley, and one Gold Wing. I always try to park next to the MV Agusta, as the owner breaks out tears when he realizes how close I come to falling on his machine as I dismount. (It is my understanding that an MV Augusta starts at about $64,000.) A faded K75 followed Michael and I into the lot, and I failed to recognize it as Moto Edde’s bike. This is the machine that Moto Edde Mendes rode from Morocco, through the Sahara, up through Turkey and “the Stans,” across China and Russia, and then from the west coast to the east coast in the United States, to his native Philadelphia. The trip ran 39,000 miles and took 11 months.

“I can’t believe you didn’t say ‘hello’ to me when you pulled into the lot,” said Edde. “Didn’t you recognize me?”

I admitted I hadn’t. “But you didn’t wave to me either,” I said in my own defense. “Didn’t you recognize me?”

“Actually, I had,” said Edde. That stung.

Moto Edde Mendes, who rode the K75 in the picture from Morocco through the Sahara, up through Turkey, the "Stans,"  plus China, and Russia, before shioping the bike to the US and riding it from the west coast to Philadelphia... Some 39,000 miles in all. Unlike a couple of movie stars who had an entourage, Edde did it alone. The scratches on the fairing were not sustained on the-round-the-world trip, but as the result of a tip-over in Philly. The bike got a thorough mechanical make-over from the legendary Tom Cutter, who kept finding sand in every part of it

(Photo by the author -- Click to enlarge)

We were among the last to arrive and breakfast was playing out along the lines of a prison riot. The two waitresses were overwhelmed, and would stand in the doorway to our private room, yelling out things like, “Who ordered the fried eggs with bacon?” Naturally, twenty guys would yell out, “I did.”

A more experienced waitress arrived on the scene and restored order by dispensing coffee with a fire hose.

Michael and I had a brief search for empty seats. My brothers in arms immediately vacated a spot for me, with a full view of the men’s room.Whenever the door opened, I could see somebody standing there shaking a Taylor ham. (You must be from New Jersey to fully appreciate this last line.) Every time Cantwell approached an empty seat, someone would throw a coat over it and yell, “No room.” (He eventually found himself sitting with the six or seven guys that nobody else likes. These included Dick Bregstein, Gerry Cavanaugh, Horst Oberst, and myself.)

Jim Sterling (left) and Rich Newman both tell me I'm limping much better today.

There is never a polo mallet around when you need one.

(Photo by the author -- Click to enlarge)

The Mac-Pac has a long-standing restaurant tradition of demanding separate checks. This is to prevent one or two tight wads from ordering the steak and eggs and insisting they only had coffee. The waitress sauntered over to our table and asked Bregstein his name.

“Dick,” he replied.

“No argument there,” chimed in a voice from an adjacent table. It might have been Jim Ellenberg. Jim rode in that day on his Suzuki resurrected from an accident that sounded a lot like Mack Harrell’s. (Read previous post.) Jim limped away from that one, but he too earned a rod in his leg.

When the waitress looked at me and demanded my name, I couldn’t resist. “Big Dick,” I said.

One of the most beautiful vintage bikes to show up at this breakfast. I believe this is an R60/6 (thanks, John Clauss, but I did not get the rider's name or the details. 

I'll publish these when I do.

(Photo by Jack Riepe - Please enlarge)

There were few points of business to announce that day, but we had been joined by quite a few guests, who were all asked to stand up and suffer introduction. Two gentlemen, Bill Mauser and Doug Braley had ridden up from Virginia to join us, having read about the Mac-Pac in this blog. Doug Braley asked Jim Ellenberg to introduce me.

“Why?” replied Ellenberg. “Meeting Riepe is a highly overrated experience. Wouldn't you like to met some women instead? They might do to you in person what Riepe will certainly do to you in his blog.”

We had the pleasure of meeting Michael Thomas, a blues musician from Frazer, who rode on one of the oldest Beemers in attendance. Mr. Thomas insisted on eating his breakfast outside, at the picnic table where the waitresses smoke. While many of us instantly saw the wisdom of this decision, he explained that his riding partner, Windy, a 40-pound white labrador retriever who likes the pillion, was restricted to the outside. (We almost took a vote on the subject to bring the issue before the diner’s manager. Then two other individuals, one may have been Bregstein, made a motion to nominate the dog as club president. Someone else said we can't have dogs in the club, but that idea was scrapped as it would have excluded several non-German bikes in the parking lot.)

Michael Thomas, a blues musician from Frazer, Pa, and "Windy," a 40-pound 

labrador retriever who rides pillion on a venerable Beemer "R" bike. 

(Photo by the author -- Click to enlarge)

Mr. Thomas got the dog to keep him company following heart surgery (his, not hers). Since all he could do was lay on the couch after the operation, the puppy grew up thinking this is what people did. She is the most attentive and sedate dog I have ever met, and one of the sweetest. Out in the parking lot, she put her head on my shoulder, and whispered, “I’ll lick your ear if you go back in there and get me a cheeseburger.”

"Windy," responding to something that Dick Bregstein said.

(Photo by the author -- Click to enlarge)

The best part of a Mac-Pac breakfast is the stuff that goes on in the parking lot later. The guys make the rounds, look at the really cool bikes, and occasionally peel out on rides. I like to be the last one to leave. This makes it possible for me to hear the sound of each machine as it goes, and to remember the face of each rider. Events with these guys are always like having Thanksgiving dinner with a big family, in which you like each member, and are always sorry when they leave.

Gerry Cavanaugh (left) and Chris Jacarrino (back to camera) give Michael Cantwell some good advice before his departure. Rumor has it they told him not to come back anytime soon.

(Photo by Jack Riepe -- Click to enlarge)

Chris Jacarrino and Dave Case put together a nice little backroads run up to I-78, and the boys led Mike Cantwell on a pleasant and picturesque ride to the slab as the parting shot for his Mac-Pac indoctrination. I decided to give it the pass, as I didn’t want to hold anybody back. Jim Ellenberg and I sat there bullshitting for almost two hours, Then we took off down Rt. 422, parting company at Valley Forge.

I rode the last twelve miles in introspection. It had been a busy three days. I had been looking forward to this weekend for a month. Now it was over. The custom seat had become a trial... Mike Cantwell had come and gone... And Mack Harrell had dropped his bike...Then I noticed how the jolts to my hip always become more pronounced when I’m riding alone. Finally, I realized this weekend wouldn’t be over until I wrote about it. And then it would never be over. Not for some.

Doug Braley (foreground) and Bill Mauser (background) rode up from Virginia to join the Mac-Pac for breakfast. On the way home, an extra long battery post (replacement battery) connected with the aluminim gas tank on Braley's GS, and burned a hole through it. They effected repairs on continued on their way. It was a pleasure meeting these two guys.

(Photo by the author -- Click to enlarge)

I was on US-202 now, which can be very heavily travelled. But the traffic was minimal this day, as I held the red beast to a steady 65 mph. Yet a glance in the mirror revealed some asshole in minivan was three feet behind my back wheel. “Eat shit and die,” I thought, twisting on the gas. Five seconds later, the minivan was a flyspeck on the mirrored glass, and my tach read 8 grand.

I richocheted up the driveway, where I met Leslie (Stiffie) in the garage.

“How was breakfast,” she asked?

“The same,” I replied.

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