“These are the times...”

Thomas Paine was as much of a visionary as he was a revolutionary in the fight for American independence. I cannot help but feel he envisioned me personally, when on December 23, 1776, he wrote, “These are the times that try men’s souls.” He wasn’t kidding. Though it is a balmy 32º (Fahrenheit -- please see note below) on a day of brilliant sunshine — with expectations of hitting a pleasant 39º high — the weather dopes on network TV from Philadelphia are claiming we can get up to a foot of snow tomorrow night, going into Saturday morning. It is hard to rejoice in this kind of prognostication considering the state and municipal response to these storms will be to dump tons of salt, gravel, and cinders on the pavement. This will be the fourth storm we’ve had in three months and the street outside this house is beginning to resemble a dirt road. It is curb-to-curb rubble, with extra debris deposited in intersections, blind curves, and just before hidden stop signs. It is amazing that the stuff they put down to make ice less slippery, is as slippery as the ice itself when left on a dry road.

Important author’s note: All temperature measurements on this blog are cited in “Fahrenheit,” because this is the United States and that’s how we do things. If you don’t like it, you can kiss my ass. This incredibly accurate and easy to understand unit of measurement was named after Franz “Liebkind” O’Fahrenheit, an Irish physicist who allegedly established it after he came off a six-day drunk. I am told by reliable sources that Fahrenheit remains the preferred method of measuring temperature in the most progressive countries, such as the US and Belize. For those less fortunate who live in Fahrenheit-free countries (where tiny coffee cups and women who braid the hair on their nipples are the norm), I have provided a convenient metric conversion link here. Fahrenheit died a year before Paine was born. Otherwise, they might have been great friends.

American "Fahrenheit" coffee cup on the left... Celsius coffee cup on the right. Photo by Leslie Marsh.

The accumulation of gravel and cinders on the roads around here makes it worth your life to lean into a curve, attempt a hard stop, or just to put your feet down without going into a serious slide. Last week, three days of drenching rain and temperatures in the high 60’s washed away the salt, raising hopes of some early season riding... But then it snowed again, dropping three-quarters of an inch of precipitation followed by two inches of granite quarry slag and salt mine run-off. The major roads have been bleached white by the salt on them. Speeding vehicles are pursued by clouds of salt dust, which have to be bad for the beautiful black engine casings on my signature 1995 BMW K75, and worse for my lungs, which are already tanned from years of healthful cigar smoking. Last year, Dick Bregstein and I rode deep into January, spitting in the eye of the elements. Some salt crud managed to cling to the chrome crash bars on my bike during those rides.

“I’ll deal with that later,” I said to myself. Two weeks later, the salt had already pitted the chrome. Now I didn’t really give a shit as I had plans to powder coat these bars anyway. (They look great in flat black, a natural chrome replacement color for any motorcycle, and one that eliminates hours of polishing stuff.) But damage to the engine casings would make me sick.

Now to some riders, like Rick Slark (author of Keep The Rubber Side Down) and Domingo Chang (author of REDLEGS RIDES), there is nothing more exhilarating than riding off into a country-side buried under two feet of snow. Their blogs routinely illustrate hellish rides against an uninterrupted white background. Another friend of mine, world-class rider Doug Raymond, once attempted to ride through a Rocky Mountain pass in the middle of a blizzard. I salute these fearless BMW jockeys and admire their spirit. But for me, riding in snow or on roads choked with grit and salt is strictly shit for the birds. And the way things are shaping up now, I won’t be riding until the middle of March. Coincidently, I have scheduled my first group ride of the new season for the third week in March. This is assuming things warm up and local public works departments, plus PennDOT, go after the overtime and sweep this grit/shit off the pavement.

It should be noted that the fiercely independent and notoriously green state of Vermont no longer coats their roads with salt in the winter time. Rising concern over salt damage to the environment gave state leaders and ever-present “Friends of the Muted Shrew” (of which there are 2.5 left, both shrews and their friends) sufficient drive to seek an alternative. They now liberally sprinkle cinnamon over the pavement whenever it snows. This does nothing for traction, but it makes the whole place smell like fresh apple pie in the winter.

My bike, one of the most perfect motorcycles ever built (artistically and tastefully tweaked into a two-wheeled signature masterpiece), sits on the center-stand in the garage, connected to an “Accumate” battery tender and life support system. Putting my ear to the gas tank, I can detect a barely audible hum coursing through its steel muscles. It is the quiet resolve of this Teutonic machine to again range free and unshackled on a multiple state rampage. Brian Curry, well known among the Mac Pac and BMW circles as a K75 Guru, switched out the connecting plugs on both the battery tender and the pigtail to the battery. I believed he used something akin to a John Deere connection, which appears to be tighter and very effective. Disconnected from the tender, the pigtail has a tight-fitting cap and disappears against the black background of the frame when not in use.

Under normal circumstances, I would be doing whatever I could to get my machine into Tom Cutter’s shop for its annual service. However, the unanticipated loss of 80 percent of my income since (last December) has cast a pall over motorcycle expenditures. The typical service I would be seeking this year includes changing all fluids (engine oil, transmission, coolant, and brake fluid) plus lubing the rear shaft splines. Tom Cutter — of the Rubber Chicken Racing Garage — services motorcycles like Edison invented light bulbs. Cutter restoration bikes are highly prized and valued at the top of the rare motorcycle food chain. He has been recently honored by the International Council of BMW Clubs as a “Friend of the Marque,” which is one of the highest forms of recognition bestowed by the group. It is not uncommon for bike owners to list “Cutter serviced” as an added feature of a machine they are looking to sell.

I may attempt to do some of this work myself, but publicly admitting this drives up the cost of the repairs when I eventually show up at Cutter’s with a disassembled motorcycle in a bag. Anticipating the day when I might be forced to service my own bike, I invested in a set of tools, in an official toolbox with many little drawers, purchased from my riding buddy Clyde Jacobs.

“What are you going to use these for?” asked Clyde, as he pushed the red toolbox into the garage on a dolly.

“It is important to have all of the tools you need whether you are attempting a routine service job or a major modification,” I replied.

Clyde looked at me as if a public toilet someplace had begun to recite Shakespeare.

“Do you know where the oil filter is on a K75?” he asked, in the kind of snide manner assumed by a paleontologist polling a third grader to see if he knows the brontosaurus is pointy at both ends.

“The oil filter is strategically placed in the middle of the K75’s lubrication system, where it can most effectively screen out contaminants,” was my answer. Followed by a robust, “So fuck you.”

“That’s what I thought,” said Clyde, concealing a smirk of encouragement by beaming it around the garage. “If I come back here in a month, I bet this tool box will be on the back porch, doing double duty as a cigar humidor, or in the exact same place I left it.”

Some comments are best answered by a gesture and I flipped Clyde the bird in a defiant challenge. He had his back to me, however, and lost out on a great opportunity for a comeback. His reflexes aren’t what they used to be and it pains me to take advantage of a friend in this manner.

Most BMW riders keep their garages and workbenches looking like operating rooms where rich people go for plastic surgery. The garage here is a total shit house. Two of the bays are reserved for Leslie’s Subaru, the canoe, and her art stuff. That is because this her house, which I presently infest like a huge parasite. (Leslie is as merciful and compassionate as she is endearing.) The motorcycle bay is home to my bike, a trailer, and all the gardening stuff. It is scientifically arranged in such a manner to closely resemble a flea market that has endured a natural gas explosion.

My shit is all over the place.

The garage looks like a flea market that has endured a natural gas explosion. Photo by Leslie Marsh


There really is no excuse for it... But in the event the gentle reader will accept one, let me say my joints seldom surge with enthusiasm for reorganizing this space. I had thought about holding one of my famous “garage night events,” in which I graciously sucker my riding buddies into giving me a hand with stuff like this, but recent setbacks would cause me to insist they also bring the beer, pizza, and cigars. There are limits to what even I can get away with. Besides, I am reserving their favor for more important things, like picking my fat ass out of the trench when I slip on the last fucking handful of gravel left on the road when I take my first group ride on March 20th, 2010. I have asked my beautiful, 25-year-old-daughter to give me a hand. She is delighted to do so and has a free Saturday morning on March 13th, 2027.

Perhaps I am looking at this the wrong way.

Maybe what I need are four more weeks of global warming, during which the snow falls fast and furiously, in atmospheric conditions that cause sparrows to freeze in flight, and also during which the authorities drop enough ground stone for ancient Roman road-builders to make a highway from Naples to the rings of Saturn, to isolate me from the distraction of riding, and to concentrate on organizing the garage and writing something that earns me millions of fucking dollars, and the attention of women who will stand alongside my ride routes, just waiting to lift their shirts for my consideration.

For Nikos:
Twisted Roads Reader Nikos posed a question a while back, regarding oil that appeared to be leaking out of a vintage BMW “R” bike’s rear drive. I put that to the boys of the Airhead’s group at a recent Mac Pac breakfast.

They claim that it is most likely the lubricating oil from the bike’s final drive, seeping out through a weep hole that is there for that purpose. According to Todd Byrum and Joe Dille, there is rubber membrane or seal in the rear drive that keeps the oil in there from coming into contact with the braking mechanism. They suspect the rubber seal has given up the ghost. Now as I recall, this motorcycle is close to 20 years old, and nothing rubber lasts forever (though child support seems to).

Joe Dille says the ruptured seal could be indicative of a bigger problem involving a bearing. It is my understanding that this sometimes occurs in these older machines if they are not properly maintained. If I recall, you bought it as the second or third owner. If it is a bearing, it isn’t likely to be an inexpensive investment. The job should be done by a qualified BMW wrench. Your contacts with local BMW groups in Britain should be able to give you some good recommendations.

Coming Up...
On Monday: This blog will feature a long overdue “Dispatches From The Front” section, during which I will air my dirty laundry (letters from readers), honor readers who have sent me stuff (Bob Skoot, Ricky Matz, and Tena Abbey), and detail some future rides, which some of you might try to attend. Unlike Michael Beattie from Key West, I love surprizes.

Twisted Roads will feature new blog posts every Monday and Thursday! Set Your RSS Feed Now!


©Copyright Jack Riepe 2010
AKA The Lindbergh Baby (Mac Pac)
AKA Vindak8r (Motorcycle Views)
AKA The Chamberlain — PS (With A Shrug)