Hot Bikes, Hot Women, and Hot Times At The BMW MOA Rally In Bloomsburg, Pa

“You’re kidding yourself if you think you’re going to ride up to the Bloomsburg rally in this heat, and not have it come to a bad end.”

This was the verdict of my trusted cardiologist, doctor, and friend.

“You weigh more than a neutron star and pinball around on that poor cane under the best of circumstances,” the doctor said. “So now you’re going to put on a black mesh jacket, black perforated leather gloves, and a black helmet, prior to flopping onto a water-cooled K75 — which cranks out the heat of a gas grill — under what amounts to a week-long solar flare?”

His assessment of “Plan A” was uncanny.

“Does the expression ‘really stupid’ strike a chord?” he asked. “Try this... Suit up in the body armor, roll the bike out into the driveway, and sit on it with the engine running. Then call me back if you don’t die.”

I donned full gear while standing over an air conditioning vent in the kitchen. I was wearing a crisp pair of Defender (Kevlar®-line jeans from Diamond Gusset), a full mesh jacket by Joe Rocket, and skin-tight summer riding gloves from Icon. I took three steps into the garage and felt myself expand in 99º (F) heat. My shape was being defined by the retentive strength of my protective gear... And then I banged my head on humidity that would dent a shovel.

I rolled “Fire Balls,” my 1995 K75, out into the driveway and thumbed the starter button. The engine detonated into life and I immediately switched off the “bogus” choke (idle advance for the fuel injection) as the motor was already as warm as a stove lid.

This performance was being witnessed by Chris Wolfe and Mike Cantwell, two friends who had ridden down from Lake Placid, New York, (7 hours distant) to attend the BMW Motorcycle Owners of America, in Bloomsburg, Pa.

“Are you leaking coolant?” asked Chris.

“The bike’s hoses look tight,” I replied, glancing over the machine.

“Not the bike... You!”

A fine spray of liquid was squirting through the mesh on my jacket, and puddling on the ground. Within two minutes, geese were paddling around in it. It was hotter than friggin’ blazes. I felt like the attendant in a steel mill who samples the slag with a huge tube. I switched off the bike and staggered into the garage, where the heat was a degree less than the broiling tarmac outside.

The gloves came off like they were tattoos. My jacket was a sodden mess, and the crisp creases in my riding pants were as faint as my recollection of wedding vows. “You win,“ I said in a return call to the doctor.

Fifteen minutes later, David Hardgrove showed up in a bright red Ford pick-up, with a cab temperature of 68º (F), and Fire Balls was ignominiously loaded onto my Kendon trailer. I threw my riding gear behind the truck’s front seat, still determined to make a moto presence at the rally. After all, I’d ridden up to the Vermont MOA Rally in 2006, and to the MOA Rally in Tennessee in 2007. Those rallies were held in the dead of summer. (Then I remembered wearing a long-sleeve shirt as temperatures dropped to a chilly 66º one afternoon during the Vermont rally. That was not likely to happen here in Pennsylvania.)

Above) "Fire Balls" arrived at the rally towed by "Big Balls," David Hardgrove's red Ford 150.

We opted for the fast track and took the Pennsylvania Turnpike to I-80. My mood was subdued as David, a chemical engineer, made small talk about what rally events we should check out first. I anticipated a highway choked with BMW’s, but saw very few. Chris Wolfe (on a piss-yellow Honda VFR) and Mike Cantwell (on a pristine blue BMW K75) disappeared into the haze on the horizon, doimg about 200 miles per hour. (Mike has the directional instincts of the late Ray Charles, so he led.)

MOA rallies draw participants from all points of the compass, and before long a red Triumph pulled alongside. The rider wagged his finger in shame at the K75 in bondage. (I was touched by his sympathy, and showed him a finger of my own.) The Triumph’s wingman was astride a Kawasaki Concors, and he was peering into the cab with more than casual interest. He'd recognized my vanity plate — “RIEPE” — from my blog. This was none other than George Ferreira, the publisher of the biker blog: Riding In the USA. George raised his face shield and shot me a huge smile, which, with a glance at my restrained German bike, acquired the characteristics of a Kawasaki-rider's sneer. The Triumph rider was his pal, Wayne Fields. Both are from New Jersey.

We followed these guys into the rest area at Allentown, and were reunited with our advance guard, Mike and Chris, who came in 25 minutes later, after having missed the exit for the Northeast Extension of the Pa. Turnpike. (It’s an easy turn to miss as the sign is the size of cruise ship.) Chris assumed that offended British look of his and observed, “Fucking Pennsylvania is the only fucking state with three fucking turnpikes.”

Within minutes, we were joined by a bunch of riders from New Jersey, all on “R” bikes. There is a highly lovable trait common to all bikers from New Jersey. Whenever you say something like: “How are you? It’s great to see you guys,” they look at you like you’re trying to steal something. “I’m Jack Riepe,” I said to one guy, who replied, “I know who you are. Don’t sweat on my motorcycle.”

Two hours later, we arrived at a rally site that was like the epicenter of universe for German motorcycle perfection.

Every conceivable variety of “K, R, F.” and “S” bike lined the pathways through the tent sites. Tricked out K1600GTL’s (once thought to be mythical) were parked shoulder-to-shoulder with pristine “Toasters” and surviving WWII bikes. For me, there was nothing as exciting as riding around the rally grounds and picking out stunning K75’s with unusual fairings or custom paint jobs. My personal favorite was a K75 decked out with a Krauser fairing and bags, with blue flames trailing back from the front. (It gave me big ideas for Fire Balls, including red LED lighting buried in the frame.) There were a number of bright yellow K75’s — with black trim — which made me think of giant “Yellow Jacket” wasps. These machines exuded a raw sexuality that is beyond the “practical shoes look” given off by “R” bikes of a similar vintage. I was looking at one when a woman half my age came up to me and said, “This bike makes me want to do something bad...” I glanced at her and she quickly added, “But not with you.”

One machine that brought my eyes out on stalks was a BMW C1 scooter, carefully painted to look like a map.

One thing I love about BMW MOA rallies is that you can ride your bike as close to the action as you like — and park it just about anywhere. This leads to a mad chaos of traffic control and a great mix of extraordinary German Iron. Yet because of the level and paved nature of the Bloomsburg Fairgrounds, I didn’t see one dropped bike.

Above) Roddy Irwin (behind the wheel) made sure I arrived at my speaking engagements without that "freshly hosed" look that was so popular during the rally. In the background is the madness of the Mac-Pac camping compound. Ron Yee is standing dead center, watching two other Mac-Pac members grease the seat on his "R" bike. Photo by Gary Christman.

My first destination was the camping compound of my local club — the Mac-Pac Eating and Wrenching Society — the premier chartered BMW riding organization serving southeast Pennsylvania and the world. Next to the Great Wall of China and the printed version of the US budget, the Mac-Pac campsite was the third man-made structure on earth capable of being viewed from space with the naked eye. The main structure was a tent-like awning, shaped like the Taj Mahal, equipped with four beer taps (which gushed the purest and best home-brewed nectar, the temperature of an Alpine spring). The main feature was a custom-built picnic table, built by Ken Bruce, that was the size of an aircraft carrier's flight deck. It could easily accommodate 18 people on a side. This remarkable camping complex was surrounded by 50 or 60 tents, in which happy campers changed their tee shirts every 20 minutes, as the temperature hit an impressive 103º (F).

Above) Left: Peter Frechie, my friend, doctor, and trusted cardiologist prepares to wrap a radial tire around my arm so he can take my blood pressure. Can you think of a greater testimony for a Kermit Chair? Photo by Gary Christman.

Above): This is all that remains of the Mac-Pac Pig Roast, the culinary highlight of the rally for our club. Conducted by Rick and Linda Sorensen, this evdent unfolded like a major WWII troop movement. If Linda Sorensen had been entrusted with the organization of the earth's creation, it would have been completed in five days, regardless of the heat. The pig's head was sent to Congress, where it brokered the current debt ceiling compromise. Photo by Gary Christman.

Above) Hundreds of rally attendees (myself included) opted to stay in air conditioned dormatory suites at Bloomsburg University, as opposed to camping on the scorched ground like convicts. This led to scenes like the one above, with college community streets lined with German iron. Photo by Gary Christman.

It was so hot during rally week in Central Pennsylvania, that Amish farmers ate their straw hats and took wagon-loads of their kith and kin to bowling alleys, movie theaters, and tattoo parlors — any place that was air conditioned. In the course of three days, more than 50 riders would be rushed to the hospital for heat stroke. (This included three members of our group.) Water sprinkers, tons of ice, and thousands of bottles of cold water (freely distributed to the masses) prevented that number from being much higher. Although the BMW crowd is known for its ATGATT philosophy (All The Gear All The Time), this was the first rally during which I saw legions of Beemer pilots riding in bicycle shorts, bikinis, speedos, shirtless — and without helmets.

Above) One of a dozen beautiful swimming holes on the Susquehanna River in Bloomsburg, Pa, where hundreds of riders fled to beat the heat. Photo by Gary Christman.

Hundreds of rally participants roared out onto PA Route 11, and Pa Route 42 in search of swimming holes along the picturesque Susquehanna River. This bucolic ribbon of water spills into isolated pools and quiet coves less than a mile from town. It was a common sight to see dozens of gleaming Beemers, parked off the shoulder, while their riders cooled off in the water. (And just as pleasant was the absence of police cruisers with cops yelling at people to stop having a good time. In fact, Bloomsburg, Pa. was about as hospitable a place as you’d find anywhere.)

Above): GS riders were offered a technical riding course that was filled with "Adventure." Here a rider has pulled into a stream that has flooded an abandoned railroad tunnel. Photo by Gary Christman.

Above) GS riders charged through the unknown, kicking up rooster-tails as they navigated this flooded railroad tunnel. Photo by Gary Christman.

Above: "Pit Crew Member" Kimi Bush and the author... Pit Crew Members Kimi Bush and Linda Sorensen wore these shirts and got the audience warmed up for the author's presentation.

There were two midways on this fairgrounds. The first was dedicated to the moto vendors, where trading was heavy for gear, gadgets, tires, and customizing. (I watched in amazement as an artist applied pin-striping to a number of machines. This simple but elegant touch made these bikes stand out a bit from the crowd. "Tattoos for motorcycles," I thought.) The other midway was a broad boulevard set aside for the food vendors. (And I would have visited each one if it hadn’t been so damned hot.)

There was one or two slightly disappointing aspects of this rally for me. The heat succeeded in subduing some of the more outrageous, spontaneous festivities that usully erupt at these things. For example, at the Johnson City, Tennessee rally, we dragged furniture from our hotel rooms and had parking lot parties that ran the length of football fields. Here, it was still 92º at 10:30pm, and no one wanted to carry on outside, let alone serve cocktails.

The second disappointment concerned a most grevious and vicious attack on myself.

It had appeared that I had made it through this rally without suffering any of the personal indignities usually inflicted on me by my riding buddies Pete Buchheit, Dick Bregstein, Gerry Cavanaugh , and Clyde Jacobs. This largely because I had a busy schedule and didn't really get to see these guys a lot. On the day of my presentation, however, a person or persons unknown attempted to hold me hostage under the worst of conditions. Perhaps it was the excitement of the morning. Or perhaps it was the prune juice and Vodka I'd had for breakfast. (This cocktail is called a "Squatting Russian." ) I arrived on the rally site an hour prior to my presentation and was compelled to park my bike — pronto — before seeking solace in one of the porta -potties dotting the rally scene.

It was like sitting in the microwave from hell.

I had no sooner composed myself for the business at hand, when I heard something of a thump at the door. "This unit is occupied," I said, cheerfully. "There are 38 more just like it to the left."

Instead of a reply, I heard something like a sinister whisper and a giggle: the sound "R" bike riders make when involved in puerile conspiracy. A faint sheen of sweat appeared on my brow to match the sinking suspicion I felt in my heart. And when I tried to exit, the door wouldn't budge...

This was because my motorcycle was leaning against it.

With less than an hour to go before my presentation, some fish-faced enemy of the people trapped me in a porta-pottie, that was approximately 98 percent full. The fragrant atmosphere of the interior recharged itself every 30 seconds as the temperature continued to climb. Worse, my own K75 was playing a major role in my inevitable asphyxiation.

My screams caught the attention of a passing Amish pie vendor. He rolled the bike to one side, opened the door, and said, "Rough night for you, eh buddy? Just spend the money on a hotel room next time." Rally security interviewed several hundred witnesses, the majority of who not only took credit for this escapade, but who wanted a write-up in the MOA's magazine as well.

I never went about the rally alone from that moment on. Tricia and Carol, two highly trained security experts and MOA volunteers, piloted my ass around the rally grounds in an armored golf cart. Carol constantly scanned the crowd for latent editorial critics, while Tricia posted pictures of Clyde, Pete, Dick and Gerry on the cart's dashboard. (She vowed to open the nitrous oxide valve, boosting our top speed to 28mph, before running down my alleged assailants.)

BMW Rallies are famous for their tech courses and seminars on everything from mechanical know-how to advanced riding. There was no lack of these at Bloomsburg, including a rip-roaring, off-road GS track and more than 20 classes scheduled over three days.

Above) Tricia and her beautiful, yellow "R" bike, vowed to hunt down my attackers...

Above) Carol used this heavily armored golf cart to keep me from being abducted and also to keep me from drowning in my own sweat. Note the number on the cart is #1.

It was at 9:30am, on July 22, that I launched my career as a moto speaker. My topic — How To Breathe Life Into Any Ride Report Or Motorcycle Magazine Story — drew nearly 300 people into a discussion on techniques guaranteed to supercharge the moto story-telling function. My presentation hinged on five simple points, supported by anecdotal data. The four points were:

1) Make sure you have an interesting story to tell.
2) Tell the story by seducing the reader.
3) Seduce the reader by putting him/her in your shoes.
4) Spring an ending like a woman jumping out of a cake. (Make sure it is an attractive woman.)

Above) The conclusion to any good story sneaks up on the reader. It should be a total surprise, like the girl popping out of the cake. Photo by Mary Baker.

I explained it is critical to capture the reader’s attention with a dynamic opening sentence. My three recommendations for good opening sentences were:

• Nothing smells as bad as the breath of a bear at 6am.

• I never thought an entire life could fit into two side bags and a top case.

• “I’m not really late, I said to the Mac-Pac guys, "I stopped to donate an organ. In fact, I donated it twice.”

The first example introduces an interesting crisis to the reader. The second example implies personal conflict like divorce. And the last is a pure, classic Riepe tactic, in which I use the truth to hide a more obvious truth.

I also gave two examples of really bad opening sentences...

• After mowing the lawn, painting the porch, and waxing her car, I had enough courage to ask my lovely wife of 22 wonderful years if I could go to the BMW MOA rally in Bloomsburg.

• The highly reliable BMW has always been regarded as the “Volvo” of motorcycles.

In the first of these, the speaker does not fit the Teutonic mold of the decisive, bold, BMW rider, and there is considerable evidence he is a gelding to boot. If the gentle reader cannot immediately see the flaws in the second example, he should report to a re-education center immediately.

My presentation closed with the introduction of a new product and a contest. The “Twisted Roads Enforcer” is a new concept in motorcycle helmet design. While most helmets serve as a passive insurance policy to protect your head against contact with the ground, they do little to alert the surrounding traffic of a biker’s presence.

Above) From left: Linda Sorensen, Rick Sorensen, Kimi Bush, and the author at the introduction of the "Twisted Roads Enforcer" helmet. Photo by Mary Baker.

Equipped with a rotating police beacon, and a siren which doubles as a public address system, the “Twisted Roads Enforcer” helmet actively announces a rider’s presence and punches a hole in surrounding traffic. The prototype — built by Mike Cantwell — created a sensation when Rick Sorensen (another Mac-Pac member)strapped it on and charged the crowd.

I then challenged those in attendance to write (5 paragraphs or less) about the helmet, or my session — using the techniques I demonstrated during my presentation — and to submit these to jack.riepe@gmail.com, no later than August 31st, 2011. Mark the subject line “Helmet-Session Contest.” The winner will become my guest columnist in the BMW MOA’s magazine — The Owner’s News. The runner up will be featured here as a guest columnist for this blog. Each will also receive a fabulous prize (to be announced).

One of this rally's high-water marks for me was meeting 5 moto-bloggers, with whom I have developed enduring professional relationships. Richard Machida, of Richard's Page, blew in from Alaska. Machida's blog covers riding in Alaska, with a strong emphasis on cultural events, the weather, social developments, and nature. He rides an "R" bike. Steve Williams, publisher of Scooter In The Sticks, rolled in on his classic Vespa. I initially tried to pattern "Twisted Roads" after Williams's blog, as he writes about things moto (plus life, nature, and introspective thoughts) — in the most soothing manner. It has been pointed out to me that Williams's brand of sincerity differs from mine in that his is genuine. Rick Slark, of Keep The Rubber Side Down, rode in from Ohio. Rick is a cigar aficionado and a fan of my book. His blog is pure moto with diverse observations, comments, and photos, covering a broad area. (One of my pit crew ladies — Kimi — told Rick she was a former Mrs. Riepe) George Ferreira, publisher of Riding The USA, writes about touring, interestimg destinations, and people he meets along the way. He is based in New Jersey.

I had the privilege of sharing a couple of hours of deep conversation with these guys over lunch. (Rick Slark disappeared, much to my regret.) Lunch was pulled pork sandwiches and fresh, hot apple dumplings. Just the thing for a perfect day with temperatures in triple digits. The proprietor, an attractive woman in her early 30's, explained that the apple dumplings would be much better in a month or two, when the new crop of Macintosh apples came in. I demanded a retro-actve discount for all of us, considering an inferior product had been foisted on unsuspecting consumers, who's traveled great distances to be swindled.

The poor lady caught her breath for a second, before realizing the game was on. She then offered to meet us all at the same place in October for dumplings on the house. (Had she been from New Jersey, she just would have told us to shove them.)

A day later, Nikos Laskaris, the publisher of Nikos' World arrived from Europe with Mrs. Nikos — the charming Electra. I found them wandering around the rally site asking people, "Have you seen this ponderously fat person, who purports to be a writer?" They were sent to the same (now vacant) porta-potty 57 times. Nikos is about 6'7", and as Greek as they come with a soft British accent. Mrs. Nikos — Electra — is about 5'4" and is as German as any of the motorcycles on display at the rally. I had the pleasure of introducing these folks to a select number of the Mac-Pac, and the delight of their company over dinner that night.

Nikos brought me up to date on the state of motorcycling in Britain, while Electa was simply abuzz about all sorts of things. It had been my intent to take them out to a local joint in Bloomsburg, but long lines of bikes outside every gin mill and steak joint on Main Street changed my plans, and we ended up at Ruby Tuesday's instead. ("Why didn't you just take them to the local jail" asked Leslie/Stiffie, when I told her we'd ended up at a US chain restaurant.) My deepest regret is that I had to be on the road at the crack of dawn the next day, and didn't have the opportunity to take Electra and Nikos through Amish country, or at least join them for a souless breakfast in the lobby of their hotel. Better yet, I'd have loved to have ridden with any or all these guys.

Above) Four blog publishers meet to set parameters for all future blog posts... From left: Jack Riepe (Twisted Roads), Steve Williams (Scooter In The Sticks), Richard Machida (Richard's Pages), and George Ferreira (Riding In the USA). Not present for this shot was Rick Slark (Keep The Rubber Side Down) and Nikos Laskaris (Nikos World) and Mrs. Nikos, who showed up the next day. Photo by the waitress, who pawned off apple dumplings made with secondary fruit, at the insistence of Steve Williams.

And so ended the BMW MOA Rally of 2011. Rumor has it that I have suggested that the slogan for next year's rally — to be held in Sedalia, Missouri — shlould be: "MOA in Missouri — Because It wasn't fucking hot enough last year!" I am rather looking forward to Sedalia... I love their onions.

To receive a free electronic version of the handout presented during my session, please send your request, including your name and the bike you ride to jack.riepe@gmail.com, marking the subject line: “Handout Request.”

My presentation at the Bloomsburg Rally was made possible through the generosity and vision of Hermy’s BMW & Triumph, in Port Clinton, Pa. Hermy’s has a full riding season of events with three planned for August. Please see the schedule posted to the right.

©Copyright Jack Riepe 2011 — All rights reserved.