Tires — A Beginner's Stupidity And A Lost Day At The Fair

The 2011 riding season has kicked into gear this weekend, with hundreds of clubs and thousands of riders observing “National Gassing Day Rituals, on Saturday, April 2.” Initially conceived by the legendary moto-writer Peter Egan, Gassing Day occurs on on the first Saturday in April, when riders roll their bikes out of the garage, and fill their tanks with fresh gasoline. (For those with multiple bikes, this means a circuit back and forth from the garage to the gas station, terminating in lunch at a local diner with a bunch of the guys.) It is like having the swallows return to Capistrano... Or the whales returning off the coast of Maine... Or the hookers returning to stand in their underwear on 10th Avenue in New York City.

Above: Out for "Gassing Day 20011," Todd Trombore on his 1952 BMW R68. Trombore was warned about showing up on a bike that predated the Lincoln administration. About 40 riders showed up for Gassing Day ceremonies at the Quentin Haus restaurant in Quentin, Pa. Photo by Rebel (Brett).

Above: Ken Bruce, the Mac-Pac Monthly Dinner Chairman and a proud BMW GS rider, demonstrates how turning the ignition key and pressing a button lights the coal-burning boilers on his bike, which are cooled by breezes that pass over the cyclinder heads, prior to melting glaciers in Finnland. Mention "green" to Ken Bruce and he rubs his wallet pocket. Photo by Chester Heaver.

Above: Surprise Guest Speaker for the Gassing Day Ceremony was Mac-Pac rider Bill Zane. Bill has said less than 28 words during the past five years. His welcoming speech — a scowl and a smile — was the best this group has ever heard. When asked by Ken Bruce if Twisted Roads publisher Jack Riepe could sit on his Burgman, Zane responded with a look of horror and pain that caused Bruce to withdraw the request. Photo by Chester Heaver.

Above: Rider Floyd "X" pulls out on his BMW K1200S, a motorcycle that is fast as blazes, as stealthy as a divorce lawyer, and as cool as James Bond's martini, owing to an incredibly efficient cooling system that does not require air to fill its sails nor oil to be pumped through a 40-foot tower. We'll publish "X"s last name if someone sends it into us. Photo by Chester Heaver.

Above: This 1986 BMW K75 is a low mileage number with minor cosmetic damage (on the right crash bar - civilian version). $2500 takles it, according to Rebel (Brett), who rode in on it. The bike belongs to his son. This machine would be a great candidate for a "Sprint Fairing" or a Parabellum "Scout" Fairing. With very little effort, it could become a "signature" bike. K75 cult members are likely to snatch this bike before too long. Any interest parties should leave a comment to that effect or contact the author via email. Photo by Chester Heaver.

Above: Iconic BMW R100 with that great orange to black paint job. Photo by Chester Heaver.

About 40 riders turned out for the April 2nd, Gassing Day ride to the Quentin House, in Quentin, Pa (the junction of Rt. 419 and Rt. 72). Members of the “Air Heads” and the Mac-Pac broke bread in joint celebration of the spring. Present were Todd Byrum (the motivator behind the event), Chris Jaccarino, Ken Bruce, Bill Zane, Todd Trombore, “Floyd,” Dave Hillbrandt or Zillbrant (I can never remember this guy’s name, even though I’ve ridden with him 5 times), Jay Scales, Horst Oberst, Gerry Cavanaugh, Rebel (Brett), Marge Bush, Rich Neuman and Dave MacVaugh. And about 32 others. (Dave MacVaugh told me a great story that will run in a future blog.)

The day started out cold, with temperatures as low as 30º (F) in West Chester. Bikes ran the gamut from Todd Trombore’s 1952 BMW R68 to the standard BMW GS (as personified by bikes belonging to Ken Bruce and Gerry Cavanaugh). Floyd “X” didn’t get the “antique” memo and pulled up on his K1200S, which looks like speed right out of the can. Billy Zane arrived mounted on a Suzuki Burgman Scooter. I began the day happy enough, then fell against the bathroom wall (at home) while taking a piss, when my left hip joint popped. So I opted to attend the ride in Leslie’s Subaru. I made quite an impression on Todd Byrum, who said, “Good to see you, even in a foo-foo, country club, Izod, Bonwit Teller, Chester County upscale, creative class, marble countertop, headlamp LEDs, botox injected, red carpet, PING driver set, creased trousers van. Always a pleasure.

“I don't suppose you're going to write about that for your column in the BMW Owner’s News,” Byrum concluded.

Well Todd, I’m man enough to own up to my shortcomings — and yours too.

The event drew an overwhelming response from BMW “R” bike owners, who like riding out to central Pennsylvania, where they can get an ample supply of coal for their engines. As Todd Byrum hissed at me in the parking lot, “We don’t need no stinking efficient cooling systems.”

The first burst of warm weather will also see a surge of riders rush their bikes into the shop for tune-ups, oil changes, and a hundred other things that were not properly addressed from last year. For many riders, venturing into the garage this weekend will be the first time they have laid their hands on their true love since last November. I have fallen into this category, I’m afraid, and I have made at least one or two really bad mistakes over the winter. For example, I just found the unopened bottle of fuel stabilizer I bought at Hermy’s last fall, on the work bench, where I left it, when I got distracted on my mission to pour one or two ounces of it into the gas tank — 5 months ago.

This means that the fine nylon, mesh gas screen on my new $350 genuine BMW fuel pump has been sitting in that rotten, de-stabilized, ethanol-laden shit gas for at least 5 months. Hopefully, it is not now covered with varnish and crud. My chore today, on Gassing Day 20011, is to siphon this fuel out of the tank, get the crap out of the corners, and refill it with 5 gallons of premium, high-octane, ethanol-free fuel, available at a service station in Gap, Pennsylvania. With any degree of luck, the new fuel will purge that screen and spoil the pump with the champagne taste of gas the way it should be. (Since the bike is fuel injected, with the pump on the high end — in the gas tank — none of the rotten gas will be in the system unless I start it without switching out the petrol. If the pump chirps like a bird, then I will go fucking berserk.)

My other pleasure is to remove the seat, the seat lock, the tray, the auxiliary fuse box, and motronic brain so I can get at the battery. While the battery has been on a tender all winter, with the meters reading “ strong charge,” the constant percolating may have reduced the water content in the genuine BMW lead/acid battery. This means having to get an actual look at the battery and popping the caps. Not a big deal, except for having to remove 20 different fasteners and things to get at it. Which reminds me that I have to secure the battery vent hose to it’s tiny nipple with a piece of very fine wire. (I have found it disconnected twice. Does this mean it fell off, or does it mean it was blasted off by explosive battery gases? I have no idea. But who wants battery acid dripping on anything?)

The final inspection will be to check the rig for mice. Ron Ye is my resident expert on what happens when you ride a BMW with a mouse nest among the hot parts. (His bike caught fire for this very reason.) But my real issue at the beginning of every riding season is the inspection of the tires. Going beyond checking for the correct inflation levels, I will spin the wheels in a search for hairline cracks or any funny business along the bead.

Most of my motorcycle riding buddies hate to spend an extra nickel at the dealers, if they can avoid it. And they love to wring every cent out of the normal maintenance stuff before resorting to the replacement. This is especially true with tires. With the average cost of a tire running $120 to $140, plus $50 to mount and balance it, my friends will ride them until the “wear bars” are thin too. (Depending upon the compound, some tires are shot at 4,000 while others may go three times that. And oversize tires or specialty brands can run $400 plus.) My preference is not to push the envelope, but to replace a tire immediately when the wear become obvious, or when a dramatic difference is noted in performance. Regrettably, the first dramatic change in performance may be when a tire lets go on a wet curve, blows out with a tiny piece of glass in it, or yields to dry rot.

My tire philosophy is relatively simply: When doing 95 miles per hour someplace, I do not want to worry about the thickness of the tread because I did not want to waste $11 worth of tire with a premature change of rubber. And yet I had to learn this lesson the hard way. In 2006, I inadvertently rode off to Maggie Valley, North Carolina, on tires that had more than 12,000 miles on them. Then I turned around, and rode to the BMW rally in Vermont on the same wheels. It had been 25 years since I bought tires for a motorcycle and the tread on these wheels seemed fine, if not a trifle shallow. On “Day One” of the four-day rally, Mac-Pac rider and K75 Guru Brian Curry looked at my front tire with ill-disguised alarm.

“You’re not planning on riding home on that front tire, are you?” asked Curry.

My response was the kind of look one gets from sheep or Congressmen (when campaign contributions are not at stake).

“Because the treads would be deeper if they were drawn with a Magic Marker,” said Curry. Without going into specific detail, he pointed out that the machine was carrying about 10,000 pounds... That it was being ridden hard... And between the summer heat and being slammed into bridge expansion joints, my K75’s tires were about to give their last gasp. “You must change that front tire immediately,” said Curry. “You might get another week out of the back.”

I discovered there was a tire vendor at the rally, and I sought him out directly. The gentleman had a Metzler for the front, in my size, and could put it on the next day.

“What ho,” I said, dripping with enthusiasm. I really didn’t give a shit what it cost. What I wanted was a new tire on the bike. I would have paid $300 for it.

“What time should I present myself at your tent,” I asked, with relief.

“Eight a.m.,” said this snake oil merchant.

I was there at a 7:30am... And found myself “number 11” in line. There were 8,000 riders registered for that rally event. And if one percent of them needed tires — for any reason — that meant 80 sets of tires, or 20 sets to be mounted per day. In a 12-hour day, that works out to .6 sets of tires to be mounted in a hour — by one guy and two assistants. Now this may seem doable, if you consider the straight mounting time. But then add to it the time required to remove the wheel from the bike. Not everyone routinely removes their wheels in the garage at home, and so they are not familiar with the process.

The tire vendor cheerfully assigned the ten guys before me, and myself, pick-up times. Mine was 1pm.

When I returned to get my bike 5 hours later, I was astonished to see eight of the original 11 motorcycles still in line (with tires piled against them), and six or seven guys with their wheels in their hands standing at the vendor’s truck door. The owners of the unserviced machines were justifiably disgruntled. But this was nothing compared to the looks on the faces of the riders who were on line behind me. It became apparent there was more money to be made just throwing tires on rims than in removing wheels from bikes.

The proprietor encouraged those who claimed to have a little experience to dismount tires from other patron's motorcycles waiting in line for service, allowing him to throw tires on rims for line-cutters who arrived with wheels under their arms. It was one of these well-intentioned "volunteers" who split the brake calipers on the front on my K75.

The vendor then explained to me that this was my fault for driving a bike with defective brakes, most probably a bad seal. (Remember, I was new to this.) He ranted and raved about the necessity for finding a caliper rebuild kit (closest one was in New Hampshire) or a replacement caliper assembly (closest one in New York). The vendor made a point of emphasizing his potential liability for installing tires on an unsafe motorcycle. He neglected to mention his culpability in letting anyone try their luck at pulling tires off other riders’ bikes under his aegis.

Three additional hours were spent searching vendors at the rally, and on cell phones trying to locate parts. Much of this search was conducted by friends of mine, Gerry Cavanaugh, Pete Buchheit and Chris Wolfe, who stood in various lines for 45 minutes or longer (multiple times) while attempting to locate brake parts. It was Brian Curry of the Mac-Pac who reassembled my brakes, with a vague apology from the tire vendor (which did not include any substantive offer of assistance).

Brian Curry explained to the tire vendor — in his soft, gentle manner implying that one is too fucking stupid to breathe — that the brake seals were probably still good if the "volunteer" help hadn't ripped them out removing the wheel. Suddenly, the tire vendor understood what Mr. Curry was saying, and just as suddenly, my machine seemed unlikely to need a caliper rebuild kit or a new caliper. In the meantime, hundreds of riders were now standing in line, with wheels in their hands, demanding and getting service before the folks who had made pre-arrangements. My tire was mounted on the wheel (which had been removed at 1 pm) at 6:30 pm, 11 hours after I had been told to arrive. Many of the machines that were scheduled for service and promised before noon -- along with mine that morning -- were still without tires as night fell.

I got the tire mounted on the rim as my friend Chris Wolfe refused to leave the tire vendor’s side until it the job was completed. The job was completed in the sense that the tire was inflated and balanced. Brian Curry then remounted the tire to the bike and reassembled the brake. Chris Jaccarino, another Mac-Pac member, then bled the brake mechanism and got everything up to factory spec. The tire vendor then had the balls to explain to me that he could have fixed my brakes in 10 minutes. Odd that he didn't do so. Odder still that it took two skilled guys the better part of an hour to clean the brake pads and bleed the brake lines before the unit was safe to ride.

Yet the day was not without entertainment value. The tire vendor held hundreds of conversations that afternoon: telling the fortunes of potential customers by looking at their tire treads and detailing their riding patterns; explaining in great detail his philosophy of work excellence; and awing the crowd with stories on how he changed tires the day before until 1 am in the morning. In my estimation, the guy was a total asshole and dealing with him taught me a great lesson. Going on a long ride? Make sure the tires are good enough to get you there and back — without becoming marginal for heavy use.

I do not doubt that the tire vendor worked until he dropped on each day of that rally. But the work was without organization, without a support team, and without any consideration for customers who got in line at the crack of dawn. This is not a formula for success. He may be a nice guy. He may be well-intentioned. But he was in over his head at that rally. I lost a whole day at this event, as did several of my friends (Chris Wolfe, Pete Buchheit and Gerry Cavanaugh), through beginner’s stupidity. It will never happen to me again.

I was prepared to pay a premium for getting a tire changing service under difficult circumstances. If the tire vendor had said to me, “Wheels removed from the bike will get serviced first,” any one of ten guys would have been delighted to pull that wheel off for me. And I never would have written this story if the guy had apologized, shaken my hand, and said, “How can I make this up to you?” That was his last mistake in a long chain of errors.

My bike will be out on the road this week. I spent a pleasant hour looking at the tires today. They’re fine. Too bad I can’t say the same thing about my hips and knees. Changing them out will be a bit more involved.

©Copyright Jack Riepe 2011 — All rights reserved.