Thursday, March 29, 2012

Pulling The Ton... Then And Now!

The motorcycle between my legs had three more horsepower than my first car, which was a 1968 Volkswagen Beetle. I could get the Beetle up to 70 miles per hour, even with three of my friends in the car, provided I had the time and a tailwind. On the motorcycle, I could hit 70 miles per hour within 100 yards of the driveway. I was doing 70 mph as I flew over the connecting ramp from US-46 onto I-80, in the vicinity of New Jersey’s first shopping palace — the Willowbrook Mall.

It was a warm, hazy June morning in 1975.

My introduction to the great federal highway system, constructed under the defense budget in the administration of President Dwight D. Eisenhower, was the stretch of Interstate 80 (I-80), from Wayne, NJ to the Delaware Water Gap (on the Pennsylvania border). It was six to eight lanes wide, with great shoulders, sweeping curves, cool changes in elevation, and flawless pavement. Traffic in New Jersey had yet to reach the maximum carrying capacity of this roadway, and wouldn’t for another 9 years

Technically speaking, I could have ridden this pavement from Wayne, NJ to the Pacific Ocean. It was my idea of an America AutoBahn and represented one of the last great civil engineering accomplishments of the US, built at a time when this country could do anything better than anybody else.

The best aspects about this stretch of I-80 were the long, straight sections that ran for a few miles at a time. (One of the provisions of the Interstate Highway System was that one mile in every four of the roadway was supposed to be able to accommodate the landings and take-offs of military aircraft.) This made it possible to clearly identify the white cruisers of the New Jersey State Police sitting on the broad, green medians.

The feeder ramp coming off US-46 was an abortion from the moment of its design. You came off US-46 from the right only to find yourself in the left half of the ramp, merging with exiting traffic from I-80 on the right, then dancing around vehicles bound for NJState Route-23. There were two lanes of traffic routed for westbound I-80, which then merged into one, before pouring onto the “super highway.” I passed through all this in about 4 seconds, glancing over my left shoulder as I signaled to enter the interstate, now on my left.

My dad taught me to drive when I was 16-years-old. He had all the patience of a B-17 check pilot on a bombing run over Dresden. A chief officer on the Jersey City Fire Department, he insisted you did things his way.

“After confirming you can enter the roadway, make sure you are going the same speed or faster than the traffic on the highway,” said my dad. “The last thing you want to do is cause a line of cars, or worse, trucks, to slam on their brakes to avoid hitting you. You can slow down when you’re in a safe position.”

“Thanks for the advice, Pop,” I muttered into my helmet. Actually, I muttered it into the wind. The helmet was an open-faced, minimal protection brain-bucket. My eyes were wrapped in a pair of yellow-tinted ski-goggles.

Then I twisted the throttle an inch.

The motorcycle was a 1975 Kawasaki H2 that I have written about before. I have described this machine as one of the most primitive motorcycles ever built, and I wasn’t lying. But in 1975, it’s sole disk brake in the front was much better than most of the drum bakes that were still quite common then; and its three cylinder, two stroke motor always started easily (unless the plugs were fouled), and nearly all of the bike’s muscle was on the high-end of the tach.

The bike responded to twisting the throttle like a lynx might have reacted to getting its tail pulled. It surged forward with a growl from its mechanical soul... (That’s bullshit. Each cylinder in that Kawasaki’s three-cylinder motor hated the other two. There was a sudden lurch of forward motion as gasoline and oil exploded in a free-for-all eruption of power, six inches beneath the gas tank. The bike had its own peculiar sound, which I have described as a lawnmower that got kicked in the balls. That’s not really true either. It sounded more like a large outboard motor running in a lake of air.)

I merged onto I-80 and held the throttle open in a very loose interpretation of my dad’s instructions. The speedo read 88mph and continued to climb. I glanced into the mirror on the left to see if I was leaving a smoke screen. The image in the left mirror was that of blurred traffic behind me, getting smaller as the convex mirror got farther away. If the engine was smoking (which it did at any sudden influx of throttle), it had already stopped. (It seldom smoked when really hot.)

The front wheel felt light at 98mph, and I crouched closer to the gas tank to get more of my upper body out of the wind. I was now moving faster than I had ever pushed a vehicle before, and realized I still had a half inch to go on the throttle.

“This is why we’re here today,” I said to myself, twisting the right grip to the stop.

The speedo was now reading 104mph and continued to climb, but with less drama. I was entering a gentle curve, just before Parsippany, yet the front wheel still felt quashy. I hit the front brake with a light touch to see if I could settle a bit on the forks, and nearly pissed myself with the shudder that ran through the machine. I had no problem negotiating the sweeper, but covered the entire width of the middle lane instead of staying in track.

I began backing down at 107mph — for several reasons.
There was no windshield on this bike and I found the wind hellish. It was whipping my jacket into a frenzy, and I found it pushing back against the edges of my open face helmet.
I got spooked by the lightness of the front wheel at this speed.
A fucking bumble bee the size of a softball hit me on the cheek and I thought I had been shot in the face.

I slowed to get off at the next exit, with the intent of getting coffee someplace on US-46 (which runs parallel to I-80 at that point), and a New Jersey State Trooper rocketed past me. “Fuck you, Bullwinkle,” I said to myself. The Kawasaki H2 ran best at 80-85 mph, when all three cylinders found themselves in agreement. There was still plenty of “ooomph” to pull away from the pack, and life was plenty exciting at that speed.

A speed of 107mph was very respectable performance for a stock motorcycle, 6 weeks out of the showroom in 1975. It would be nothing today. But I had nothing to compare it with in those years, except my friend’s Norton Commando. (And the Kawasaki had no problem puling away from the Norton.) At the risk of being judged a pussy at 18-years-old, I must confess to the gentle Twisted Roads reader that I did not push the H2 to that degree again.

Twenty-Nine Years Later.........................................

I was headed south to Maggie Valley, NC from West Chester, PA — for a great event called the BuRP Rally — and my ride was a 1986 BMW K75, with a rare Sprint Fairing. The K75 holds a special status among BMW-riding “K” bike enthusiasts for having the most trouble-free, bullet-proof, absolutely minimal vibration (none) motor in an overall visual package that can best be described as “uninspiring.”

I have written about this at length.

In my humble opinion, without the addition of the Sprint Fairing, the Krauser Fairing, or the Parabellum “Scout” Fairing, the K75 is one of the ugliest motorcycles the world has ever seen. The early design had a really douchy square headlight . (Motorcycles should have round headlights.) The exception to this rule is the priceless, two-wheeled art work owned by Harold Gantz (of New Jersey), which is just stunning. The K75 design (even modified) is truly an acquired taste. Yet riding one of these machines for about 250 feet is all the acquiring a discerning rider requires. The K75 is one of motorcyclings best-kept secrets.

The BuRP Rally was to be my first motorcycle event in which I would be meeting and riding with 50 or 60 riders (all new acquaintances on various marques), over the mythical Blue Ridge Parkway, and staying in a resort area that is known for some of the best riding in the country... But it had been over 20 years since I had taken a long trip by motorcycle.

And I got spooked.

This was long before my membership in the Mac-Pac (the premier charted BMW riding club serving southeastern Pennsylvania), and the thought of riding most of this distance alone (which didn’t happen) suddenly became very unappealing. I had arthritis in both knees and longish trips (100 miles) got painful. I had never been over most of the roads I’d be taking. The uncertainty factors of hitting a deer, getting hit by lightning, running off the road, or being eaten by pythons were running wild in my mind. I had already vowed not to ride on Interstates, not to ride in the dark, not to ride in the rain, and not to go fast. The woman I was living with at the time said, “So why not just sell the bike? Then you can also cut off your dick and feed it to feral cats.” (She was free with highly supportive advice like this.)

The imagined horrors of this delightful run preyed on my mind so badly, that I left four hours late. A dent of this significance in my schedule required me to take an Interstate to make up for lost time, and I reluctantly headed west on the Pennsylvania Turnpike. This was the first time I had ridden an Interstate on a motorcycle since 1979. (It should be noted that I was a re-entry rider after a 25-year absence.)

I got into the right lane without being killed and drew a long breath. Glancing down at the speedo, I noted I was clipping along at 67 mph, which was the world’s speed record set by a locomotive in 1869. Twenty minutes later, I was behind a long line of trucks and still in the same county I’d started in.

My K75 was already 20-years-old that year, though with only 38,000 miles on a motor designed to run to 150,000 (before needing a valve adjustment), it was judged to be barely past “break-in.” I was told I could safely ride it like it was “brand new.”

“Fuck this shit,” I thought. “I’d rather be dead than ride like this another 50 feet.”

In the motorcycle safety class, they teach you to get around a truck pronto, rather than linger in the “No Zone,” where the driver can’t see you. This “No Zone” was 15 trucks long.

I pulled in the clutch, raised the RPM, and down-shifted into fourth gear. The K75’s engine actually snarled and the distance between me and the last truck in the conga line dramatically dropped. Glancing left, I shifted back into fifth and opened that old sucker up. I would like to say it dematerialized into hyper-space — like the Millennium Falcon of Star Wars fame — but that would be a lie and you’d know it. The K75 weighed substantially more than the H2 and had the same horsepower, about 71.

What the bike did was steadily pull ahead without any compromise in its stance on the road. At 88 mph, the front wheel was planted in its track like an oak tree. Gentle input to the handlebars tilted this thing like an amusement park ride on tracks. I shot past the lead truck at 95 mph, as the driver looked down and laughed.

Holding the throttle steady, the speedo eclipsed 100 mph and insinuated its way upward. I was astounded at how steady the bike felt. Shifting my ass around on the seat had no effect on its forward trajectory. I hit a slight bump at 107 mph, and caught about 1/4 inch of air. I could see reasonably far behind me, as neither of my rear-view mirrors had the slightest tremble. Neither did the grips nor pegs transmit anything but the true language of the road’s surface. The “Sprint Fairing” did a great job of cutting the wind, and my Joe Rocket Mesh Riding Gear did not flap or whip around. The windscreen went from crystal to opaque as hundreds of bugs added their carcasses to the plexiglas. The Nolan flip-face helmet neither caught the wind nor amplified it.

The tach was holding steady at a little over 7 grand, and I backed down to a even 100 mph.

“What the fuck were you afraid of?” I asked myself? “This is better than the first time you got your horn honked.”

What I should have been afraid of was getting shot by a firing squad of Pennsylvania State Troopers. I realized that this motorcycle was fully capable of running at 100 mph all day, and taking it in stride. And I realized that more than anything else, I wanted to ride at 100 mph all day.

Reluctantly, I slowed to 75, and felt like I was getting gypped. After going like hell, 75 mph seemed like reverse. Within 24 hours, I would ride in the dark... I would ride in the rain... I would dodge deer... I would fight off a python named “Fred” (a pole dancer in a strip joint sicced it on me)... And I would look forward to the stretches of road on which I could stampede all 71 horses of that K75.

The Kawasaki H2 did not encourage high-speed trolling in anything other than a straight line. You could pick up the front wheel by sneezing. Built 11 years later, the BMW K75 sneered at 100 mph. While that speed was close to bike’s prime output, it would do it without hesitation, and hold it while whistling a tune. Now just about every bike built from 1986 to 1995 will hit and hold 100 mph. But damn few can do it with such elan. Riding buddy Dick Bregstein and I would regularly venture into “three digit” territory, and I miss that thrill.

I look forward to my first BMW K1200. I want to know what 130 mph feels like, just before I'm checked into a country jail.

A Rider’s Light Dims... Godspeed Mack Harrell

It is with sadness that I write of the passing of Mack Harrell, a rider of unique and strong character. Karen, his wife, wrote to me yesterday with the news that Mack had died peacefully in his sleep, on March 28th, finally yielding to Parkinson’s Disease, which had ended his riding career three years ago.

Above: Mack Harrell at the State Line Lookout, Palisades Interstate Park, January 1, 2008

I first met Mack, and then his wife, through a rider’s forum conducted by in 2005. Mack was one of the first riders to respond my “Annual Amish Horsepile Swerve Ride,” and then joined me on a number of other runs. Most notable was “My Return To Jersey City,” in which we met at Exchange Place, on the waterfront. We then rode up through Palisades Interstate Parkway. Details of that ride can be found here.

Above: Mack Harrell astride "The Queen," in view of the World Trade Center Site from Exchange Place, NJ. It was freezing cold that day, and Mack was idling the engine to run the heated gear.

I vividly remember two other runs with Mack: one through Gettysburg and another through rural Pennsylvania, just this side of Chambersburg. In each case, he was riding a super-powerful Japanese liter bike, and made it jump through hoops. He focused on the road when riding, and on the road entirely. On one ride past Dover Air Force Base, we shot by the remains of crashed C147. This plane was a lot bigger than a Boeing 747, and sat off in a field in two pieces, each the size of an apartment house.

Stopping for a break five miles up the road, I said to Mack, “That must have been some plane crash, huh?”

Mack looked at me, blinked, and said, “What plane crash? What are you talking about?”

He rode a yellow and black GS, named “The Queen Bee.” Mack's wife, Karen, frequently rode pillion and joined us for the famous Haggis Run, one cold November.

Godspeed, Mack. I'm sure all Twisted Roads readers, both those who knew Mack in person, and those who rode with him in story, join me in extending my condolences to his wife, Karen.

©Copyright Jack Riepe 2012
All rights reserved

Monday, March 26, 2012

Dispatches From The Front...

The "Dispatches From The Front" section of Twisted Roads provides a forum for our readers to ask questions about motorcycle-riding technique, mechanical issues, relationship-building, science, politics, heated gear, and chocolate chip cookies for sexual barter. No subject is too delicate. Twisted Roads' staff are not licensed professionals, but many have library cards.

Dear Dispatches From The Front:

Nobody outside of a strange and warped BMW riding community has seen Jack Riepe since he disappeared to the New Jersey shore last October. Riepe appeared once as a semi-serious public speaker and then disappeared again. Yet unsuspecting Twisted Roads readers are suddenly confronted with stories of a “Heated Gear” distributor, working bike rallies out of an RV (allegedly appointed like the palace of a mogul), who carries on with unabashed shenanigans that allegedly attract and ultimately despoil easily-duped women.

Does anyone else find this odd?

Has anyone ever seen Jack Riepe (code name: Magic Man) and Dan Allen (code name: Shango Rider) together, in the same room? The answer to the question is apparently “no.” Yet both have white hair. Both wear glasses. Both have adored dark blue motorcycles. Both ride BMWs. Both have filtered coffee through the left cup of a 34 “b” brassiere. Both are hated and despised by gentle women everywhere. And both stutter like machine guns when asked the question, “Has my wife been in here today?”

There is ample evidence that Jack Riepe (Magic Man) and Dan Allen (Shango Rider) are the same person. Consider “Exhibit A,” a well-documented picture of Jack Riepe on “Blue Balls,” taken by a woman who loved him but who wised up at the last moment. Compare it with “Exhibit B,” alleged to be a shot of “Dan Allen,” banking into a curve. Note the same sloppy handling of the motorcycle in both pictures. Note both are wearing full-face helmets. And note that both are riding the cursed bike of the “Boys In The Bund.”

Coincidence? I think not.

Above: Jack Riepe executes a vicious lean on "Blue Balls," a famous BMW K75 with a rare Sprint Fairing. Stop action photo by Leslie Marsh.

Above: Dan Allen "Shango Rider" executes a gentle twistie on the famous BMW "R" bike, known to millions as "Flounder."

I demand that the two of these "gentlemen" be produced in the same room at a major motorcycle rally, so we can judge for ourselves.

Ebbit Banger
Sedalia, MO

Dear Mr. Banger:

It is no secret that Jack Riepe has gone into a forced seclusion, reportedly to the New Jersey shore, to regain his composure and to finish the great American “Motorcycle Book,” that he has been writing forever. But he has been seen. Local authorities claim he attempted to hold up a “food bank,” by pulling a plastic trash bag over his his head and demanding that the “teller” put all the Hostess Twinkies in a sack. This volunteer worker, a spry thing of 79, thought he said something else, and lifted up her shirt. She then threatened to call police unless he “followed through.”

Nine states away, Dan Allen was alleged to be having sex in his RV, as per the sound effects filtering through thin aluminum walls... This has not been confirmed as he was alone. Both have denied knowing each other, with Allen claiming to spit whenever Riepe’s name was mentioned. There are no plans for a Riepe/Allen Rally confrontation at this time. Your allegations are unfounded.

Fondest regards,
Pansy “Hammerhead” Begonia
Reader Relations/Twisted Roads

Dear Dispatches From The Front:

I was in attendance at the New Jersey Shore BMW Riders Monthly Dinner (March 14, 2012), specifically to hear the guest speaker — Jack Riepe. I was one of Riepe’s brunette conquests decades before, when he rode a Kawssaki H2 (1975). The man introduced as “Jack Riepe” was charming, engaging, and very entertaining. The man I remember as Jack Riepe was coarse, rough-cut, and basically evil. (He farted like a fog horn the first time I introduced him to my mother.) Also, the speaker welcomed as Jack Riepe was a lot better looking than the young, Kawasaki-riding, fencing team champion that I remember.

I started to get the most uncomfortable feeling... That this man was not the Jack Riepe that I knew, but some kind of an imposter, probably transported to earth by aliens for some nefarious purpose. And then I saw something that really troubled me. Jack loved wienerschnitzel. This guy didn’t touch his meal (as evident in the picture of him sitting at the table), but he surreptitiously scarfed up the wienerschnitzel — and shoved it in his pants — when nobody was looking. It is a well-known fact that Jack Riepe possesses no useful knowledge about anything. This Riepe seemed to be an authority on heated gear. I found that odd too.

Then a stunning young woman, on her way to the ladies room, wagged her ass at his eye-level as she passed, and he utterly ignored it. The Jack Riepe I know would have tackled that derriere and gone truffle-hunting in denim. Yet this guy simply turned the conversation to the value of quality heated gear. Something is wrong here.

The behavior of this odd Riepe clone was so disturbing, that I opted to remain anonymous, instead of showing him the pictures of the child he has never seen, and who now hunts the shadows for him with murderous intent.

Very truly yours,
Charlotte Aldente
Cowflop, NJ

Dear Charlotte Aldente:

Thank you for your note of concern. Other attendees at that same event have also reported that the speaker — Jack Riepe — seemed a little strange that night. Mr. Riepe’s behavior is easily explained, however. There is no bar at Schneider’s German-American Restaurant and this was the first time in 40 years that he has ever addressed a group while stone cold sober. The fact that he hadn’t had a snort of Jameson’s Irish Whiskey in 24 hours probably had him so cross-eyed that he didn’t recognize a fabulous keester only inches away.

There is no need for you to continue wondering if Jack Riepe is actually someone else, who is an authority on heated motorcycle gear.

Very Truly Yours:
Pansy “Hammerhead” Begonia
Reader Relations/Twisted Roads

Dear Dispatches From The Front:

I recently purchased a 1995, red K75, tricked out like a rare and magnificent “signature bike,” with the intent of using it to knock off a nice piece of sugar and spice every other weekend. The motorcycle is smoking hot, with an engine that runs flawlessly, pushing a frame that has been meticulously maintained, and festooned with incredibly powerful riding lights. Yet the first time I pulled up to a “Chiquita on the vine,” and revved the engine, she laughed, saying, “Keep moving, Pops.” Then she jiggled her rack at me and added, “These would give you a heart attack.” This has since happened several times.

What am I doing wrong?

Addison Filmore
Door-To-Door Veterinary Gynecologist To The Stars
Acid Rain, Co

Dear Addison Filmore:

Thank you for writing in to Twisted Roads, the moto-blog for raw adventure and romance like broken glass. While the K75 has a long and established reputation for a chick magnet (especially in red), the bike’s character must be enhanced by the rider for maximum effect. Have you tried acting like a game show host? Perhaps the previous owner combined something in his personality with the dynamics of the bike (i.e a dazzling smile, or a line like “Allow me to reproduce myself?”) to break the ice?

More likely, you have just discovered that unlike the title, the “signature” part is not transferable. Can you spell“screw-ola?”

Fondest regards,
Sue Ellen Shaveclam
Twisted Roads Technical Adviser

Dear Dispatches From The Front:

Nancy Lee and I have been sweethearts since she first took her top off on my Sportster, for her high school graduation picture. I had always heard that the one thing a woman could eat that would make her stop giving trombone solos (you know, bobbing for the bedroom banana) was wedding cake. So I was real careful when Nancy Lee (not her real name) and me, Stanley Kowalski (my real name) got married to make sure she didn’t get none of that four-story confection with the little bride and groom on it. But she must have snuck some in the ladies room at the Howard Johnsons because she’d just laugh when I brought the subject up after we got married.

The price of “banana bobbing” must have risen faster than gas because “Nancy Lee” (not her real name) said if I insisted, it would cost me my share of the trailer, the gas grill, and the pay TV satellite.

I was so desperate for a home-grown, lip-lock on my love-muscle that I tried enticing her with everything, including a box of Big Jim’s “Insanely Delicious” Chocolate Chip cookies.

“Save your petty bribes,” she sneered.

I got so upset that I climbed into bed one night with a whole box of Big Jim’s cookies, and started eating them one after another. The aroma of the perfect cookie, magnified by a dozen, drifted through the bedroom, and Nancy Lee said, “Can I have one?”

My heart softened, momentarily, and I replied, “You can have a piece of one, Honey.” So I gave her a chuck with about 50 chocolate chips and 35 nut pieces on it. I heard her nipples click into “love spasm” mode two seconds later.

“Can I have another bite,” she asked?

“Sure, I whispered. “Once crumb at a time.” And I crumbled a whole cookie under the sheets.

Nancy Lee howled like a banshee. Then she dived under the sheets and did the best “Hoover” impersonation I ever witnessed. She left no spot untouched. I am writing to thank Big Jim personally, and to ask him a question that I am sure is on every man’s mind. “Do you plan to make beer as good as these cookies anytime soon.”

I had planned to give Nancy Lee (her real name is Brenda) chocolate bunnies in a basket for the upcoming holiday. Instead I’m going to order several dozen of Big Jim’s “Insanely Delicious” Chocolate Chip cookies. I know a good thing when I find it.

Stanley Kowalski
15 Swallow Lane
Bog Holler, Tennessee

Big Jim's "Insanely Delicious" Chocolate Chip Cookies... "They get a better reaction than Easter Eggs." Order a few dozen... Like this blog? My sponsors make it possible for you to read it.

Dear Stanley:

Just imagine the bedroom possibilities if Big Jim made donuts instead of cookies? He is taking holiday orders now.

Fondest regards,
Chungelina Fongulle
Twisted Roads Human Interest editor

©Copyright Jack Riepe 2012
All rights reserved

Wednesday, March 21, 2012

The Riding Season’s First Event In New Jersey...

The 2012 riding season officially opened for me on March 14th, with an invitation to address the New Jersey Shore BMW Riders, during their monthly dinner meeting at Schneider’s German American Restaurant, in the picturesque hamlet of Avon By-The-Sea. I found it curious that I was already at the Jersey Shore (leaving from Cape May), and had nearly a 100-mile ride north to find myself still within earshot of the Atlantic Ocean, in a state that is smaller than my riding pants.

Despite my familiarity with BMW motorcycle-riding culture, I found my trepidation level surprisingly high... Not because I’d be in the company of a mystical riding club whose aggregate years in the saddle went back to the tertiary age... Nor because this was one of those semi-reclusive biker clubs where everyone has at least one 1950’s black German bike with an odometer that runs twelve places (and nearly every number is a 9). It was the thought that I was without a motorcycle for the second time in 8 years that bugged me.

The ravages of arthritis forced me to sell the legendary “Fireballs” this past winter and I am still fretting over it. The pegs were too damn high — as was the saddle — for me to comfortably mount and competently ride it. And there was no way to cost-effectively lower the bike without destroying the integrity of the model year. But it’s not like I’d never see her again. It was purchased by a member of the New Jersey Shore Riders for a record $1.7 million — after only being posted on this blog for 72 hours. (There are three parts to that last statement. Two of them are true.)

The day could not have been prettier for a drive (or ride) along the New Jersey Coast. The lower stretches of the Garden State Parkway parallel the edges of vast salt marshes, and they are beautiful beyond belief, though the view passes all too quickly. I have made this trip by motorcycle a number of times on the 1985 K75 known as “Blue Balls,” which was destroyed in a collision with Emma Blodgett, back in 2005. The view spreads out right and left at Somers Point (Great Egg Harbor), and again where Parkway spans the Mullica River.

Above: Club President Kent Seydell convened the March dinner meeting of New Jersey Shore BMW Riders, while unveiling the precious last of the "Old Logo" club tee shirts. Photo by Roy Groething.

I hesitate to say this but New Jersey has (had) some of the most beautiful places on earth for years. When I was a boy, the locale around the tiny hamlet of Peapack rivaled anyplace in the Hamptons. The Jockey Hollow area was both historic and pristine in the same shot. Yet real estate developers have carved this beautiful state like it was a rump roast, cutting down centuries old oaks in favor or strip malls or sterile housing developments.

Above: One of the few remaining "Old Logos" of the New Jersey Shore BMW Riders, displaying class, heritage, and solidarity — with the power of a tsunami. Photo by Roy Groething.

Though the speed limit on most of the Parkway is 65 mph, traffic moves faster than that. (The cops are like snipers, however, and they will grab you without mercy.) I recall hitting the GSP bridges over open water doing 90 mph on that older K75, and it was almost better than getting laid in the back of my first car. There is a bite to the salt air, especially if the breeze is off the water. And the salt marshes have an aroma all their own. Hitting the incline of a bridge ramp at speed was akin to launching myself into space, with that finely balanced German engine screaming like a raptor. It has been my experience that each of these bridges is followed by a curve, so the landings were fun too. I wasn’t pushing 90 mph on my drive to Avon, as my current vehicle gets 40 feet per gallon.

I arrived early, so that none of the NJSBMWR members would see me disembark from a red 4x4 pick-up that has all the charm (and length) of fire apparatus. But at least two did.

I heard one remark, “Here comes Riepe... I can see his apparatus.”

The other replied, “Well let’s make sure his pants are zipped before he waddles inside.”

Schneider’s German-American Restaurant is a fixture in Avon. Popular legend has it that the zeppelin Hindenberg would follow the fragrant traces of fine German cooking from far out over the Atlantic, then dim its lights or circle overhead before landing in nearby Lakehurst. The restaurant’s dark interior is heavy with the aroma of wienerschnitzel and the place would be ideal for staging a putsch. I can honestly say the wienerschnitzel was the best I have had in years, and the red cabbage had a tang worth savoring. Schneider’s is also well-known for homemade ice cream, though I didn’t try any on this visit.

Above: Jack Riepe (second from left, with his concentration camp haircut that he got at SuperCuts) winding up for the pitch. Most people are laughing. Those with straight faces think he is lying. The guy on the speaker's left is actually smirking over Riepe's haircut. About 30 riders were in attendance. Photo by Roy Groething.

Our waitress was a charming bunch of roses with an enchanting way about her that I will never forget. When she found out who I was, she went and got the owner to say a few words to me. Seldom have I been flattered to this extent.

The guys began drifting in with a ritual that is common to riding clubs the world over — regardless of the marque. There is the glance around the room, the eye-contact with riding buddies, and the exploding smiles as handshakes connect. The atmosphere was charged with the kind of camaraderie one has come to expect from riders who share a passion for distance, speed, and pure adventure. I have met a number of these guys on previous occasions and not one of them held it against me. Several even seemed glad to see me.

Above: Harold Gantz, of the New Sweden, NJ, BMW Riders, who won a copy of Riepe's book for showing up in a "Twisted Roads" tee shirt. Gantz has one of the most beautiful K75s that ever rolled off the assembly line. Photo by Roy Groething.

About thirty riders trooped in, most astride flawless machines ranging from the mighty GS to the sleek F800. My former K75 was among these, though she no longer raised her head when I whistled. In fact, she snarled and spit at me like a former spouse. The meeting was called to order, and I was introduced. I had planned to begin with a tale of my youth, which involved a Kawasaki, a near-naked Asian woman, a boomerang, and a bar on Westside Avenue in Jersey City. It was then I noticed that we shared the room with the general public, several of who were taking quite an interest in my warm-up. I realized the punch line, “Then she polished my goggles with her panties, even though she was still wearing them,” was likely to start a riot, or cause several patrons to start waving panties of their own. (These patrons would have looked hot in lingerie back in the day when most railroads ran on steam.)

The best stories are the ones grounded in fertile personal experience, and I had more than a few of these. One had occurred en route to the event. It was the warmest March 14th in recent history, with temperatures in the mid-sixties. I had the windows down and the stereo cranked, releasing clouds of Meatloaf’s “Louder Than Anything Else” into the atmosphere. The mating call of a crotch rocket reverberated through the truck’s cab like a gunshot in church. I heard the scream of pistons long before I saw the bike. It was a sizzling Japanese “Fonguasa,” or something like that. (They all look alike.) I knew it wasn’t Italian because it didn’t carry the colors of a pizza box. The rider was a young guy in his mid-20’s, with a stick of pillion candy on the back. She was drop-dead gorgeous and in a perfect world, I’d have changed places with him in a second.

Traffic had coagulated at a light, and I found myself stopped next to them. The rider jazzed the engine for no other reason than it sounded it cool, which seemed to get a rise from the lady on the back. I don’t go for this sort of stuff normally, but I jazzed the engine in the Ford, and looked to see if something hot and sexy would appear behind me in the load bed. Nothing did. In fact, jazzing the motor in the Ford 150 (with the Titan engine) cost $14.75. So I did the next best stupid thing, and cranked the stereo so loud that the windshield began to flex.

It was then I whispered the prayer of a desperate man, and said, “Oh gods of the motorcycle, send a me a single woman on a BMW, whose habits and lifestyle match my own.”

Though the sky was clear, there was the distant rumble of thunder, and an “R” bike buzzed into view. The rider was a stately woman whose features were concealed behind a flip-face Nolan helmet. I was mesmerized. I then hung out the window and gave her the secret sign of a BMW rider. (This entails extending the fingers of your left hand like a fan, sticking your thumb in your left ear, and waving.) She raised the face shield of the Nolan and yelled, “Want a chaw of my terbacca?” She had the body of eternal youth and the eyes of tempered skepticism. They narrowed as they focused on me.

I nodded... And she spit a darkened gob onto the truck’s door. I didn’t realize she was offering the chaw already in her mouth. She then bit into a hunk of leaf, slammed the Nolan closed, and pulled away. The next time, I will not wish for a woman so finely tuned to my way of doing things. I concluded the story and those in the crowd still awake nudged those who were not.

A member in attendance raised his hand and asked, “Did that really happen?” I nodded, and two others wanted to know the direction in which she was last headed.

I always ask groups of riders if they have any suggestions or story ideas for me. These Jersey boys came up with a great one. Apparently, there is a hair-cutting place not too far away in which the stylists wear only bikinis. The New Jersey group suggested a Twisted Roads ride to this joint, resulting in a review of their services, which also includes things like “waxing.” I wondered what it would be like to order a “bikini wax” for a vintage red K75.

Two attendees won copies of my book, Politically Correct Cigar Smoking For Social Terrorists, that evening. They were Harold Gantz, of the New Sweden BMW Riders Group, and Monica Gionet of the New Jersey Shore BMW Riders. Harold won his for wearing a Twisted Roads Tee Shirt. Monica got hers for coming up to me with a smile like a laser, and saying, “I really like your stories.” Still, she had to guess a number from “1 to 10,” and what were the chances I was really thinking of “4.” I presented the book to her husband Norm. (It is no secret that Twisted Roads is reaching out for woman riders/readers, and Monica buzzed in on a hot F800ST. Michelle Smith won a book this week too. She is a new BMW rider — an F650 — from Florida. She won for leaving a comment on my blog that one of my former girlfriends must have been a “bitch.” That kind of forward thinking should always be rewarded.)

Also present from the New Sweden Riders Group was Jim Nanfeldt, who was the guest author of my column in the BMW Motorcycle Owners of America’s “Owners News” this month. Through the most implausible circumstances, Nanfeldt ended up riding Elizabeth Taylor’s Harley during a motorcycle ride hosted by the legendary Malcolm Forbes. His deadpan account of the ride made for a great guest story and his debut as a moto-writer. Jim is thinking of doing a more serious interpretation of a cross-country run he took years ago. You may read my column — and Jim’s piece — in this month’s magazine, by going to and clicking on the checkered flag about halfway down the page. In a broad gesture to the riding community, the BMW MOA is making my material available on its public page. (This is very different from the gesture I usually share with the riding public.)

Above: "Dr. Jerry" astride the legendary "Fire Balls," the machine he purchased from Riepe for the undisclosed amount of $1.5 million. The PIA HID lights on this rig brought out the "peepers" three weeks ahead of schedule in Avon-By-The-Sea. Photo by Roy Groething.

The New Jersey Shore BMW Riders are a vital part of more than 50 chartered clubs that constitute a national network of Teutonic bikers across the country. I was flattered to receive their invitation and was honored to share a few laughs. I hope to host a New Jersey riders “Oyster and Pole Dance Festival Ride” from the Garden State late this summer... And I hope I’ll see these guys there.

©Copyright Jack Riepe 2012

Sunday, March 18, 2012

The Saddest Sign Of Middle Age, As Told To Me By A Biker...

In the modern Western-movie classic “Silverado,” veteran actor Kevin Kline says, “A good, smelly saloon is my favorite place in the world.” There are days when I am forced to agree with him. I didn’t have a neighborhood bar when I lived in East Goshen, Pa. The only place that could have qualified as a gin mill of character catered to 25-year-olds. (The last time I was in there the barmaid was a huge snapping turtle.) The other bars on the edge of West Chester had an aura of falsehood about them, with bullshit Irish names and bogus “authentic” pub decor.

Things aren’t much improved in Cape May, NJ, where the neighborhood watering holes are primarily attached to eateries, though several have definite characters behind the bar. I had a decent time over a plate of Cape May Salties (some of the finest oysters on the half shell that I have ever tasted) at the bar in the Lobster House recently, where the barman — Bob — mixed me a couple of Negronis with elan and wit. It is currently possible to have two Negronis and a half-dozen Cape May Salties for less than $20, and that includes the tip.

But I like a bar where the smell of the booze has permeated the walls and whose good-natured patrons can be relied on to burst into song at the drop of a hat. (Technically, a place of this nature should also include cigar smoke but you can forget that in the Continental US.) The roar of a motorcycle (from outside) and ballistic gear would always be fashionable in my kind of joint. These places are hard to find without a specific recommendation. Saint Paddy’s Day found me writing myself into a funk as deep as the Marianas Trench. I had just reached a point in the dialogue where the moto-bride’s mother (inspired by her daughter’s choice of a groom) had suggested that the words “Eat shit and die” be incorporated into her daughter’s wedding vows, when I thought, “I have to get away from this.”

I jumped in the truck, now known as “Big Balls,” and lit up a cigar the size of a Ducati muffler. Cranking Meatloaf out of the stereo, I headed though the salt marshes to the blue water of the Atlantic. The New Jersey shore is coming alive months ahead of schedule as global warming (or a season of manure-laden political campaigning) is now driving mid-March temperatures into the 60’s and 70’s (degrees fahrenheit). This means the crowds are returning earlier, bringing with them traffic and longer waits for a table with a view of the water. Yet the road was wide open as I bounced over the little steel-grate toll bridge into Wildwood Crest, and headed into one of New Jersey most successful shore communities.

The “Wildwoods” represent a mixed community of 15-story condos crowding the dunes, along with the systemic preservation of 1950’s-style motels (complete with fake palm trees), and amusement piers. My destination was the corner of East Wildwod Avenue and Atlantic Avenue.

Tucker’s Pub is alleged to be the real Irish watering hole in these parts and it certainly had the trappings for it. Not the nonsensical Celtic crap on the walls (photographs of the old country and slogans of the Easter Rebellion), but about a dozen bagpipers clad in green plaid, wearing the badges of local police and fire departments, accompanied by several hundred people with pleasant faces as Irish as Paddy’s pig. Tucker’s is a legitimate saloon. The building was originally built as a bank, and the massive vault door is still in place behind the bar, which seats about 70 on nice stools. There is an outside porch and dining room filled with tables as well. The tin ceiling is museum quality and the decor of dark woodwork is offset by dozens of flags hanging from the ceiling. Many of these are unit flags from the armed services as well as Irish cultural representations.

It took a while to find a space at the bar... In fact, I found myself standing behind a stunning blond for about 10 minutes. Her only article of green apparel that day was a lacy garter with a verdant ribbon over her black jeans.

“I’ve never seen a green garter before,” I said with a grin.

She turned and shot me a smile, knowing full well what I actually said was, “You have the hottest ass in this bar. I would wear it as a top hat to a Presidential inauguration.”

I got a stool next to a burley guy who wore the leather gear and visage of a Harley rider. His face bore the marks of seasoned road warrior with hundreds of thousands of miles under his belt. Everyone else was slamming pints of Guinness and Harp... He was nursing a “Bud” and a double shot of “Jack.”

I ordered a Harp “shorty” and a shot of Jamesons.

“That your Road King outside?” I asked after a bit.

“Yup,” he replied. “It ain’t on its side, is it?”

“Not when I last saw it,” I said. “It’s a beautiful bike.”

His machine was the classic Harley... A balance of dark green paint and lustrous chrome, highlighted by leather tanned from sin-free cattle. There wasn’t a spec of dust on the bike, though it had 32,00 miles on the clock and was only last year’s model.

He glanced at my cane and asked me if I rode. I gave him the details, with the emphasis on my addiction to German motorcycles and a brief explanation that I needed the cane since my last wife unloaded a 12-gauge into my hip. He looked at me with raised eyebrows, and I explained that she’d caught me playing pirate with her younger sister.

“Pirate?” he asked.

“Yeah,” I replied. “I was giving her a jolly rogering in the hot tub.”

While not exactly the truth, this explanation makes perfect sense to a lot of Harley riders.

His name was Raul Murphy. He explained his mother had been a hot-blooded Spanish beauty while his late dad was a hot-tempered Irish prick, and that he had inherited the worst traits of both. “My mother could carry a grudge like a bag of groceries, while my dad could drink himself into a blood feud in less than 15 minutes,” Murphy said.

I told him I never knew my father, but that I occasionally got birthday cards from the Federal Witness Protection program when I was little. “My mom got a job scrubbing the white line of US-9 where it runs through Hudson County,” I lied. “She’d be on her hands and knees with a scrub brush, everyday, working to get the skid marks off the white lines, with traffic zooming all around her. Mom did this for 28 years, until she saved up enough money to hire a comedian to entertain at my first wedding.”

“Why did she do that?” asked Raul.

“Because after meeting my new in-laws, she thought I would never laugh again,” I said.

Raul and I lingered over our beers, but we each ordered another shot. In the reverie that so often punctuates comments and stories traded by riders, Raul noticed me staring at yet another blond, at a table of nine, each wearing a green tee shirt and the comic impedimenta of hard-drinking folks anxious to be associated with the ancient and sophisticated culture of Hibernia. While I am sure they discussed the significance of the Book of Kells that afternoon, they were also chugging drinks called “Irish Car Bombs.”

This second blond had a softer, more attainable look. She had a laugh that identified her as a genuinely free spirit and the kind of person you’d want on a pillion. She led the singing when the Irish tenor on the juke box gave it a rest, and Neil Diamond broke into “Sweet Caroline.” But she became positively beautiful when dancing around to some rock number.

“You like that one, huh?” asked Raul.

“I like ‘em all,” I laughed. “I’m gonna send that one a note just before I jump into the La Brea Tar Pits. I got too old and too gimpy too fast.”

“”There are very few advantages to getting old,” said Raul. “Can I tell you a tragic story of middle age?”

Raul was pushing 55 and looked pretty good for the half-century mark. But as he tells it, middle-age is more than just creaky joints, less hair, and tighter pants. Sometimes, it is the loss for a certain zest of life.

He’d been enamored of a younger woman in her mid-forties for quite some time. Work occasionally threw them together and he always detected a certain flirtiness, suggesting the door of romantic possibility was ajar, if not actually open. She’d let him take her to lunch, to work-related events, and occasionally out for a drink... But she’d balk whenever he tried to kick things up a notch. And then, when he’d had enough and started to pull away, she’d give him call or walk into his shop, and the process would start again.

“I couldn’t get her out of my mind in the beginning. I wanted her so badly that I could taste her in Chinese take-out food,” said Raul. “I imagined the fun we’d have together... The conversations we’d share... The places we’d go to... But I couldn’t get it off the dime.”

He described the gradual process by which pragmatism transcends desire, and how the lack of fulfillment gradually exposes a potential lover’s flaws, to the point where you’re just barely going through the motions of pursuit. In his opinion, this process is accelerated after a certain age. He called it “the age of practical intolerance.”

“I used to think of this woman as I’d polish the chrome on the bike... Imagining what it would be like to rub cocoa butter on her body, in the warm sun. And then one day, I realized it was more satisfying polishing the chrome,” said Raul. “That’s when I just gave it up... And she started chasing me.”

The chase wasn’t obvious at first. It was subtle to the point where it could easily be concealed, or recalled. “And it was then I realized I had reached a point in my life where I just didn’t give a shit if I dotted all the ‘i’s or crossed all the ‘t’s for someone else. A week later she turned up at a bar where I was hanging out, and asked me for a ride home on the bike.

“She lived in a chic-chic part of town where parking was tight and the only spot within a block or two of her place was by a yellow curb, beneath the sign ‘No Parking From Here To Corner,’” said Raul. “But I figured, ‘What the hell! This was finally going my way.’

“She put on some throbbing music from the 90’s and took off her shoes and jeans. Then she sat in my lap and started kissing my mouth and throat. And the damnedest thing happened. All I could think of was the $75 ticket I was likely to get on the bike... But she was a good kisser, and I had been waiting for this for three years,” said Raul.

“She ran her hand up and down the inside of my leg, before opening my pants. In another second or two, I would have opened them myself — with both hands behind my head,” said Raul.”

I nodded knowingly at this point in the story.

“And then she started with a trombone solo... All I could think of was the last line on that ‘No Parking’ sign which read, ‘Tow-Away Zone,’” said Raul. “All I could envision was some guy loading my perfect bike onto a flatbed.”

He paused, and belted down the Jack Daniels. Then he looked at me and said, “I told her, ‘Honey... I’ll be right back. I gotta move the bike.’ I zipped up my pants, ran down to the street, and fired up the Harley. Then I made a half-assed effort to find another place to park... Before just riding it home. You really know you’re middle-aged when a blow job is just too much aggravation.”

“That’s the saddest story I ever heard,” I said, wiping a tear from my eye.

“Ain’t it though,” said Raul.

“Did she ever call you again?”


“Quite right,” I said.

You meet the most profound people in legitimate, neighborhood bars.


Tucker’s Pub
Atlantic Avenue and East Wildwood Avenue • Wildwood, NJ

The atmosphere and menu in Tucker’s is worth a ride to the Wildwood, New Jersey area. Of course, I am talking about off season. Parking and crowds look like they could be a first-class pain in the ass in the summer. (Stop and go shore-town traffic can be an issue for big, heavy, heat-generating motorcycles.) The joint is close to the boardwalk and the beach, which means parking on the street would go quickly, even if you got there around 11:30am.

The “Hot” Reuben sandwich is about an inch and a quarter of thinly-sliced, corned-beef, topped with Swiss cheese and sauerkraut. The bread was quality rye, finely toasted in butter for a unique flavor. It was priced at $8.99, and couldn’t have been better. A pint of Harp on St. Paddy’s Day was about $4. I got a taste of the Maple Bourbon chicken wings, $9, and they were terrific too.

Not sampled was the fish and chips, which looked really impressive, and which was priced at $15.99. The chips (or French fries) are the steak fries variety and looked like professional cut and posed model fries for cook books.

Service here was very good, despite the mob, and every effort was made to seat folks as soon as practical. The wait staff was competent and pleasant. The hostess ran things with a practiced eye. The music was set to the right level, and conversation was not a problem. I would happily take a woman here if I could find one that would take me up on my offer. Tables are nicely spaced in the dining room and patrons do not get the impression they are eating on a plane. A sign at the door advises that biker club “tee” shirts or colors are not allowed.

I’d drop in here for dinner on a Friday night (in a heartbeat), and sit at the bar for a night’s diversion. There is no waterfront view, or any view, though there is is nice wrap around porch with tables.


The Lobster House
906 Schellengers Landing Road Cape May, NJ 08204

This is a full-service sit down restaurant that is right on the wharf at Cape May, NJ. It is featuring Cape May Salties, raw oysters that are the equal of anything I’ve had from Prince Edward Island, at about 1/3 the price. Of course, the place has a reputation for clams on the half-shell as well. While the seafood here is very good, my focus for this blog episode is the bar. Get there around 5:30pm (or noon), sit at the bar, order a dozen Cape May Salties and a Negroni or a Manhattan. Savor both. If it is the weekend, you may be lucky to have “Bob” as your barman. He has a personality like a game show host and mixes a cocktail like a gifted scientist. During the week, it might be Alise. Tell them “Negroni Jack” sent you.

The second major attraction here is the fish store. This place offers one of the finest selections of exotic and Jersey Fresh seafood in the area. It also features authentic New York-style cheesecakes and fine pastries for dessert.

The parking lot here appears to hold 3 million cars and buses... Because that many people will hit this joint each day in the height of the summer season. Ride your motorcycle here for lunch on the warmer off-season days now. It is my hope that if I start leading an exemplary life, and die in a state of grace, that I will find myself in a heaven where Bob is mixing my Negronis and serving Cape May Salties.



Twisted Roads is not affiliated in any way with restaurants nor bars reviewed on this blog. Neither Twisted Roads nor Jack Riepe advocates operating a motorcycle nor any motor vehicle while legally or practically impaired by any controlled substance. Neither Twisted Roads nor Jack Riepe advocates eating raw seafood (that looks like female genitalia) as things could come to a bad end. Be very careful about what you put in your mouth. In recent years, drinking water, consuming alcohol, breathing air, having sex, getting married, getting divorced, smoking cigars, and believing in stupid things posted on the internet have all been judged to be harmful to your health. Just mind your own business... Keep your hands to yourself... And marry responsibly. If you like this blog, write in and tell us. If you don’t, keep it a secret and carry it to the grave.

©Copyright Jack Riepe 2012
All rights reserved

Tuesday, March 13, 2012

Shango Rider Breaks Gerbings Million Dollar Sales Mark During Daytona Bike Week!

Shango Rider, one of the world’s largest dealers of Gerbings heated motorcycle clothing, has broken the $1,000,000.00 mark in retail sales. According to a statement issued today by Shango Rider’s owner Dan Allen, the “Million Dollar” sales threshold was crossed on March 12, 2012, the 4th day of Daytona Bike Week.

“My first customer on Monday, Michael Van Buren of Palm Coast, FL purchased Gerbings jacket liner, pushing sales beyond the magic ‘Million Dollar” mark.” In appreciation, Dan gave John a 100% discount, and John walked away with his jacket liner for free. John was so happy, he turned right around and bought a pair of pant liners!

Above: Shango Rider Owner Dan Allen (left) with Michael Van Buren, the customer who pushed the company's retail sales of Gerbings Heated Clothing past the $1,000,000 mark, on the 4th day of Daytona Bike Week. Photo submitted by Shango Rider.

Allen, who has spent the last seven years traveling the country vending at motorcycle events small and large, says “My stock in trade, the name Shango Rider, has come to represent value in sales, plus a reputation for quality products that stand up to the rigors of the road. I stand behind the products I sell 100%, and the manufacturers stand behind me.”

Allen’s motor home, trailer, and BMW R1100RT are familiar to thousands of riders, many of whom roll into a rally cold and shivering but ride out warm and cozy. “You’d be amazed at how many guys start out for an event 200 miles away in moderately nice weather, only to be caught in a prolonged cold snap or the last gasp of winter,” said Allen. “They know where to go on-site for the best selection of gear and for a face they’ll see year-after year.” Although he’s known in some circles as “The Heat Nazi”, underneath that gruff and sarcastic exterior is guy who knows the products he sells inside and out. “I use most everything I sell, and my sales are backed by a handshake and a friendship that’s renewed each time our paths cross... which is usually often.”

Above: Shango Rider — A familiar sight to riders at rallies and runs across the country. Photo by Dan Allen.

On the road more than 40 weeks out of the year, Allen’s RV is a familiar sight to riders of every marque sold in America. This includes Harley devotees, Goldwingers, the vintage crowd, cruiser aficionados, plus the metric specialists (like BMW, Moto Guzzi, and Ducati riders). “Sooner or later, everybody gets cold,” said Allen. “And there comes a time when you ride into a rally or a week-long run and say, ‘Enough of this.’ I love talking to a rider who is using a Microwire heated jacket liner or gloves for the first time. The look on their face is priceless when they realize what they’ve been missing all those years.”

According to Allen, even the hardest of hardened saddle veterans will admit that being toasty warm can easily extend a riding season by a month or two when temperatures drop into the low 30s (F) or below. “And then there are those mornings when the mercury lingers in the mid-forties, and a nice jolt of heat is a great way to carry the warmth of that last cup of coffee, at least until the sun is high and hot,” said Allen.

Shango Rider also carries the latest in motorcycle communications packages. “While bikers are often a solitary lot, a growing number of riders rely on Starcom1 communications packages to convey a change in plans, mechanical issues, or other contingencies - without having to pull over,” said Allen. “Hard core bikers aren’t likely to be chatty while on the road, but there are times when simply pointing to the gas tank or your groin might not cut it.” He referenced a story where two long distance riders equipped with Starcom1 systems had barely used them — except to discuss a tornado that was visible on the horizon. “The last thing they wanted to do was stop,” he added. And then there are those who just want to be able to listen to music or chat between rider and pillon.

Reaching Dan is best accomplished by phone at 720-839-0317, or e-mail at Or you can go to ( for a complete schedule of his rally circuit for 2012. His website also offers a unique perspective on gear and riding that borders on bizarre. It’s worth clicking in just to read a few entries of his blog “Life On The Road”, or his “industry announcements.”

Shango Rider
No Sweat... No Shivers... Just Ride!

Twisted Roads would like to officially welcome Shango Rider as this blog's newest advertiser and sponsor. "Dan Allen has been a longtime Twisted Roads' reader and a warming influence for riders for nearly a decade. I am delighted to carry his ads, endorse his services, and recommend him as a preferred vendor," said Jack Riepe, Twisted Roads publisher. Look for Shango Rider "Show Reports" as a regular Twisted Roads feature.

Monday, March 12, 2012

Flash Grilled By The Scooter Man...

In this uniquely legitimate chapter of Twisted Roads, Jack Riepe was interviewed at point- blank range by Steve Williams, the author and publisher of the internationally renown blog Scooter In The Sticks. Recognized for his depthless sincerity, lack of guile, and unique perspective expressing the joy of riding through pristine Pennsylvania countryside on a Vespa, Williams pleasantly agreed to an “editorial ambush” regarding Riepe’s upcoming moto-book.

“Steve Williams was regarded as the perfect choice for conducting this interview, as hundreds of thousands of two-wheeled blog readers across the country — and around the world — regard him as the epitome of honesty and integrity, which is clearly evident in their response to his writing and his photography,” said Riepe. “The majority of the these same people consider me a horse’s ass. But I have learned to live with it.”

Above: Publisher and author of Scooter In The Sticks, Steve Williams. Photo by Gordon Harkins.

Thirty-five years in the making, Riepe’s motorcycle book is judged to be a critical work that will realign the perception of riding for millions, especially non-riders. While it retains the tang of his blog, Twisted Roads, each chapter is linked to the others in an order that tracks the evolution and maturing process (such as it is) of his bizarre riding philosophy.

The title of Riepe’s book is The Motorcycle: A Talisman Of Eternal Youth. It is due out in the late spring.

Some see you as a modern day Confucius of the motorcycle riding experience. How does that responsibility weigh on you as you write?

More people see me as the “Austin Powers” of the motorcycle riding experience than Confucius, with one foot in reality, and the other precariously balanced on the lingering perceptions of my misspent youth. The greatest responsibility that haunts me is a compelling need to leave my readers entertained, as well as occasionally informed. There is nothing to compare with riding into the dawn of a clear, warm spring day... Or the excitement of leaning into a red hot, hight-speed curve... Or the erotic sensation of having a woman tighten her pillion grip on you as the engine screams through the gears... Unless it is having the bike slip off the side-stand when you are taking a leak, fifty feet away, with your pants around your ankles. All have a special place in the reality of riding, and that’s what I write.

Above: The official Federal Witness Protection Program picture of Jack Riepe. Note the dramatic contrast in sincerity levels between Steve Williams and Jack Riepe.

You’re a committed BMW rider. How can your book possibly have any relevance to me, a Vespa rider?

I am committed to the BMW riding philosophy, which combines a love of speed, distance, and bullet-proof gear — plus a deep appreciation for applied mechanical evolution — with a sense of camaraderie that transcends typical club ritual and douche bag club politics. I fell in with a bad BMW-riding crowd — The Mac-Pac. Based in southeastern Pennsylvania, these guys are expert riders, great armchair mechanics, devoted friends, and dyed-in-the-wool pissers. By and large, they are all straight-shooters who never hesitate to step up to the plate when anyone needs help — whether they ride a BMW or not. They have zero tolerance for bullshit, especially from Motorrad... And still, they let me join. This was the “BMW” essence that colored my moto commitment.

My motorcycle book will incorporate humor with a strong interpretation of the two-wheel sensation, common to all bikes and scooters. That two-wheel sensation weaves excitement, triumph, fear, frustration, romance, abandonment, freedom, camaraderie, loneliness, and great personal satisfaction into a series of interconnecting chapters that span 34 years of interrupted riding. While substantially different from my blog, I guarantee you will identify with many of my experiences. It is written in a softer style with more of an accent on the allure and seduction of the riding experience.

With so many motorcycle books on the market already, what makes yours worth reading let alone purchasing?

There are many fine motorcycle books on the market today. Yet most of these are the work of riders who are trying to write. I am a professional writer, and a story-teller of 35 years experience, who rides. In addition to conveying the details of a situation, I attempt to draw the reader into the story, either placing them in my shoes, or carrying them on my pillion. I minimize the moralizing and the editorializing, while putting a greater emphasis on the riding experience, and the entertainment value of the story. This book will seduce the accomplished rider, the weekend explorer, the novice, and the non-rider with the riding sensation.

Above: Steve Williams and his ride of choice: the iconic Vespa Scooter. Photo by Steve Williams.

How did you make the monumental decision to become a writer rather than a fireman, accountant, or something useful instead of writing this book?

Everything I do is somehow tied to my need to procreate. I related this absolutely true story at my presentation on moto-writing for the BMW MOA rally in Bloomsburg, Pa, last summer:

I met the cutest little brunette at a high school dance. Her name was Evelyn Ann Elizabeth C. (“C” is not really her last name. But she is now rich, influential, and possibly vindictive. So I am not using her full name, though I remember every delightful thing about her.) I was desperate to impress her into giving me a date. She asked me what I wanted to be (if I grew up), and I stalled. She told me she was headed for a career in journalism. Sensing an opening, I lied and answered, “Me too.”

“Do you write for the school paper?” She asked.

“I have offered to do a weekly column,” I lied even further, “but we have yet to agree on the focus or content.” I went to a progressive Jesuit prep school in Jersey City. The newspaper office was a hub of organized activity and editorial industry. There were seniors with pencils behind their ears, juniors running around with cameras, and sophomores typing away. It looked a lot like work and my offer to write a column was rejected and scorned. (I get the same reaction from most editors today). Columns were for those who had proven themselves in lesser assignments.

But across the hall was the “Student Publicity Committee office.” I had no idea what they did. No one did. Inside, a person was sleeping on a desk, two were smoking a joint, and several others were staging a cockroach race. The favorite to win was a brutish water bug named “Duane.” I went in and announced I was ready to write whatever needed publicity.

“Why the hell do you want to be on the Publicity Committee?” one asked.

“Because it may give me the opportunity to see tits for the first time,” I replied.

“Perfect,” he said. “You qualify.”

I was sworn in on a copy of the Manhattan Yellow Pages. Then I was told to write up a summary of the “cool” stuff going on in sophomore year. I put a spin on the lies that I heard going around and dropped the names of the cool kids like I was friendly with them. (The cool kids hated me.) I submitted my “copy” and was shown the door.

All that mattered was that I could now tell this cute tomato that I wrote for the “Publicity Committee,” whatever the hell that was, when I called her later that week.

The shit hit the fan two days later. I walked in the door at home to discover my mother raving over something that I had done.

“Why don’t you ever tell us about this stuff?” she asked. “Do you think I’d give you a hard time if you discussed it with me? I’m your mother. Why do I have to hear about this stuff from the neighbors?”

I had no idea what the hell she was talking about. But the local daily newspaper — The Jersey Journal — was open and spread out on the kitchen table. In section three, there was a column called “The High School Set.” The headline on the column was mine, as was the byline. I had skipped the school newspaper step entirely and went right into getting published by the real deal.

It was one of the few occasions on which my mother was proud of something I did. I didn’t have to call the cute brunette. She called me. “Why didn’t you tell me you were writing for the real paper?” she asked.

“I don’t like to seem like I’m bragging,” I said. Three days later, I got my first French kiss and “over the bra” cheap feel. I assumed (sometimes incorrectly) that writing and getting published would result in increased sexual awareness. It was this first experience, and others, that convinced me to be a writer. I have never looked back.

What is the first step in producing a book like yours?

The first step was in convincing myself that I had a compelling story to tell. I ran a couple of experimental chapters (dealing with this new approach to the material) on Twisted Roads and the response was very encouraging. I wanted to write a kind of sequel to “Zen And The Art Of Motorcycle Maintenance.” I think I have.

Did you have any rituals to get you primed for writing this book?

Riding a BMW K75 between Vermont and North Carolina primed the pump. Brushing my teeth with gin helped get it flowing. Watching a naked blond in the shower (while I had the daily opportunity) kept me focused. And understanding the relationship between keeping my readers satisfied and meeting new blonds (brunettes and red heads), keeps me going.

I assume you have much experience in this area --- how do you deal with criticism of your writing in general and any that might be directed at this book in particular?

Readers either love my work or hate it. Those who hate it, really hate it and hate me too. I have discovered they aren’t shy about it either. I have been attacked on FaceBook, in “Letters To The Editor” (published in at least one moto mag), and on the street in Cape May, NJ — where a beautiful woman spit in my coffee.

I got a critical fan letter from a nice lady yesterday. It starts:

“Dear Son Of A Bitch:

This kid looks just like you and I want....”

Fortunately, these are people who also fear and detest the punch line as one of life’s realities. Those who fear the punch line generally find themselves the brunt of one. I examine all criticism (unless it is from women to whom I was previously married, in which case I just ignore it) for validity or constructive advice. My last former hot squeeze — Stiffie — said I should concentrate on writing stuff that is not moto-related. Soon I will have another work ready, titled “Midlife Crisis: Let The Games Begin.” It is my take on day-to-day living at age 55.

I heard that Angelina Jolie is writing a dusk jacket blurb. Is this true?

Not really. But I have asked 7-time AMA Grand National Champion (and twice the holder of the title “World’s Fastest Man On Two Wheels”) Chris Carr to write the forward... And he has agreed.

What are the chances that a movie will be made from this book? Who do you think should play Jack Riepe?

The character of Jack Riepe would have to personify a certain smoothness, to exude a charisma that appealed to women, and to be well-respected by his peers. The actor I would pick would be Ian McShane in a recasting of his role as “Big Al” Swearengen from the classic HBO series “Deadwood.”

You already have quite a following of your writing on Twisted Roads. What are your thoughts on the book spawning a riding religion in the manner L. Ron Hubbard established the Church of Scientology with his books?

Religion is a tricky subject, though there are friends of mine who think the fact that I get paid for anything I write is a miracle. I like to think Twisted Roads has developed a strong cult following based on its healing powers. Many women claim it takes their mind off menstrual cramps while a growing number of Yamaha-riding guys feel it gives them a “Viagra” effect.

Your stories often present experiences and situations far beyond what most of us will ever experience. Won’t your book leave readers feeling their existence is nothing but a bleak shell of a life?

Quite the contrary... I write to provide my readers with an avenue of escape. I like to think they are cheering each time I make it over the wall... And know that I am holding the door open... So they can follow me.

How do you blow off steam after a long, hard, filthy episode of writing?

I pour myself a tall Baccardi and Coke, light up a cigar and read other blogs. I like Redlegs Rides, Life Behind Bars, The Classic Velocity Blog, Nikos World and Key West Dairy. I enjoy a dozen others, written in places like Alaska (Richard’s Page), Vancouver (Wet Coast Skootin’), and Washington State (Scootin Old School). Now sometimes I write late at night and finish up at dawn, in which case I have a Bloody Mary and call in a massage specialist named “Cheri Pie.”

What will the feminist take be on your book? You know you're a pig right? (This was added with a grin, but an outside influence was suspected to be at play here.)

I believe feminists will rally around my book, as women have played a important role in making me the man I am today. The stunning brunette — SnowQueen —who has commented on this blog of late, was the first woman to ever ride pillion on a bike I owned. She will be featured prominently in several chapters of the new book. (She bitched she wasn't in the cigar book, though her dog was.) I started riding a motorcycle as a mature adult because a woman insisted I get a motorcycle. I love women. If it was up to me, I’d love a different one every weekend — with all my heart — and forever. There is nothing like the image poetry of a woman on a motorcycle, with the kind of smile that freezes your soul in the permanent state of being 19-years-old.

Above: Photo of Mac-Pac Rider Kimi Bush astride an MV Agusta Tamburini... This picture proves my last point. Note Mac-Pac Rider Gerry Cavanaugh appearing lost in the background. He is asking if anyone has seen the missing parts of his pants. Who the hell wears shorts with black dress shoes?

Take The Reader Poll At The Upper Right:
The hot brunette — known as SnowQueen — was the first woman pillion rider to grace Riepe's 1975 Kawasaki H2, and his paramour throughout college. (Actually, SnowQueen was his first in many regards.) She has access to the best riding stories of his early career... But won't email him. Her contact is confined to hit and run remarks in the comments section of this blog. This drives the author crazy. In fact, he may now be rabid. Please take the reader poll at the upper right. Justify your opinion in the comments section of this blog episode, and you could win a copy of Politically Correct Cigar Smoking For Social Terrorists, autographed and inscribed by the author.

On March 14th, 2012, Twisted Roads publisher Jack Riepe will address the New Jersey Shore BMW Riders monthly dinner, at Schneiders German-American Restaurant, on Main Street, on Avon-By-The-Sea, New Jersey. The focus of this event will be: "Has The Modern Teutonic Riding Club Become The New Version Of The Boys In The Bund?" The speaker may demonstrate a new kind of hydration system as the restaurant is a BYOB. It is rumored that this event will commemorate the speaker's turning 47-years-old in mid-speech. Details will be documented in an upcoming chapter of Twisted Roads, and be featured in the author's monthy BMW MOA Owners News column.

©Copyright Jack Riepe 2012

Tuesday, March 6, 2012

Not Quite My Day In Court...

It was one of the few nights when I did everything by the numbers... And I had squat to show for it. The only good news is that Scott and I still had our legs and the bike showed minimal damage.

Events unfolded two days earlier, when Scott Venner and I rode my 1975 Kawasaki H2 to the country house of my friend “Stitches,” for a weekend of filmy purpose and general mayhem. It is considered somewhat “unnatural” (by some) to ride around with a guy on the pillion, unless you are springing him from jail; or headed to the emergency room (leaving a smoking wreck in the ditch); or happen to be a screaming hot woman. But Scott and I were camping buddies, drinking pals, and general Hooligans for years. He didn’t have a motorcycle, and I did. Consequently, when I wanted to cut-up rough for a weekend (sans chiquita), and he wanted to come along, he rode “bitch.” On the Friday of that weekend — the only time during which I had an accident while carrying a pillion rider — we headed up to the party house under the guise of planning the last great moto-debauchery of the season.

Located on the banks of the Upper Delaware (in rural Eastern Pennsylvania), the house was remarkable for a couple of reasons. The first was that it had been built in stages, with the initial phase coinciding with the signing of the Declaration of Independence, and the final nail being driven home with the defeat of the Confederacy at Appomattox. And the second reason was because the house was haunted (although this story does not deal with that odd fact). The party house was situated on a hillside, surrounded by acres of open fields, dense stands of trees, and stretches of the lazy Delaware River — on a one lane road that saw very little traffic. It was the ideal location for bonfires, an outside bar on the porch, topless water fights, and raging biker parties that went on for days.

We rolled-in just after dusk that Friday night with the expectation of putting a dent in a quart of Irish whiskey, knocking off a couple of six-packs, and mauling a rack of ribs. I had pushed the bike hard, dancing through the death-defying curves of “Hawk’s Nest,” just west of Port Jervis, NY, and ducking speed traps on NYS Route 97. While party planning for a large group of moto-lampreys can be exhausting work, our weekend agenda also included shooting skeet, swimming in the river, and tempting fate with some local pole dancers. Yet as the late, great American novelist John Steinbeck observed, the plans of the best-laid mice and men often go astray.

I was nursing the kind of hangover normally associated with a gunshot wound to the head, when I heard an ominous mumblings coming from the front of the house, at the ungodly hour of sun-up. Scott, a master-builder and a woodworker without parallel, had gone out to the porch to take a piss and noticed a peculiar sag to the living room floor. An hour in the basement led him to conclude that more than five people in any room would collapse the floor and the crack the main support beam that held the whole place together.

“The support frame of this house appears to be held together by dry rot,” said Scott. “The main beam turned to powder in my hand.”

“How bad is it really?” asked Stitches.

“The house should have fallen down the year McKinley was assassinated,” replied Scott. “Don’t drop anything heavier than a sock.”

Now I would have lit a fire in a closet had this good news been about a house of mine, but Scott and Stitches are cut from a very different mold. Using six house jacks that they found in a barn, that weekend’s Saturday was spent building stone support-columns and constructing a new main beam from existing local material. Scott placed levels at various points, and he and Stitches raised the house, one sixteenth of an inch at a time, until it was level throughout. The new composite beam was in place by 2pm that very afternoon, and the columns were holding it up by dusk. Work resumed at the crack of dawn on Sunday with new floor joists (again made from lumber salvaged from an old chicken coup) inserted by 4pm.

There was no drinking... There was no skeet shooting... There was no swimming in the river. There was a lot of sweating, a lot of cursing, and a lot of shoving beams and things into places that had become known hangouts for huge deadly spiders. The collection of stones from an old wall (for the columns) dislodged a number of snakes, several of which rattled. When a spider the size of dinner plate growled and ran across the toe of my boot, my ceaseless screaming got me relegated to the cement mixing detail. “You even suck at this,” noted Scott, when I suggested the cement might mix better in the shade of the garage, where I could work the hoe from the comfort of a beach chair.

The ride home was to be be purely anti-climatic: a welcome 100-plus mile-ride through the cool mountain air, hangover free, and blood purified though 36-hours of hard physical labor that forever left my mind prejudiced against this sort of thing. We had a great dinner on a porch that was now as stable as the Golden Gate Bridge. Scott demonstrated the bedrock-like soundness of the living room floor, by jumping off the couch.

With the setting sun at our backs, we mounted the mighty Kawasaki H2 (a two-stroke 750 street bike, for those who are not yet old), and started back. Scott was a great passenger, riding far back against the padded sissy bar and delighted to lean into each curve as far as necessary. I don’t believe he ever held on, and occasionally fell asleep. It was dark enough to see the headlight on the road as we crested High Point State Park, on NJS Route 23, and the beginnings of night on the eastern side of this 1800-foot ridge gave us concern for whitetail deer, which are the equivalent of rats on stilts.

We were passing through the little town of Septic Springs, NJ (not the community’s real name), when a pick-up truck entered the road from the right, and simply shoved us to the left, hooking the right side of the bike’s crash frame on the cab’s step. The truck hit the bike hard enough to bend the crash frame, but I didn’t drop it. I was screaming... Scott was screaming... And the Kawasaki was screaming. The driver of the truck, an asshole named “Billie Bilebucket,” (not his real name but amazingly close enough) continued on his way, with a car in pursuit. The car’s driver was a newly retired New Jersey State Trooper, who got the vehicle’s plate number and turned it over to a cop from Septic Springs, New Jersey.

I found all this out when I stopped to file a hit and run report at the police station, about 20 minutes later. This was the first time I spent an hour in a police station without the cops referring to me as “the alleged defendant,” and spitting in my tin cup.

We carefully checked out the bike in the police garage, and was astonished to find not one thing amiss, other then the bent crash frame. It was the crash frame that had kept the truck from hitting the handlebars.

No one was more surprised than me to hear from the Septic Springs municipal court that I was expected to appear as a witness against one “William Bucketbile,” who’d been arrested on a hit and run motor vehicle charge. I was thrilled to get my say against this shithead, who had plowed into me and kept going. My thought was that I might be allowed to throw the switch after they strapped him into the electric chair.

I met with the cops and the prosecutor beforehand. They had gotten the truck’s license plate number from the retired New Jersey State Trooper, who had since moved to Florida. Then they went to check out Bucketbile’s truck, which had damage to the cab step on the left side. The prosecutor, a dung beetle of a man (aren’t they always), hissed with delight as I told my side of things with real passion; emphasizing the fact that I was going slower than the speed limit, that I saw the truck and yielded to the larger vehicle, that I screamed for mercy when the other vehicle relentlessly plowed into my Kawasaki, that I uttered a prayer at the second of impact and that I thought of my mother as the bike started the death wobble for which it was famous.

“Were you on your way home from church when this heinous act occurred?” asked the parasitic prosecutor on the community payroll.

“Yes,” I said. “And both of us had planned to donate an organ as soon as we hooked up with our respective girlfriends.”

“Had you been drinking?” asked the prosecutor.

Drawing myself up to my full height, and looking down my nose at this offensive creature, I said, “I do not drink when I am fully engaged in the restoration of historical structures.”

The scene in the courtroom was like a painting from the early 1800’s, with notables looking profound as they gathered to sign a landmark document that no high school student today would ever remember.

The judge was the Honorable Harrison C. Hedger, a barrister whose collective wisdom had caused his nose to turn bright scarlet years before. The attorney for the defense was resting in a large wicker basket, and would emerge only when the bailiff played a flute. The cops, three detectives and a uniformed flatfoot, stood with quiet confidence, hoping for the opportunity to subdue the defendant with a hail of gunfire.

The defendant and the star of the show — William “Billie” Bucketbile — was a bull of a human, whose brain had been replaced with three pounds of that blue gel that’s often used in coolers instead of ice. He was the kind of person who terrorized the local trailer park (where he lived in a lean-to) and bullied lesser males in a bar that served the kind of beer that is already two-thirds piss when it comes out of the tap.

The charge was read with gusto, though I noticed the court clerk, the bailiff, and many in attendance, had resignation in their eyes, as “Billie” Bucketbile was a frequent customer at these proceedings. The defendant pleaded “not guilty,” and I was called to the stand.

I must say it was a rather refreshing change to be able to tell my story and look over at the judge, the prosecutor, and the cops as the supporting cast. Usually, these folks are chasing me with pitchforks and torches, demanding a lie detector test and a DNA reading. I left nothing out in my official account — including the sparks that flew when the two vehicles contacted... And how the bike leaned so far to the left a micro-second after the impact, that my eyelashes dusted the highway’s white line. I even shed a tear at the part where I thought my friend of many years, behind me on the pillion, must also meet his maker at the hands of Bucketbile.

Then I explained how through sheer might and determination, I defied gravity and centrifugal force, and bent the bike to my will. I detailed how the sweat from my brow turned to steam when it hit the cool night air, after I forced the machine to an upright halt on the shoulder. Such was my testimony that an elderly woman in the crowd fainted, and a much younger, prettier one flashed her tits at me. (I am so glad it wasn’t the other way around.) It was one of my finer moments, and one of more effective ones, or so I thought. The cops were so convinced of a conviction, that they calmly loaded their weapons in anticipation of delivering the verdict themselves.

And then the attorney for the defense uncoiled in the basket, and slowly rose, spreading the scaled hood that is the badge of cobras everywhere. He questioned the defendant in the same tone of voice his ancestor presented the apple to Eve in the garden.

“It couldn’t have been me,” said Billie Bucketbile.... “I was out bow hunting with “Gutless Joe Spencert.”

“Gutless” Joe Spencert was called to the stand next. His testimony included a details on how he and Billie Bucketbile been out bow hunting that day, and didn’t get back in until way after dark, owing to the fact that they had walked so far out into the woods, it took hours for them to return.

“This is New Jersey,” said the prosecutor. “The whole place isn’t as large as a golf course in Texas. You’d be able to walk to Harrisburg, Pennsylvania in that time.”

The prosecutor then asked “Gutless” Joe Spencert if he recalled filing a complaint against Billie Bucketbile the week before, when the defendant beat the shit out of him at his own son’s fifth birthday party.

“Gutless” Joe explained that Billie had been dancing with Spencert’s wife, and accidently got his hand stuck on her ass. When “Gutless Joe” went to help, the hand suddenly broke free, but lodged in his eye. It was all a simple misunderstanding.

When questioned as to the damage on his truck and a deposition from the state trooper revealing his plate number, Bucketbile testified that he always left the truck open, with the keys over the visor, so his friends could use the vehicle in an emergency. Bucketbile claimed he was as surprised as anybody regarding the damage and the summons to these proceedings, for that matter.

“I have to learn not to be so trusting and generous, your honor,” said Bucketbile.

In the final analysis, the charges against William “Billie” Bucketbile were dropped, as no one, including myself, could place him in the cab of the truck at 9:45pm that night in 1976, on New Jersey State Route 23. I thought of pursuing other options, such as a civil suit, but the damage to the bike didn’t warrant it. And “Billie” Bucketbile was from the school of thought (originating from sperm left half-dead from discount birth control methods) that justified slitting tires, burning out the family trailer, and hiding with a bat in the shadows. My only satisfaction in this is that guys like him get older and slower sooner or later, and the next hyena in line usually puts an end to the old reign of terror with a new one.

Next Monday... “When The Legal System Worked For Me.”

Riepe To Address
NJSBMW RIDERS On March 14th, 2012

Jack Riepe will be the guest speaker at the New Jersey Shore BMW Riders monthly dinner on March 14th, 2012, at 6pm. Held at Schneider’s German-American Restaurant in Avon, NJ, the subject of Riepe’s presentation will be “How Abstinence Makes The Heart Grow Fonder... For So Many Things.” The guest speaker has promised not to savage BMW “R” bikes in his presentation, nor to imply their riders are aptly depicted in prehistoric cave paintings.

Riepe Will Celebrate his 50th Birthday
With This Moto-Group,
And Reveal Details Of His Life...
Never Before Discussed!

The details of this event, complete with pictures, will constitute the basis of one of the author's upcoming columns in the BMW MOA's "Owners News." Therefore, those women who have promised to lift up their shirts when Riepe is speaking are urged to do so earlier, behind his truck, in the parking lot.

Dignitaries From Other Clubs Are Welcome...
Subject to Search!

None of the speaker's former wives will be admitted within pistol range of the podium... And no one with a Russian accent will have access to the speaker. German accents and "R" Bike Riders may be suspect too.

Schneider’s German-American Restaurant
801 Main Street
Avon - By - The - Sea, NJ 07717

March 14th, 6pm

© Copyright Jack Riepe 2012
All rights reserved