Please Pardon Our Appeareance. Just Back From Riding

Last evening saw the return of Pete Bucheit, Dick Bregstein, Clyde Jacobs and myself from a four-day ride through West Virginia, Virginia, Maryland, and Pennsylvania. The trip was a 48-hour reality show, in which four men of diverse backgrounds, tried with marginal success to pick-up waitresses half their age, while riding German motorcycles through breathtakingly beautiful country, on roads that must eventually lead to motorcycle heaven.

The details of that ride will be posted soon.

In the meantime, it gives me great pleasure to introduce Mike Evans, assuming a position he held when the local Suzuki dealer informed him it would cost $1200 to rebuild the four carbs on his motorcycle, which abruptly quit running three miles from his house.

My good friend Mike Evans -- who never misses an opportunity to point out my

 character flaws, limited communications skills, and even more limited riding ability -- 

is delivered into my hands when his "Suzuki" is loaded onto my trailer, in a mechanical coma. 

Evans demonstrates the position he assumed when presented the estimate to rebuild 4 carbs. 

(Photo courtesy of Jack Riepe -- Click to enlarge)

It was my delight to tow Mike back to the barn, showing his “Suzy” in its natural habitat -- on my trailer. (See Mike, there is justice in this world.) According to Evans, the riding position on this bike has enabled him to accept the dealer’s anal probe while keeping a relatively smiling face. Either that, or this may not be about motorcycle repair.

Fondest regards,
Jack

Learning How To Ride Two-Up -- By Yourself

Motorcycling is the pursuit of life through motion, sometimes at speed, during which the sum total of one’s existence is defined in the conflict between centrifugal force and gravity. Most BMW-riding cognoscenti claim this is best regarded as a solitary pursuit. Even riding in a group, the decisions made by each rider reflect a solitary analysis of the road, weather, traffic, and other elements that impact safety and personal gratification. Yet the last category, personal gratification, is not by any means the least significant. It is exploring the parameters of personal gratification that we discover serious challenges to the notion that motorcycling is best enjoyed alone.

Consider the typical BMW jockey.

Though a substantial proportion of roundel riders find satisfaction in high speeds, long distances, and shaving their eyebrows against the ground while carving turns (or a combination of the three), it cannot be denied that the majority of their runs end in places where the sunset, the sunrise, the moon rise, or the stars are without parallel as romantic fire-starters. This is unimportant to those Beemer pilots who are engineers, like most of the guys I ride with in the Mac-Pac (the chartered BMW Motorcycle Owners of America club, located in eastern Pennsylvania), who would insist on converting romantic opportunity into data.

Others, like the musicians, artists and writers of that group know a good thing when the see one.

These individuals challenge the concept of riding alone as the best approach to biking. In my youth, the ultimate form of personal gratification on a motorcycle was achieved in a tent, after a day of emotionally stimulating riding, by sharing the event with a significant other, who’s riding leathers (scented with a fant trace of perfumed sweat) then doubled as evening wear.

While it is generally acknowledged worldwide that the BMW is a unique expression of mechanical perfection, it has a low ranking among motorcycles with established reputations of attracting potential significant others on site. (This is probably due to the fact it is the preferred vehicle of engineers everywhere.) As a result, Beemer riders who do not want to ride alone must start each trip with a companion. These companions come in two categories: those who have their own bikes; and those who must ride on the pillion.

Women who ride BMWs are most likely to have extraordinary skills, like superheroes. They will have lightening-like reflexes, incredible organizational abilities, x-ray vision (fully capable of finding the smallest character flaws in men), and an uncanny sense for detecting falsehood. (It’s odd how potentially significant others with these highly desirable qualities find men like myself utterly unacceptable.)

The second kind of companion -- pillion riders -- may have all of these qualities, but they are tempered with an unfathomable degree of trust. This works better for fast-talkers and snake oil merchants like myself. Yet this trust does require the rider to be thoroughly capable of transporting a person on the pillion safely, under all kinds of circumstances. If you are new at this or a re-entry rider, getting hours of practice with someone on the pillion can be tough, especially if the practice pillion rider is sane, sober, or not in coma.

I was a re-entry rider in the most basic sense of the word. In my case, “re-entry” referred to materials in space hitting the atmosphere at speed. Many of my bike trips ended with sparks and parts of the bike (notably the brakes) glowing red. One ride terminated in a huge hole in the garden. (I referred to this as a “near miss.” I was impressing the young divorcee next door with my turning ability, and missed the driveway.) It was impossible for me to find a willing participant required to gain valuable pillion-related riding experience. So I developed the “Jack Riepe Method of Learning How To Ride Two-Up -- By Yourself.”

One of the most challenging aspects of learning how to ride with a passenger is the addition and distribution of more weight on the back of the motorcycle. Slow turns and maneuvers that wouldn’t ordinarily cause you to think twice create new resistance, occasionally made more complicated by a natural tendency for the pillion candy to scream out in terror, or to grab you by the throat in moments of perceived unsteadiness.

My solution was to replace the unpredictable nature of a real pillion rider with simple weight on the back. This sounds easier that it actually is. My first experiment in this area was to load 150 pounds of free weights into my 1995 K75’s stock BMW top case, which was additionally secured to the rear rack with 50 bungee cords.

I took a few tentative turns, carefully noting how the additional weight was canceled out by the laws of physics. But I was amazed at how much additional braking effort was required.

A fast take-off at a traffic light, however, launched the top case backward. The weights gave the box enough mass to fully extend the bungee cords so that it reached the windshield of the car behind me. Sensing something was wrong, I tapped the brakes just hard enough to give the bungee cords the right degree of incentive to retrieve the case, which propelled me through the the windshield of my Parabellum fairing.

I do not recommend this method.

A marginally more successful approach was to tie three 50-pound bags of dry dog food onto the back of the bike. The semi-flexible nature of these heavy-paper containers gives you more options with fastening them onto the luggage rack and the frames that normally hold the side bags. Fifty-pound bags of dry dog food can be purchased just about anyplace for a few bucks, and you can donate them to the local animal shelter when you are done.

Roaring out of the driveway, I couldn’t help but notice how the more uniform distribution of the weight on the bike greatly contributed to its handling. The two 50-pound bags that were tied down low -- to simulate lower body weight -- gave a more accurate representation of a rider’s legs and lower torso. I took off for a 75-mile test run through varied traffic conditions.

A light drizzle started to fall and the water-soaked bags yielded to vibration at the lash points. They tore and began dumping dog food on the road. By the time I got back to the garage, I had a pack of some 18 strays hard on my trail. One bag of dog food was the kind that made gravy when mixed with water. Half my bike was covered in brown soup and smelled like liver. While dogs can apparently snack on the fly, they have to stop to take a dump. All 18 found my open garage handy for this.

Not inclined to give up, I went with “Plan C.” The wilting economy has been hard for a lot of retailers, and many are going belly up. One such ill-fated company sold me a mannequin right out of their front window. About 5’8” tall, the terra cotta woman was exactly the right height and weight for this specialized application, with pose-able arms and legs to boot!

The mannequin made the perfect pillion rider. It enabled me to design the "ideal" woman, 

dress her up like I preferred, and add the perfect fashion accessory -- a gag -- to minimize criticism. 

(Illustration by Loren Ellenberg -- Click to enlarge)

For once in my life, I could design my ultimate dream-girl pillion rider. I outfitted her in designer sweat pants and a tight halter top. Using a kid’s paper transfers, I gave her a “tramp stamp” tattoo that spelled out my name in bold letters. She came with a reddish-brown wig that I combed into a pony tail. The mannequin sat tall in the saddle and I used five or six coils of rope to secure her to the top case. There was only one thing missing. Since this had become pure fantasy, I tied a gag around her mouth to remove myself from criticism.

We were on the road ten minutes later.

This was pillion-practice realism’s finest hour. I cut turns tighter than a violin string and was able to experience the closest thing to having a real passenger aboard. Sitting in traffic, some folks waved and guys blew their horns. The mannequin leaned with the bike and behaved perfectly. Things were going exceptionally well when I noticed the flashing red and blue lights of a police cruiser, attempting to pull me over.

The cop got out of the car, carrying the mannequin’s head, which had come off when I hit a bump.

“I think this is hers,” said the cop, handing me the missing part. “I heard it was nearly impossible for you Beemer riders to get a date but this is really pushing it, don’t you think buddy? What kind of engineer are you?”

Author's Note:

This story appeared in the current issue (May 2009) of the BMW Motorcycle Owners of America's Owners News. It was supposed to run with an illustration by a very talented artist, Loren Ellenberg, neice of the Jim Ellenberg I occasionally ride with. The story ran in a very artistic presentation, though in a small, gray-colored typeface that some found difficult to read. I have opted to re-run that story here, with the original illustration. 

©Copyright Jack Riepe 2009
AKA The Lindbergh Baby (Mac-Pac)
AKA Vindak8r (Motorcycle Views)
AKA The Chamberlain -- PS (With A Shrug)

All The Gear... All The Time!

It was hotter than blazes the other day when I came roaring into the driveway. The BMW K75 was running like I had stolen it from one of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, and I didn’t feel compelled to rein her in as I approached the garage. With utter confidence in modern electronics, I triggered the automatic garage door opener and gave “Fireballs” an additional burst of gas as I hit the incline of the driveway. The gentle reader will imagine my surprise when I crested the hill and found the garage door in the final stages of going down.

It took some fancy braking action on my part to avoid catastrophe.

The Four Horseman of the Apocalypse -- Dick Bregstein, Pete Buchheit, Clyde Jacobs, and myself. According to sources, the four horsemen represent jock itch, the clap, cheap whiskey, and blog writers who have the opportunity to malign the others with impunity.

(Photo courtesy of Wikipedia -- Ckick to enlarge)

“I wondered if there would be a chance that you would come careening up the driveway at this very moment,” said Leslie (Stiffie), my squeeze. She had been herding snakes out of the garage, and had both doors up, when I sent the signal to the motorcycle bay portal. Naturally, my action closed it again. I came to a perfect stop mere inches from having to replace the smaller of the two doors.

“What are you doing out here in the heat,” I asked?

“Trapping snakes. They’re here,” she said, pointing a triangular cardboard sleeve, full of writhing serpent loops. “I did the hard part. You do the rest.” Leslie then retreated to the house like a person fleeing swine flu at a hog callers convention.

I do not deny that life around here is sometimes like watching a Lithuanian movie -- without the subtitles. I was drenched in sweat, perched on the motorcycle in the relative shade of the garage, that was apparently the secret residence of snakes... Snakes that were now caught in a trap that I didn’t know we had, nor needed. The literary term “non sequitur” was coined in anticipation of explanations that I am continually required to go without.

The trap was a simple affair designed to look like a six-inch long cardboard tent, intended to catch and aggravate mice. It is lined with a kind of glue derived from the stuff spiders spray on their webs. It had been placed behind the trash cans in the garage early last winter to discourage the entry of field mice dreading the winter cold. The glue in these traps is not affected by cold, heat, nor the passage of time, apparently. There was about nine inches of snake (in various coils) sticking out of both ends of the little tent. The more active end terminated in a head, which was about the length and diameter of the last joint on my thumb.

The trap was as a simple cardboard affair, folded to look like a tent, smeared with incredibly sticky glue inside.

(Photo courtesy of Victor Mouse Traps Site -- Click to enlarge)

The head glared at me like the attorney who represented my second former wife.

I bent over to assess the situation and the head struck at me three times. Had it been attached to one of those spitting cobras, I suspect I would have been blinded instantly. As it was the killing nature of this viper was restricted by the camping gear attached to it.

“What are you going to do about the snake,” asked Leslie, from the far side of a steel door.

“That depends,” I replied.

“Depends on what,” she asked again, in words that not only lacked confidence but dripped criticism.

“Depends on whether you can get me the right tools,” I said.

“What kind of tools,” she asked, adding exasperation to the criticism and lack of confidence.

“Well, a flute and a basket or a mongoose would come in handy.”

The door opened a crack, exposing a single eye that emitted a look generally achieved by higher grade commercial lasers, or one of the more popular "Terminator" models. “Are you some kind of an idiot,” asked the eye?

I hate it when Leslie gets all philosophical on me.

But she did have an unspoken point. Even if I had a flute, there was no guarantee that I would have been able to play it well enough to force the snake into a basket. A mongoose would preclude the need for a basket, a flute, or flute lessons. Then again, we’d be back to square one if the damn mongoose got caught up in the glue too. What would be the point of solving one problem with another of greater magnitude?

Leslie had kicked the snake tent out of the garage and onto the hot sunny driveway about a half-hour prior to my arrival. I suspected the heat had made that snake good and pissed. I fetched my folding arthritis cane from the the Beemer’s top case and attempted to slide the little tent into a spackle bucket. The snake went after the cane, then withdrew entirely to safety of the glue.

I will say this, all glued-up tight, this tent contraption is the preferred way to carry a snake, sort of like a serpent six-pack. Yet there was not a doubt in my mind that if there was ever a time in which a snake would be tempted to say, “shit,” this would be that historic moment. With the tent and some 10 or 12 snake coils in the bucket, I retreated to the kitchen, where it was about 20 degrees cooler. I moistened my hand with tepid water and let it drip on what coils I could see. I figured this might cool this poor snake off some, while emphasizing that I was trying to help him, as opposed to the tanned lady, who had put the trap down in the first place.

Assuming these were garter snakes, I still proceeded with caution having recently read that the black mamba often hangs around with more harmless reptiles to lure cattle and wildebeasts to certain death.

“I hope you didn’t bring that damn snake into the house,” said Stiffie (Leslie) from a hidden safe room. This time, I opted to say nothing. (There are times when silence is the best gasoline to throw on a fire, as not saying anything leads alpha women to believe they are being ignored. Nothing makes women crazier than to think they are being ignored, especially during a time of crisis, when they are occasionally forced to rely on men they suspect of low cranial capacity.) Since the snake’s head was no longer visible, I carefully unfolded the little tent and gently opened it to a flat card. This set the coils to writhing but to little effect as the end parts with the fangs were set in glue, and glue in an advanced state of cure, I might add.

The younger reptile was obviously a young garter snake like this one, but about twice this size.

(Photo courtesy Wikipedia -- Click to enlarge)

The trap revealed not one snake, but two. The larger of the two was better than 4 feet long (my estimate) and had a bulging belly that looked as if it might have been the better mousetrap. While it had the same color configuration of the smaller snake, the colors seemed dustier or faded. I attributed this to age and the current economy. The smaller one was about three feet long, with a head the size of a dime. It appeared to be smiling at me, but then I realized it’s lower jaw was glued to the cardboard.

I tried flexing the cardboard away from the tail of the smaller one but only succeeded in gluing my finger next to the snake. Dissolving the cardboard in tepid water was equally unsuccessful and seem to be regarded as the equivalent of reptile “water-boarding.” The last thing I wanted to do was tear their skin or injure these snakes in any way. A healthy snake population is the best insurance against field mice and other things that try and come into the house. These two had given me the idea of releasing a 26-foot-long anaconda to deal with our aged neighbor's cat, who feels our garage is a delux feline urinal. Since the cat is usually in the old bag's lap, I could see nothing but positives in the scheme.

The second snake was much larger, and had slightly different coloration.

"What the hell," I thought. "A snake is a snake."

(Picture courtesy of Wikipedia -- Click to enlarge)

“Hey Leslie,” I yelled from the kitchen. “Please get on the computer and find out what dissolves this damn glue.” A muffled response detailing the first option had to filter through piles of furniture stacked up against her office door. It was rubbing alcohol. My knowledge of snake skin is limited to cowboy boots, but I was certain that the snakes wouldn’t think much of the rubbing alcohol solution. Then again, maybe they’d absorb it and tie on a good Memorial Day Weekend drunk. The thought of having drunk snakes in the house was another limited appeal idea, however.

“There has to be something else,” I yelled back. "A more natural and harmless substance." It was my thought that some online authority would recommend lighting up a joint and blowing the smoke over the snakes to relax them.

The answer was vegetable oil.

Smearing some vegetable oil on my fingertips, a gentle massage freed approximately six inches of the smaller snake’s tail in about 15 minutes. The novelty of running a massage parlor for reptiles was wearing thin, however, and it occurred to me that a better option might be to bring the snakes to the Oriental Pearl Chinese Restaurant (in town) and see what the cook could do.

Both snakes were really stuck to the card, breathing quickly, and attempting to pull away from the glue. That’s when I got the "great idea." I poured a tablespoonful of the oil over the snakes, smeared the card with it, and then let them do the work. They could flex their skin at whatever rate was more comfortable. Sixty seconds later, the small snake dropped off into the spackle bucket. I would like to report that “Dwight” (which is what I named the smaller one) curled up and awaited release. The frigging snake hit the bottom of the bucket like a coiled spring. He was out and halfway across the kitchen counter in the blink of an eye.

I watched three feet of pissed off greased snake head off toward Leslie’s office like it had a GPS.

Did you ever try to grab a greased snake? I barely had a grip on him, when I felt movement on my other arm. The larger of the two snakes, who I had named "Himmler," had worked his way free and was headed up my elbow to settle an old score.

“Leslie,” I screamed. “Get in here and help me or there will be snakes in every room in this house.”

“I can’t,” she sobbed back. “I just can’t. You’ll have to do the best you can and maybe die trying.”

This was from a woman who has swatted bats with her fly fishing rod, standing in the Beaverkill at dusk. This was from a woman who calmly reloaded a shotgun rather than be intimidated by coyotes into dropping her day's take of pheasants. (Leslie owns a custom-fitted Beretta shotgun.) This was from the woman who tracked down a scorpion released into the house, and then confronted the kid who released it with the squirming poisonous creature. This from a woman who in every way personifies the tenets of the Hemingway Heroine. (Even more amazing, I used to call Leslie my "snake charmer," as a kind of pet name. When we first met, I thought she was the spitting image of Selma Hayek, doing the snake dance -- seen here in the link -- in the cult classic "From Dusk Till Dawn," which may be the best Quentin Tarentino flick ever made.)

“I can’t stand snakes,” she sobbed. “Sorry.” I could hear her piling more furniture against the door.

If I ever fail as a writer, I know I have potential as a greased snake juggler. I got both snakes in the bucket, got the bucket out into the driveway, and released the two reptiles into the neighbor’s yard, where this elderly blight was sleeping in a chair not 20 feet away.

“Make me proud boys,” I whispered. I was barely back in the house 90 seconds when screams from outside punctuated the warm afternoon. Mission accomplished.

“You can come out now,” I said to Leslie. “It’s all over. I took care of it. No big deal. The guy took care of things.”

“The brave guy, who isn’t afraid of anything,” asked Leslie. “The brave guy who is still wearing his riding gloves, his ballistic jacket, and his full-face helmet with face shield down. That guy?”

I was tempted to say, "Yeah, that guy," in my best Clint Eastwood-type tone. But knowing the peals of laughter that would have drawn, I replied again in silence.




©Copyright Jack Riepe 2009
AKA The Lindbergh Baby (Mac-Pac)
AKA Vindak8r (Motorcycle Views)
AKA The Chamberlain -- PS (With A Shrug)