Prelude...

“This year is going to be different,” I announced to the haus frau and the two dogs. “I am going to gear up for the first day of riding by going over every inch of the bike, by working out in the basement gym, and by organizing the garage two weeks in advance. I will get in a week of little rides before I do anything in a group, thereby honing my riding skills before venturing out in public. And I am going to get a full eight hours of sleep before going out on the first big run.”

Leslie (Stiffie) hid her enthusiastic support for this plan behind a mask of stone cold skepticism, while the dogs feigned total indifference.

“You mean this is the year that you’re not too chicken shit to get back on that bike after a four-month absence?” asked Stiffie (Leslie) in reply.

I would have spit in response to that statement, but I have grown too accustomed to living with an attractive and smart woman in a warm house, to trade it all for a gesture that would prompt a brief flight ending in a crash landing among my possessions in the driveway. I gave her a vindictive look that spoke volumes instead. And if she had still been in the room, you can bet it would have made a devastating impression.

Regrettably, there is more than a grain of truth in Leslie’s exaggerated and viciously brutal assessment. One of the most amazing phenomena encountered by new motorcycle riders is target fixation. This where the rider is so overwhelmed or mesmerized by a potential threat that they stare at it, utterly powerless to act (other than to slam on the brakes, which is usually the wrong thing to do), right up until the point of impact. (Another amazing phenomena found in physics and nature is how a motorcycle follows the rider’s line of sight like a guided missile.) I suffer from a mental kind of target fixation. For each week that I do not ride, the memory of the joy felt while piloting a motorcycle fades, while my awareness of the terror and pain associated with crashing is increased by a factor of 50.

Reading magazines, blogs, and club posts dealing with rider awareness does nothing for me but emphasize the potential life-threatening hazards, opportunities to get maimed, and the increasing chances of getting tossed through the air like a flying sack of shit (and landing in a coffin). Fixating on these images hobbles my soul with unnecessary caution that spawns paralyzing inactivity. In other words, I fixate on the “what ifs,” which preclude me from making any serious preparation.

Yet I eventually try to put a good face on things, taking the position that these are the sort of developments that happen to the other guy. This year, I posted a fun-sounding, nonsensical ride to New Jersey, the “Second Annual Great Slider Ride”, a full month in advance, when there was still 60-inches of snow in driveway. The purpose of the ride was to celebrate my 56th birthday at White Castle hamburger joint, purchasing one tiny burger for each year of my life, (56) to be distributed to anyone who attended. My thought was that a month would provide plenty of time to deal with the usual pre-ride mental issues.

The Plan: Exercise — Three Weeks Before “The Second Annual Great Slider Ride...”

The stairs leading down to the gym in the basement are steep. How steep is a matter of opinion. From my perspective, descending in total safety demands being roped to a sherpa with considerable experience on the vertical face of K12. I have never been able to find a sherpa, but once convinced a blonde trainer to go down there partially tied up. That adventure was well worth the aggravation that followed.

Leslie’s (Stiffie’s) home gym has an elliptical trainer (built to make you think you are running in a huge hamster ball that never loses its oval shape), a Nautilus machine (designed by Benedictine monks to get the truth out of heretics), a recumbent bike (that gives the impression you are pedaling a hammock), a treadmill, a rowing machine, free weights, and a treadmill.

I hate all this fucking shit.

The walls are lined with glass mirrors so you can the see the sweat pour out of your body, before it puddles on the floor, triggering the sump pump. Apparently, there is nothing more inspiring for a fat person than to see himself reflected into infinity. I was a man with a mission, and didn’t hesitate. I sat on the weight bench that is part of the Nautilus machine, carefully steadied my position, and bit into a chocolate donut. Remembering the most basic of rules espoused by the folks at Weight Watchers, I chewed each mouthful 240 times. It took 40 minutes to eat four donuts. Then I bit the bullet, and climbed back up those hideous stairs.

Phase One Of The Plan: Organizing The Garage —Two Weeks Before “The Second Annual Great Slider Ride...”

The garage has the tranquil aura of a island in the south Pacific. Boxes of stuff, mounds of gardening tools, bicycles, camping gear, and tons of art supplies are strewn about the floor and shelves in a random manner suggestive of a passing tsunami. But that’s where the tropical aura ends. The garage is unheated, and its temperature 14-days before my published public date for riding was about 34 degrees (F) at high noon. I plugged in the only heater I have, a ceramic “furnace,” that is about four inches wide and six inches tall, and switched it on “high.” This successfully raised the temperature of the metal grate on the front of the heater a good 5 degrees. By way of an experiment, I tried to augment this heat source by lighting a cigar.

Stiffie (Leslie) poked her head in the door, wrinkled her nose, and referenced my activity by saying, “Are you attempting to heat the garage by burning dog shit? I hope the stench of that cigar isn’t going to linger on the paint-job of my Subaru.”

“I’ll be done in a minute,” I said. “I can see my breath out here.”

“Try brushing your teeth with Drano,” the love of my life ventured.

Phase Two Of The Plan: Pre-Ride Shakedown Cruise — One Week Before “The Second Annual Great Sider Ride...”

The temperature rose into the 50’s and a week of steady rain had melted all of the snow, even the six-foot high frozen berms plowed up at the end of the driveway. Yet the local streets remained covered with piles of gravel and sand. It was entirely too dangerous to take a thoroughbred street bike — like my regal 1995 BMW K75 — out into that mess. Any attempt to lean into a curve would have resulted in an expensive slide and a downed bike. I was explaining this in a call to my long-time riding partner and constant foil, Dick Bregstein, when Clyde Jacobs pulled up to the front door on his equally sophisticated 2004 BMW K1200GT, having apparently navigated the death-defying gravel pits of my street without mishap.

“Can you hold on a minute, Jack?” asked Dick. “I have another call coming in.

Looking out the window, I could see that Clyde, still on his bike in the driveway, had removed his helmet and was talking to someone on his cell phone.

“Still there, Jack?” asked Dick. “That was Clyde calling me from your driveway. He says he had no problem riding through the gravel on your street and that you are a chicken-shit pussy, who is too afraid to get on his motorcycle.”

“I’m going to have to call you back, Dick,” I replied. “I’m hooking up the garden hose to test the outside faucets in the driveway.”


Phase Three Of The Plan: The Mechanical Check-Up — Three Days Before “The Second Annual Slider Ride...”

The sun was shining like an a prop in an ad for orange juice. The temperature was pushing the mercury past the 62 degree (F) mark, as the motorcycle bay door rose like the shirt of some beautiful pillion candy, revealing the glories behind. I reached down and disconnected my motorcycle — the legendary “Fireballs” — from her electric umbilical cord, and rolled the machine out into the driveway. The sunlight raised the brilliance of the lustrous red paint to the flashpoint. I had a short list of things I wanted to check before hitting the starter button, but found myself staring at various fine points in the bike’s design.

The K75 is an acquired taste even among BMW riders, who have long-since grown accustomed to off-the-wall motorcycle profiles. This machine has all the sex appeal of a bowling shoe, and the classic lines of a pallet of bricks. Known as the “Flying Brick,” this model has no lower frame, and uses the engine block (which is as close to square as you’d imagine) for structural support. It’s monoshock design and single right-side mount for the rear wheel takes the uninitiated by surprise. K75 owners sell these bikes reluctantly and usually regret that decision for the rest of their lives.

I think it is the most beautiful motorcycle I have ever owned. It’s reliability is exceeded only by the smoothness of the engine and silky nature of the ride. Despite the fact it is 15-years-old, I ride it like it came out of the showroom yesterday. It routinely hits and holds triple digits on the clock.

“Fuck the short list,” I said to myself. “I want to hear some music.”

Turning the key to the start position, the dash came alive with various system check lights winking on. The steady glow of the headlight reflected the life in the battery, which was confirmed by the voltmeter, scoring 12 volts at the first pop. The gas pump made an audible hum in the tank. I clicked the idle “advance” lever to the first position and hit the starter. The engine turned over readily enough and coughed. (I had neglected to put the “Stabil” in the gas tank last November, and wondered if I’d have problems with this suckful ethanol gas.) I moved the throttle “advance” lever to the second position and pressed the starter button again.

The engine fired right up. Within a second, or two, it was turning over at 2,000 rpm, and I dropped the throttle “advance” to the first click. (Since the machine is fuel injected, there is no “choke.” The motronic computer sets the gas flow and mixture to the temperature of the engine. The accelerator “advance” is marked as a “choke,” but all it does is turn up the idle to high.) The engine speed dropped to 1,000 rpm, then climbed again as the motor got warm. I backed off on the throttle “advance” lever at 1500 rpm to hold the idle at 1 grand even. The factory preset for idle is 900 rpm, but this speed with not charge the battery from the 50 amp alternator. At 1,000 rpm, I get the green LED on the voltmeter (12.5 volts) even with the 100 watts of the Motolights dropped into the mix.

I let the bike run for ten minutes, using this opportunity to test out the auxiliary riding lights, the brake lights, the running lights, the turn signals, and the flashers. Everything was in order. Then I tried the horn.

The noise that came out of this FIAMM sport/douche replacement unit sounded like a fart from a cricket. Either it got a mouthful of sediment and water on that last Delaware Salt Marsh run, or a mouse died in it. I kept triggering the horn button and the volume gradually improved, but it would be useless in traffic. I plan to replace this unit with a Steble/Nautilus compact air horn next week.

Switching off the machine, I started going through my short list of items to check. In 7,000 miles of riding last year, the bike burned 4 ounces of oil. It used a pint of coolant. Transmission fluid was where it was supposed to be, but somewhat champagne colored. My first action was to tighten a loose mirror. I struggled to get the right socket over the nut, and realized the nut was wearing a black plastic trim piece. Using a screw driver, I applied exactly enough pressure to this part to catapult it 20 feet across the black driveway, where it became invisible. One of the dogs found it two seconds later and had it partially chewed by the time I pried it out of his mouth. I then set about realigning the high intensity discharge lights and managed to scratch one of the black mounting brackets. It is shiny silver underneath. (I knew that can of black Rustoleum would come in handy.)

A year after he installed it, I am pleased to report that the poorly designed seat latch correctly mounted by Clyde Jacobs (the original was in backwards) continues to function flawlessly. I removed the fuse from the electric seat (which can be activated by passers-by) as the circuit is live 24/7.

This is one of the things that makes me crazy.

I had a Centech AP-1 fuse box installed to eliminate all the wire leads coming off the battery and to offer one source of fuse protection for everything. This was in addition to the existing K75 fuse box. While the power leads for the MotoLights and the HID lights run through the Centech box, the power for their relays (connected to the dash switches) is drawn through the ignition. Consequently, the lights cannot be switched on without the engine running. The Centech AP-2 fuse box provides a second section for circuits that would prevent other accessories from being switched on unless the bike was running too. The cost of the AP-2 unit was about $2 more than what I paid for the AP-1, except I didn’t know about it until after I had the other one installed.

The same was true of the voltmeter. I spent $24 for a Kuryakyn LED voltmeter, which works swell, and which adheres to the K75’s dash with self-adhesive tape. The colored LEDs correspond to a numbered scale, and are visible in bright sunlight, while dimming at night. But I would much rather have had Datel’s in-dash miniature volt meter, with red numbers, for $52. Naturally, I found this one right after I had the Kurykyn model installed. The 50 amp alternator cranks out 600 watts and came standard on the 1995 K75. The gentle reader would be surprised at how many late model motorcycles from other marques are limited by alternator output. (There are times when I am insufferable.)

The locking mechanism on the OEM top case, which I had to open four months ago with a BFH (big fucking hammer) was sticking. I reseated the the internal locking bracket, which made no difference whatsoever. I then reattached a loose seal on the top case rim with a few dabs of rubber cement. I’m sure this will come back to haunt me. The rubber cement will dissolve the seal, which will loosen the top, which will fly open, then come off, and smash through the windshield of a truck carrying nuclear waste, which will blind the driver, causing him to loose control of the 50,000 ton vehicle, which will then plunge in to the reservoir for Baltimore, before contaminating Chesapeake Bay, thereby driving up the cost of blue crab to $150 each. (This is how my marriages generally turn out too.) I should blow my brains out now and be done with it.

The front tire was down 6 pounds, while the back was short 12.

The next thing on my list was a complete tool inventory and document check. The insurance card had expired and I made a note to get another in town the next day. Going through my tools, I checked to make sure I had spare fuses (40 of them) and spare crush washers for the oil and transmissions plugs (9 each). These last are kept in a little plastic baggie, along with the brass drum retaining head for a spare clutch cable. The spare clutch cable goes in one of the side bags, along with the bike jumper cables. Under the seat I have a Cycle Pump compressor, an EZ Tire Pressure gauge, first aid kit, Progressive Tire and Suspension tire plugging kit (with three large C02 cartridges), MiniMaglite LED flashlight, duct tape, electrical tape, and shipping tape, BMW tool kit (you could rebuild the bike with this), some extra tools (vice grips and wire cutters/stripper), the bike’s manual, and the BMW MOA’s Anonymous Book , which is a directory for assistance. (I do not carry spare bulbs unless I plan to be on the road several days. With 4 auxiliary lamps facing forward, I am not likely to end up with a blind eye.)

Of all this crap, the most significant items are the spare clutch cable and brass drum head. The brass drum is a tiny part not much bigger than then head of a thumb tack. It holds the handlebar end of the clutch cable in place. Nothing but the pressure of the cable holds the drum in place. Should the clutch cable break at the handlebar end, and fall off, there is a good chance the drum will be gone too. All the spare clutch cables in the world won’t easily stay in place without one of these. So I bought a spare one and taped it into the tool kit. (Wasn’t that stupid? I should have bought ten, as I will drop the first one to the ground, where it will roll into the only open sewer grate in five miles. Should I ever have to install one of these cables by myself, you can bet your ass I will put a piece of clear tape under the clutch caliper on the handlebars to make it sure the drum doesn’t move while I fiddle with the cable.) I recently learned that there is a tiny donut made of felt at the end of the cable too. Not having one of these will probably do $2,500.00 damage to an $1,800.00 clutch. I had added ten of these to my shopping list as well.

Now it can be argued that this is a lot of shit to carry, but 98% of it fits under the seat. This is because my 1995 BMW K75 does not have ABS brakes. The ABS-equipped models have all kinds of machinery under the seat, which while giving the rider more braking options, cuts down on the storage space.

The bike was now ready to ride... But I was not. I had the jitters and was quaking like a loittle girl.

Friday: The Day Before the “The Second Annual Slider Ride”

(See line above subtitle.)

Dick Bregstein called to ask if I wanted to go out riding. I told him I was too busy at that moment, but that I would take the bike out late that afternoon, to get some time on it before the run. This was a total lie. I had no intentions of getting on the bike. This was the second time I have lied to Dick. The first time was last year when I told him that he cut an impressive figure in his one-piece, two-toned riding outfit, that he got “on sale.” Bregstein would get his revenge in 24 hours.


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