The MV Agusta Tamburini Versus The BMW K75

Every now and again I can be counted on to do something really short-sighted... Like drinking clear, highly flammable liquid from a bottle containing a coiled cobra (brought back from Vietnam)... Or getting married to a leggy blond with the kind of Eastern European accent one only finds in early James Bond movies... Or saying, “What the fuck are you gonna do, lock me up,” to a judge in divorce court. Most writers are passionate individuals, driven by emotions that are generally unfettered by common sense. (This does not apply to writers of federal legislation, who are usually brain-dead, flesh-eating zombies.) So dedicated Twisted Roads readers should not be surprised that I responded to a challenge — thrown in my face by the rider of a somewhat flashy but obscure motorcycle — by extending my middle finger and revving the hell out of my BMW K75’s finely tuned, vintage engine.

To make matters worse, the challenge was delivered before the select company of other BMW riders (all astride wheezing “R” bikes), who had assembled at my invitation for a nice, little breakfast run up to Amish country.

The "breakfast ride" combines a number of unique sensations. It generates the excitement of an early morning run (i.e. the growl of the engine; the crisp bite of the air still heavy with the evening’s chill; the subdued sound of the road as traffic has not yet begun to build; and the recognition of friends who also ride BMWs) with the incomparable aroma of hot coffee, fresh eggs, and corned beef hash. There is nothing quite like it. Rides of this nature generally bring out the best in people, though not always.

Above: I got this cobra in a bottle of alcoholic spirits from Vietnam. BMW rider Kimi Bush of the Mac-Pac fame was the first to sip out of it. After she did it, would else could I do? Photo by the author.

In New Jersey, where diners have evolved into the highest art form, breakfast is on a par with the ancient Japanese Cha ceremony. Yet appreciation for the most significant meal of the day quickly deteriorates the farther one get from the Garden State. The majority of diners around here must think Pennsylvania is 12,000 miles away from New Jersey because most of them suck at serving breakfast. Some of them suck so badly at this simple task that they could stick to the surface of a waterfall. (And I mean a really serious waterfall — like Niagara Falls.)

In New Jersey, a good-looking hostess will direct you to a table or booth, and a waitress will pour you a cup of hot coffee before your ass can find the seat. (That’s the law in the “Garden State,” punishable by death for the first violation. Because if you keep somebody waiting for a cup of coffee in New Jersey, they are likely to rip your throat out anyway.) The waitress will expect you to order some egg and meat combination, which she must then present in 2.5 minutes with a nice smile at one end and a hot little ass at the other. She will call you “Hon,” and lean all around you while pouring coffee refills, demonstrating why there are no sharp corners on New Jersey diner waitresses.

Above: Jim Ellenberg's plate of slops (note the spent Band-Aid on the apples) at a recent Mac-Pac monthly breakfast. Photo by Leslie Marsh

For the exception of a place near Allentown, Pa, most of the diners around here blow like a summer’s breeze. There is one place that is so horrible, that Leslie (my hot squeeze) swears they serve shit right out of the dumpster. (Riding buddy Jim Ellenberg once found an old band-aid in an omelet served at this joint. The look on his face was worth the price of admission.) So I was delighted to learn that two of my riding partners had located a greasy spoon up in Paradise, Pa, allegedly capable of serving breakfast. It became the destination for a late fall run and drew 8 riders:

“Leather” Dick Bregstein — An “R” bike rider who has been insinuating himself into my adventures for the past five years. Dick achieved local fame by following a GPS (actually a little Etch-A-Sketch) into a huge boulder, that subsequently launched him into the side of a house.

Above: "Leather" Dick Bregstein set the pace for the ride. He did what he could to keep "Mussolini's Curse" at bay. Photo by Leslie Marsh

Gerry “Be Prepared” Cavanaugh — A GS rider (the ugliest “R” bike ever designed) who has taken his machine over some of the most challenging 30-foot-long gravel driveways in the country. (And once, he had to get off the bike and open the garage door by hand.)

Above: Gerry Cavanaugh seen ready to mount his BMW GS... His question: "Is my bike the red or the silver one?" Photo by Jack Riepe.

Dave Case — An “R” bike rider who once observed, “A bad day of riding is better than a good day in the office, unless you end up strapped to a gurney and being air-lifted to the nearest hospital that has a neurosurgeon and a proctologist on call.”

Above: Dave Case relaxed and perfectly at ease with his R80ST. Photo compliments of Dave Case.

Bobby LeBoutlier — An “R” bike rider who was recently quoted as saying, “Most of these roads around here were intended to handle traffic moving at 35 miles per hour and I don’t feel comfortable pushing the design envelope.”

Jay Scales — An “R” bike rider whose rain suit matches the color of his bike, while the piping on the sleeves compliments the illuminated tint of his instruments. And none of this is by coincidence.

Above: Jay Scales, the most precise, color-coordinated "R" bike rider in BMW history. Photo by the author.

Ron Yee — An “R” bike rider who recently experimented with a new method of heating his seat by jamming rodent nests in the boxer engine cavities. (The experiment was successful in raising the temperature of the fairing, the wiring, and the fuel lines to 451º Fahrenheit.)

Above: Ron Yee is bustin' with pride at his perfectly restored "R" bike, which required a dab of paint here and there after his machine, a designated rolling hamster habitat, burst into flames. The cause was a network of mouse nests hidden around the engine. Photo from Ron Yee.

Myself: the sole rough-cut representative of the BMW “K” bike category, on a machine with a proper cooling system that allows for an engine width of less than 16 feet.

Above: The author's favorite picture — Jack Riepe tearing out of the garage on a 1986 BMW K75 — the late "Blueballs." Photo by Leslie Marsh.

And then there was “The Outsider.” There is one in every group.... The one guy who has to be different... The person who finds a subtle way to say, “Look at me... I’m not one of you old farts riding around on dated douche-bag Deutschlander bikes.” While Peter Frechie has owned, and still owns his share of flawless BMWs, he arrived on a savage M.V. Agusta “Tamburini.” (It means “tarantula” in Italian, I think.) The sinister black and red machine, with solid gold wheels, was alleged to be hand-built by the College of Cardinals, at a reputed cost of $186,532. It is very fast, and some reports claim it is “zero to fuck you” in under three seconds.

The Agusta’s impact on the crowd was instantaneous: the “R” bike boys huddled in a circle and started to quack like petting zoo ducks threatened by an unleashed dog.

Having been married several times, I register surprise and wonder with a sneer, an expression that Frechie interpreted as “raw defiance.” And maybe there was a hint of the defiant nature that is so characteristic of the BMW “K” bike rider. Then again, I have tremendous confidence in the machine that has earned this segment of the Bavarian marque the title of “Flying Brick.” (In truth, my tendency to place the K75 “uber alles” is so strong that several of my riding buddies have suggested I wear a baseball cap with a logo that depicts a brick with wings, but under a legend that changes the letter “B” to a “P.”)

Looking at the gleaming “Italian Death Bike,” I subconsciously ground my heels into the parking lot pavement — and ran the engine up to four grand. The whine of 71 Lipizzaner Stallions poured from the K75’s distinctive triangular exhaust, and drew a line of sound in the air that would not be crossed.

“So that’s how it’s gonna be,” said Frechie. “You and me, eh, Fatass.”

He then hocked a loogie that sizzled on the left pontoon-like cylinder head of Bregstein’s near naked R1100R.

“You lead,” he said to Bregstein.

“Thank you, sir,” whimpered “Leather” Dick.

Bregstein is a very reliable rider of stable judgement. He led us onto a local expressway headed to Strasburg, Pa, where I expected the speedo needle to hold somewhere south of 60 mph. Yet the single-handed clock showed a more frenetic pace as Dick worked hard, flogging gears and setting his top gallants, to avoid being run over by “Mussolini’s Curse.”

“Enough of this shit,” I thought.

Twisting the throttle all the way around, I let the horses go and watched the needles on the tach and speedo simultaneously point to the true north. The K75 surged forward, easily subjugating the gaggle of “R” bikes. Seconds later I was abreast of the Agusta, which was on my right. Traffic prevented Frechie from moving forward, and like a true sportsman, I wouldn’t let him out. Bregstein graciously waved me into the lead. Raising my arm and extending the middle finger on my left hand, I signaled I was now in the #1 spot. The expressway came to an end a mile later, and the first round passed to the K75.

Above: Peter Frechie and his low profile, blend-in-with-the-crowd MV Agusta "Tamburini." A top speed of 191 miles per hour made possible by 173 horsepower. Photo courtesy of the Highway Patrol in 37 states.

Dedicated Twisted Roads readers will realize that at no time did any of us engage in the kind of roadway horseplay that gives motorcycles a bad name. Traffic was at a minimum and the cops were as thick as congressmen on a wounded federal program. I regret I had to be the one to remind the “Spirit of Lucretia Borgia” that riding strategy is every bit as important as brute speed, but it wouldn’t be the only lesson I’d get to teach that day.

Turning into the town of Strasburg proper, we found ourselves crawling behind long lines of Amish wagons, loaded with whiskey, cigars, and homespun nylons to be traded in town for DVDs, auto parts, and condoms. Frechie and I were side-by-side at one intersection (where the color “red” appeared to painted on the traffic light), when we both noticed an unbelievably beautiful Amish woman, licking an ice cream cone. We watched in mute fascination as her tongue sculpted the scoop of vanilla into a more compact cylindrical shape, before massaging the excess cream across her lips. She had the classic hour-glass shape of a pilates instructor, flawlessly tanned athletic arms, and the kind of face that could instigate a bidding war between DNA donors.

She finished the cone and then did the most unexpected and sexually provocative thing I have ever seen in these parts... She loosened her bonnet, releasing a torrent of dark, blonde hair.

I revved the K75 to the red line. The resulting whine was the mating call of the Valkyrie. She glanced in my direction, before rewarding me with the half-shy, half-bait smile common to beautiful women everywhere. My soul was hers for the asking.

Frechie looked at her spellbound, then turned to me and hissed:

“You son of a bitch.”

He began revving the M.V. Agusta, which has the same resonance as a tyrannosaurus rex that has been kicked in the balls. But it was too late. The spell was broken. She laughed, stepped off the curb, and touched my arm, asking:

“Vas ist das matter mit der udder motorrad mit dem goldenen dädern?

Her Pennsylvania Dutch accent was utterly charming. (Regardless of what she actually asked, her eyes sought my reassurance that her horseshit shoveling days were over.)

“Das udder motorrad ist Italienisch und der fahrer hat einen kleinen penis,” I replied, in my best Pennsylvania Dutch. (Basically, I told her the Augusta was poorly maintained and needed oil.)

“Und dis motorrad?” she asked, laughing.

“Das motorrad ist der Deutscher K75 und ich habe einen großen schwanstüker.” (Translation: “My German motorcycle is red and reliable.)

She was within an ace of climbing on the back when some goon the size of a Clydesdale, (on the way to an Abe Lincoln look-alike contest) yelled, “Gretchen, Stop blödsinn mit dem Engländer und backen mir ein Shoo-Fly Pie.” Thus reminded of matrimonial joy, this stunning beauty went back to knotting pretzels and yodeling at the chickens.

The second round went to the K75 as well.

We eventually got to the diner which was a bone fide 1930’s streamlined aluminum greasy spoon. While I normally regard this as a good sign, the seating inside was equally authentic. Judging from the booths and the toy stools at the counter, the size of the average American in the ’30’s was about that of the Munchkins in the Wizard of Oz. The situation was not improved by the fact that 1,300 people were crammed inside for the early morning pancake and chicken-fruit ritual. Mahatma Ghandi would have had a tough time squeezing into this joint. The coffee was hot and the service was quick. It had to be as no one could breath again until they got outside.

Above: The Bendix Diner in Hasbrouk Heights, New Jersey... A classic in looks and service, I have eaten at the Bendix hundreds of times when I went to school in Rutherford. Photo from Wikipedia.

Above: The Tick Tock Diner on Route 3, in Clifton, New Jersey, represents the pinacle of diner evolution. The menu has a hundred items (some rather complex) that can be conjured up in minutes. Every diner in the world should send their staff and management to this place to train. This is a great place. I have eaten here sober and half-in-the-bag 3,000 times. The average wait for coffee is 18.5 seconds, when every table is filled. But the first challenge will be learning how to speak "New Jersey." Coffee with cream and sugar = "Coffee reg'lar." Good morning = "Fuck you." The downside is Route 3, known as S3. It is a primary artery to the Lincoln Tunnel and a super dangerous road. Most bikers would cut their own throats rather than ride this at 5pm, or when a game lets out at Giants Stadium. Photo from the Tick Tock Diner site.

Many diners have cute regional names for their breakfasts, like “the trencherman,” or the “happy farmer,” or the “smiling crack whore (Philly).” I was compelled to order a low-calorie, highly-reduced fat dish for the first meal of the day. So I chose “The Battan Death March Special.” This is one poached egg, a crust of bread, and a smear of oatmeal. (If you eat the soiled paper napkin from the previous guest the whole meal totals 86 calories.) The waitress goofed and added three strips of crispy, fat-laden, local bacon, carved from pigs that had no original sin. These were snatched from my plate before I could sample the aroma in the air.

In addition to being a slick motorcycle rider with a flair for the exotic, Dr. Peter Frechie is also my cardiologist.

“Not so fast, Fat Boy,” he said. “You’ve been lucky so far. Why push the odds?”

Frechie then proceed to explain how bacon is the number one killer of obese K75 riders in the 56- to 57-year-old category of frustrated writers looking to break into the moto-journalism industry. He emphasized each point by waving a strip of bacon in the air, prior to eating it himself. (I almost ordered waffles and ice cream to see how this would affect his oratory.)

And so the third round went to the MV Agusta rider.

The diner is “Jennie’s” and it is on the north side of the Lincoln Highway (US-30) in the vicinity of Paradise, Pa. The waffles and pancakes get 9 out of ten stars, and the coffee is excellent. Everything is enhanced by waitresses who know their trade. The parking lot is easy to get in and out of and the joint has a lot of character. On the downside, the crowds it attracts are tough to take. It’s on the fucked-up stretch of US-30 that backs up like an old septic system and which is the leading cause of suicide among drivers in Lancaster County. Heading west, take the US-30 bypass to Rt. 41 (in the town of Gap). Then take Rt. 41 to Rt. 741 in Strasburg. Then cut back to US-30 via Rt. 896 and turn right. “Jennie’s will be on your left in a mile or so.”

Above: Jennie's Diner on US-30 (The Lincoln Highway), in Ronks, Pa. In my opinion, the best diner in the whole Lancaster area. Photo by Gingersnap G., off the YELP site.

The conversation during breakfast turned to motorcycles, and I was able to do a fairly accurate comparison of the K75 and the M.V. Augusta “Tamburini.” This Italian powerhouse shamelessly borrows a number of design concepts from the K75. For example, both have two wheels and a mono-mount for the rear drive. Each is powered by a single engine, placed under a seat (more or less), and steered through curves by handlebars. What else is left after you acknowledge these startling similarities? The few differences are the MV Agusta has 173 horsepower and a top speed of 193 miles per hour. (Like that stuff ever got anybody laid.)

The ride back was fairly uneventful. I let Frechie lead. After all, I’d made my point. There is no purpose to rubbing it in. We rolled onto the expressway in a group and the MV Agusta must have hit a cosmic worm hole or something, as it just evaporated into thin air. There was a sound like a gunshot, but that’s nothing in the Philly area. I got a call from Bregstein later that night:

“I’m glad you kicked that guy’s ass today,” said Dick. “I was going to do it myself, but you know me when I get started. Who knows how this would have ended?’

“True enough, Dick,” I said. “True enough.”

Author’s Note — Three weeks before Christmas, the BMW riding elite of southeastern Pennsylvania gathered at a local restaurant to celebrate the upcoming holiday. About 70 riders attended. In a fit of joyous frenzy, I ordered a Fred Flintstone-sized cut of prime rib, done rare. This would have been the first really large cut of beef I’d had since the summer. The waitress was a cupcake of exquisite beauty, who served the dish with verve and panache (a shimmy and a squeal). Yet before I could place the napkin in my lap, Dr. Peter Frechie breezed into the room, grabbed my plate, and ran with it. The waitress returned ten minutes later with a tasteless vegetable gruel, popular among prisoners in the South Pacific.

“That man over there said you really wanted this tonight... With a tall glass of cold water. Is that right,” she asked.

Just out of range, the good doctor fell on my prime rib like a condemned man. The place exploded in laughter. He would present me with a customized gift from his office later that night: a calendar with one month in it.

©Copyright Jack Riepe 2011