Behind The BMW Mystique

It was the kind of July day where a high-speed run up the interstate made the fires of hell seem like an invitation. The baking asphalt, super-heated by dense truck traffic, turned the exhaust-laden atmosphere into the whirlwinds of the damned, sucking the moisture right out of me through my perfed riding gloves and armored mesh jacket. It might have been cooler on the tree-lined side roads that ran through Virginia but I had to get to another rally in Vermont that week, and time was getting away from me. I’d lost a day to the arms of a honey I’d met in Maggie Valley (North Carolina) and was paying for it now.

The quart water bottle in my top case was barely getting me through 50 or 60 miles, and I hadn’t had to take a piss in 5 hours. In fact, the last time I’d tried to drain the “hose” it merely hissed like a python with a slow leak. I banked the vintage 1986 BMW K75 into yet another rest area with the hope of getting off the damn bike and stretching out in a bit of shade... Except there was none.

There were three trees in the rest area with the kind of tired green leaves that suggested they too were worn out by the heat. That would have been fine for a brief nap, except thousands of motorists had walked their pets under those trees, leaving an expansive patchwork of dog shit. The other option was a park bench out in the sun. There were the compulsory rest rooms, and a lean-to housing two vending machines and racks of brochures for local attractions.

It was here, tucked in the rack, I found a scrap of paper inscribed with a brief note and an odd design. I had been looking for something like this for the past couple of hours. To the average person, it was just a note claiming that some folks were going to stop ahead someplace, and that their friends should meet them, if so inclined. Yet to a BMW rider, such as myself, the scrap of paper was written in the code of our ancient order, advising travelers that a enclave of our kind would be assembling at a specific location, off the next exit.

The instructions directed me (as the next rider) to destroy the note.

I threw my leg over the seat with mixed emotions: anticipation and trepidation. While the note was an invitation, it was hardly a guarantee of welcome. Though the roundel is alleged to unite us in a common spiritual quest for mechanical perfection and the ultimate sensation of pure adventure, not all BMW riders think alike. Many are the salt of the earth. Others are buccaneers of the road and two-wheeled swashbucklers, who will buckle swash with the best of them. Yet a lingering small percentage fall into the category of “incognoscenti,” or those who do not get the joke. (The literal translation from the original latin is “douche.”) To be trapped next to one of these at a rally is like being handcuffed to an engineer in a New Orleans whorehouse.

Above: Many in this crowd ride "R" bikes — From left, Joe Dille (R Bike), Roddy Irwin (K Bike), Dick Bregstein (R Bike), Eric Heilveil (R Bike), Jim Ellenberg tall guy behind Heilveil (R Bike sidecar rig), David Hargrove giving finger (Sportster), Hilko Siebles from Karlsruhe Germany (R Bike), Jay Scales (R Bike), and Jim Sterling (R Bike). There is one confirmed "Incognoscenti" in this lot, who torments me at every opportunity. I am onto him. Photo by the author.

Plus there is a natural level of dissension among roundel riders. There are those known as the “ultra-purists,” the most orthodox of BMW riders whose beliefs limit them to the iconic “R” bike. These machines sport the traditional “boxer” engine, the design of which has been minimally altered since Moses carried it down from the mountain, in the 4th Century BC. They are countered by “Renaissance Riders” who embrace change, innovation, and steamy romance associated with riding fast motorcycles with proper cooling systems. These are “K” motorcycle fanatics who believe touring bikes (complete with hard luggage that looks like it belongs on the machine) should easily reach the velocity of shooting stars before leaving the driveway.

The relationship between the two groups ranges from cordial to chilly. In fact, there was a time when it was thought that “R” bike riders practiced cannibalism. This was proven false by a leading researcher of online myths who traced the source of this urban legend to a discussion prompted by the surrounding of a “K” rider by 20 or more “R” bike aficionados. It seems the sole rider of the “K75” responded to a snub by the “R” bike incognoscenti with two words: “Eat me.”

I wondered who would be waiting up ahead, cool BMW riders out for adventure, or the “others.”

Getting off at the next exit, I swung to the left, then took a right on a picturesque, though gravel-lined back road. The blunted snout of a cattle skull pointed to a clump of trees on the edge of a field. Screened from view, but easily defended, I found five riders sequestered in the shade of a little clearing. There were two men and three women, sitting on Kermit chairs, in front of a line of “K” bikes. I dismounted, removed my Nolan helmet, and gave the formal, timeless greeting between BMW riders.

“Wie geht's hängen?” (How’s it hanging?)

“Your mother,” they said in unison, giving the appropriate response.

I introduced myself, using my tribal BMW name — “Lord Gorzog, the Undefeated.”

They were, “Astrolabe the Magnificent; Cthulhu the Merciless; Zeena of the Endless Curves; Princess Tong the Seductress;” and “Magma on the Purple K75.” Otherwise known as Tom, Louie, Christine, Jennifer, and Maggie. And in keeping with the equally ancient custom of hospitality, each had placed a hip flask of a rare, and potent liquor in the center of their little circle. The flasks were as unique and personal as their bikes. One was encased in embossed leather. Another appeared to be tarnished silver. The third was plain glass, with a fully engraved golden shot cup/cap on top. The fourth was a common hip flask to be found in any catalogue. Maggie’s (Magma) was an antique flat bottle with a cork in it. My own was a battered and scratched Sigg bottle, that had survived a savage crash years earlier.

There were two couples in this group, who’d responded to the note the same way I had. Tom and Christine were from Hog Wallow, Tennessee. Louie and Jennifer were from the town of “Open Rebellion, Georgia.” Maggie had been riding relentlessly from the Mississippi River since dawn, and just felt like a little company. She’d posted the note three hours earlier. They were all there for the night. Looking at Maggie, I figured I might as well stick around too. She was about 5’8” tall, with the body of an Olympic Swimmer. Her eyes were like fresh sapphires and her hair was a cascade of burnt sienna tied back in a pony tail. It was easy to imagine her leaning a K75 into a vicious 46-degree turn, or as the CEO of a multi-national corporation, eliminating the competition in a savage take-over. Her ballistic riding pants were open at the waist, revealing khaki shorts that were unbelievably sexy in their simplicity. By contrast, my sweat-soaked mesh gear looked like it had been used to fish dead bodies out of the Hackensack River. Concentric darkened circles of liquified Riepe, defined by dried salt stains, gave my gear a tortured texture.

Tom asked me where I’d ridden in from, and while I focused on the source of the question, I could feel Maggie studying my face... Ready to weigh the significance of my words.

“Argentina,” I said, without skipping a beat. “I left three days ago, stopping only for gas and to read the headlines.”

“What happened in Argentina?” asked Louie.

“A man insulted a woman I loved and paid the price.”

A half-smile of satisfaction and acceptance appeared on Maggie’s face.

The drama of my delivery was shattered by the sound of voices in the adjoining field. A troop of boy scouts out for a hike was headed in our direction.

“Quick,” hissed Louie. “People.”

In the blink of an eye the flasks were tossed under a jacket. Christine passed out tea cups and saucers for the ladies, while Jennifer piled cucumber sandwiches on a plate. Tom and Louie unfolded a checkerboard, and I reached for a book, the cover of which advocated a “12-Step Program To Eliminate Compulsive Swearing.”

Seconds later I could hear a boy’s voice, like a violin string under the tension of puberty, saying “Mr. Meinnert, there are motorcycles pulled up under the trees.” Yet when the troop entered the clearing, they found two middle-aged guys hunched over a checker board, two ladies sipping tea and brandishing cucumber sandwiches, while another knitted. I waved from my own Kermit chair, where I had obviously been relaxing with a self-improving book.

“Those aren’t bikers,” said Mr. Meinnert, the scout leader. “These nice folks are BMW riders... They’re like the Amish.”

We held our positions until they were out of sight.

“I hate these damn fire drills,” said Christine, putting the plastic cucumber sandwiches back in the bag. The checkerboard and checkers were a one-piece assembly that folded flat. The tea cups were part of a fuel-siphoning kit. The book in my hands had been long-since hollowed out and held cigars. And it turns out that Maggie was knitting a cover for her flask.

It was time for dinner and we pooled our resources. We all had something in the way of snacks to eat, but Maggie had trained with Special Forces, and used the curved shock absorber adjustment wrench in her K75 toolkit to bring down a feral pig. The stars came up and the two couples disappeared under respective blankets in the deep shadows.

Maggie and I traded flasks for a bit, and I said I preferred hers. When she asked why, I said, “Because the bourbon is better for the taste of your lips.”

“Then get it at the source,” she replied, with the kind of kiss that recharged my cell phone at 40 feet.

I spread the bike cover from my top case on the ground and invited her to cuddle with me on it.

“Don’t get any ideas,” she said.

I traced the curve of her face with my fingertips and said, “I’m a BMW rider. I don’t get ideas... I have instincts. And I have a huge instinct right now.”

She was gone in the morning. The two couples were packing up and I’d have murdered both for a cup of coffee. I was mounting my K75 when the scout troop returned.

“Good morning, folks,” said the cheerful Mr. Meinnert. The scouts were marching by, whistling the tune from the “Bridge on the River Kwai.”

“Do you guys have any coffee? I asked. “I’ll trade decent cigars for hot coffee.”

“Not likely,” laughed Mr. Meinnert. “These are young kids. They don’t drink coffee or smoke cigars.”

“Then you can kiss my ass,” I thought, hitting the starter button. The whine of the K75 reminded me I was now two days late for Vermont — and for the same reason.

©Copyright Jack Riepe 2011