The Best Policy For Negotiatiing With The Other Guy’s Insurance Company

My reflexes twanged like the sudden release of a compound bow string. Clutch in... Downshifting in progress... Binders on... Eyes searching for an escape route in the fraction of the second dealt me by the left-turning vehicle swinging through the intersection. There are many visions that remain with a man throughout his life. Mine include sunrise in the Adirondacks, sunset in Hawaii, and a half dozen women (over the course of 30 years) who occasionally got naked around sunrise or sunset depending upon the perceived depth of my sincerity. To these I have now added the image of a predatory mini-van that suddenly filled my horizon.

Though the K75 was stopping cleanly and honestly, the front of the van pulverized the fairing and slammed the bike to the ground. For the briefest moment in time, I became the world’s largest airborne mammal. Imagine a pilot whale instantly weightless through the gift of trajectory. The sensation ended when I bounced off the front of the van and came to rest on the ground.

The once proud "Blue Balls" with the unique Sprint Fairing... 

Struck down by a left-turning mini van in Virginia.

(Photo by Leslie Marsh)

I flirted with consciousness as pressure gave way to a pain in my chest. A pain that quickly spread throughout my body. A pain that would last months after the initial impact. The excruciating pain that comes from dealing with the other party’s insurance company.

An insurance company is a vertical cash-generating instrument that promises to minimize your liability in the event you have caused injury, damage, or death to someone else; or to minimize your loss in the event you are the one being scrapped off the minivan.. The key word here is “minimize.” Insurance companies do this by paying out the “minimal” amount of money required to resolve a claim.

Insurance companies and gambling casinos have a lot in common. Everybody has heard of individuals winning millions of dollars on 25¢ slot machines. Ever met one? Likewise, we have all heard stories of people who have been awarded millions of dollars in negligence cases. Like the guy who dropped the coffee in his lap at MacDonalds. I bet you’ve never met one of those folks either. Insurance companies stay in business by guaranteeing that the cash flows in one direction. (Although this has not been the case recently where at least one huge insurance company and its investments in mortgage guarantees are concerned.)

Imagine a 50-story silo with a huge vacuum in it. The vacuum sucks up millions of dollars daily, through policies, investments, real estate schemes, and retirement funds. Insurance companies claim they must have billions of dollars, even trillions, in reserve to pay up in the event of a national disaster. For example, a tornado touching down in a metropolitan area on a busy weekday could cost an insurance company plenty, especially if they had to pay out on all the claims submitted by people holding weekday metropolitan area tornado policies.

Insurance companies have pleasant sounding names to give the impression that you are dealing with a kind of petting zoo or something. I found myself communicating with a firm whose name conjured up images of an Amish collective. Yet the lady I usually spoke with there had a voice that sounded like fingernails on a blackboard. Insurance company personnel are carefully selected from a gene pool in which Komodo dragons are crossbred with pit-bulls. This guarantees the perfect disposition for customer service. If you must meet with one, it is advisable to toss a piece of meat onto the table first. This level of distraction could work to your advantage -- unless there are two of them.

Claim representatives have a way of asking questions that imply you are either attempting to steal something from them personally, or are just stupid. These include:
• That was the closest doctor?
• Did a doctor advise you to take the rest of the day off following your release from the emergency room?
• Was your head re-attached immediately or did they wait 15 minutes?
• Have any of your previous suicide attempts on a motorcycle been this close to success?

One of their best questions is, “Are you still seeing a doctor?” The best answer to this is, “Yes, but not so much for the accident... But for the voices in my head that tell me to bite through the throats of people who trying to screw me over small change.”

When writing to an insurance company, it is important that you be concise and to the point, without a hint of emotion in the text. I accomplished this by keeping my notes relatively short (exactly as if I were writing a Valentine to a former spouse). Then I advise stapling them to a severed horse’s head before mailing. (This is how I really do communicate with one former spouse.) I can guarantee this will get you ab return call.

An insurance agent may ask for your permission to take a recorded statement regarding the details of the accident over the phone. I said “yes” to this request, then asked them to schedule a time for the call. This gave me an opportunity to rent a recording studio and to hire a sound engineer. When I gave my deposition, I had the engineer provide appropriate sound effects to emphasize the points in my story.

When I described the impact, the engineer generated the sound of screeching brakes, accompanied by a huge thud, and the tinkle of broken glass. As a nice touch, he added an elderly female voice that said, “Take that, you pile of biker shit.” In response to a question about witnesses, the engineer played mob noises from old Frankenstein movies, with actors yelling out, “That poor guy on the bike is almost dead... Was the other driver on the phone...” And the ever popular, “Is that abottle on the front seat of the car?”

Sometimes the insurance company will send you a form demanding the right to investigate your work records, previous health records, and other data that appears to go far beyond the realm of the accident. The form will be accompanied by a note that says “failure to comply with this request could delay your claim until years after you are dead.” A careful reading of the document will reveal there are virtually no limits to the information they are seeking. It also empowers the insurance company to share this data with anybody. I mailed mine back to them, unsigned, asking for the social security number of everyone who worked at the insurance company, just so I could confirm I was not dealing with convicted felons.

Never attempt to threaten an insurance company with a lawyer. This is like threatening a tiger with a bleeding gazelle. The average insurance company has 3 adjusters, 2,500 clerks, and 40,000 lawyers on the payroll. I recently visited the headquarters of the Mutually Transparent Corporation, a large insurance company based in the midwest. I had lunch with their chairman in the company cafeteria, where all of the waiters were attorneys. If you want to threaten an insurance company, tell them you’re hiring a tornado. (Tha scares the shit out of them.)

Threatening an insurance company with attorney is like

threatening a tiger with a bleeding gazelle.

(Photo from Wikipedia)

You will learn a lot dealing with an insurance company. For example, I learned the value of a flawless BMW K75 in mint condition is only $167.84. This is according to the Royal Enfield/Ural dealership they checked with in Sri Lanka. Yet if you want to buy the wreck back, they can let you have it for $3850.00. This is apparently due to the difference in the currency between Sri Lanka and the US.

It is crucial that you remain civil, helpful and polite with claims reps regardless of the way they handle your claim. I always ended each call on a cheery note, saying that they would never know just how much their efforts meant to me. Of course, they’ll figure it out if they read this story.

©Copyright Jack Riepe 2008
AKA The Lindbergh Baby (Mac-Pac)
AKA Vindak8r (Motorcycle Views)
AKA The Chamberlain -- PS (With A shrug)

A Veteran’s Day Motorcycle Story

Looking back through the years, this was one of the rare days when every cylinder on that 1975 Kawasaki Triple 750 (S2) fired at the right moment, and I managed to do everything perfectly. The bike “yingggggged” its way through curves like it was on a track. I dodged traffic, and probably touched 70mph on at least one straight-away. Stopped at a light, I heard the distinctive click of Zippo lighter opening, and smiled when I realized my pillion rider was using this lull in the activity to kindle a cigarette.

The guy on the back was my father.

The classic Zippo Lighter

(Photo From Wikipedia -- Click to enlarge)

Many kids have wonderful memories of unique moments with their dads. The most common of these take place at ballparks, where little league games were played and cheered, and at major league stadiums, where legendary players whacked ‘em out of the park. Fishing is another great Norman Rockwell type activity shared by fathers and sons. Who doesn’t remember the first bass or trout taken in the company of your dad? Working on the engine of the family car with one’s pop can provide another source of prime bonding moments.

I hated baseball almost as much as my father did. I assume he hated baseball because he never once mentioned it in conversation, nor watched it on television, nor ever gave any sign that he had heard of it. Fish came from Russo’s Fish Market on West Side Avenue. I never knew him to walk by a stream, nor to express the slightest interest if anything lived in one. He hated bugs, the sun, and the heat. My dad had a great collection of tools. He would let me use any one of them provided I did so without his knowledge and concealed such activity while he was alive. And though my dad’s mechanical ability greatly exceeded mine, it was not something he gave classes in. In fact, he once told me that it was his greatest hope that I would one day make enough money to always pay somebody else to do the things on my car that he had to do on his. This advice was lost on me at the time because I was four years old and had just dropped one of his tools down a sewer grate.

I learned to drive when I was seventeen. At the same age, my dad learned how to assemble, maintain, and fire a .50 caliber machine gun at unpleasant Nazis, who were aggressively shooting at the B-17, in which he was the tail gunner. (Despite the fact this position required frequent filling, my dad asked for it as the B-17G had a separate door for the tail gunner, facilitating exit. He had started out as a ball turret gunner, but did not trust to the good intentions of his fellow crew members to crank the damn thing up in the event the aircraft became disabled.)

The Boeing B-17G, at the time, the largest aircraft of WWII carried a crew of 10.

The Office of Staff Sergeant Riepe is visible just under the rudder.

(Photo from Wikipedia -- Click to enlarge)

He was a “no bullshit” kind of person, which made him one of my more articulate critics. His name for me in my adolescence was, “Shitbird,” and he was convinced that I was one of life’s more annoying barnacles.

In the summer that followed my successful completion of the eighth grade, I was presented with a reading list for high school. Atop the list was “Northwest Passage,” by Kenneth Roberts. I was out of class about two days, when my father wanted to know what I thought about the book. (What I thought was that I intended to read it about 30 seconds before I’d get quizzed on it in September, but I was reluctant to share this strategy with him at the moment.)

A rather one-sided dialogue ensued, in which my dad suggested that the reading list was a Darwinian plot by the Jesuits to separate the higher life forms from the shitbirds, and that I might fool them for a bit if I pulled my head out of my ass and attempted to read a great book that I might enjoy. I looked at the book with suspicion. It was a paperback with 1,000 pages. By page 30 I was hooked as if the book had been printed with narcotic ink. I have since read it at least 20 times.

My dad and I spent thousands of hours in late night conversations on the most incredible topics. These spanned Ayn Rand’s “The Virtue of Selfishness,” the Six Day Israeli War, injuries to the soul, the great works of men and their undoing, the perfection of whiskey, sailboats, float planes, the flaws of politicians, and whether or not I would ever pull my head out of my ass long enough to amount to something. (The smart money said, “No.”)

It was during one of those conversations, he asked if I had ever considered getting a motorcycle. My answer was, “No.” The explanation, which I did not share at the time, was that you could have sex in a car, even if it was a Volkswagen Beetle, like mine. Dad spoke about how much fun a motorcycle might be and what adventures lay waiting for the guy who had one.

It never occurred to me that this could have been the passing daydream of a Jersey City fireman (albeit a Battalion Chief), with a mortgage and three kids in private schools. But the seed was planted. One friend of mine, Ricky Matz, did have a motorcycle, but he kept it out in the country, in some obscure whistle stop called Honesdale. I was pretty much on my own. I wandered into a dealership (another story for another time), put money down, signed some papers, and became the proud owner of a Kawasaki Triple. (The “Sucker” light burned so brightly in the dealership that day that Stevie Wonder was able to read a newspaper without assistance.)

My mother nearly shit, but I was almost 19. I learned some important things that year. The first was that motorcycles and cars have nothing in common, especially when it came to tires, warranties, and certain aspects of service. But I also learned that you didn’t need a car to have sex in, as the bike would heighten your presence to women with apartments.

On this particular day, about two months from the time that I would move out, I found my dad in the driveway admiring the bike. I showed him how it worked, the tool kit under the seat, and some other neat aspects of that otherwise primitive machine. And before I knew it, I said, “Want to take a ride with me?”

He never hesitated.

Wearing only a light zip up jacket and my spare open-faced helmet, he climbed on the back and we took off. It was a weekday afternoon and there was plenty of traffic. We went passed Route 3 and the Lincoln Tunnel to Route 17, then north to Route 17a, where we cut west to the town of Greenwood Lake, New York. I pulled into the parking lot of a bar. The drinking age in New York State at that time was 18. For the first time in my life, I went into a bar with my dad.

We each ordered the specialty of the house, a beer and a ball. This was a glass of whatever the hell they had on tap, probably Budweiser, and a shot of whiskey. I had Jamesons. He had Fleischman’s, a kind of scotch that you would use to clean paint brushes. He bought a round, and I bought one.

I remember telling him about an idea I had for a story. It was about inner city life. He didn’t think much of it and told me if I gave it some thought, I wouldn’t either. He was right. I never wrote the story. We were on the bike again an hour later. The ride home was fun, and took about 70 minutes. I think I heard him laugh once. The expression “Shitbird” didn’t come up the whole day. My Dad was one of six people who ever rode on the back of my Kawasaki.

Now some of you will raise your eyebrows and say nothing. Others may feel compelled to lecture me on the message this sort of story carries about drinking and riding, and how it will impact the nation’s youth. And some may feel that my father exercised really poor judgment.

But if you are going to set me straight about what I did wrong in my youth, I must advise you that this episode doesn’t even make the needle flicker on the “regret gauge.” As for my father, he was the bravest man I ever met. The emphysema that eventually claimed his life was just taking a toehold, and prevented him from getting a decent night’s sleep in the firehouse. He was a captain then, and volunteered to work “rescue.” In Jersey City, “rescue” rolled on every call. Jersey City is New Jersey’s second largest city, with a collection of tenements connected by “cock lofts.” The place used to burn like a Roman candle. Since my dad couldn’t sleep, he walked through smoke-filled buildings in the dark.

I remember looking through the dresser drawers in my parents’ bedroom when I was about eight. I found a wicker basket filled with pictures of a skinny kid in an army uniform, in Egypt and in Italy. There was a maroon box with something called the “Air Medal” in it. I would learn later that it was for 36 successful bombing missions. There was a red flag with a funny cross that had bent corners on it. And among this stuff was a little box that held something that looked like a jagged stone.

Curiosity overcame my better judgment, and I asked my dad what it was.

“Flack,” he replied.

This is the story in my mind this Veteran’s Day.

©Copyright Jack Riepe 2008
AKA The Lindbergh Baby (Mac-Pac)
AKA Vindak8r (Motorcycle Views)
AKA The Chamberlain -- Perdition’s Socks (With A Shrug)

God, It Feels Great To Ride In The Fall...

There are an incredible variety of alarm clocks around today. The most common are the discount drug store kind that provide the standard annoying buzzer alarm in a plain white plastic housing. Unless you are waking up to do something incredibly exciting (and the categories here are extremely limited), I regard this sound as the prelude to purgatory. Clock radios have been around forever, but you take your chances with the first sound you’re likely to hear. If it’s a newscaster commenting on a traffic jam or anything in rap, it could make you more receptive to murder or suicide. I have tried Buddist temple clocks that use recordings of gongs (in varying intensity) to announce the day; clocks that rouse the sleeper with bird calls; and a timekeeping device in the shape of a white globe that simulated dawn, provided you are easily convinced that dawn cycles out of a frosted gold fish bowl on a night table and goes to high noon in 30 seconds.

Let me advise you against any alarm clock that starts the day with the sound of a waterfall, the surf, or a stream -- particularly if you are a heavy sleeper who is open to suggestion and who generally takes a healthy piss first thing in the morning.

I want an alarm clock that wakes you by whispering, “C’mon Baby. Time to get up. Can I get you some coffee... Or something?”

On this particular morning -- which was last Sunday -- my alarm clock was my cell phone, which I really hate. As it was, I didn’t need anything to get me me up. The day started at 6:30am, with a little tongue action on the side of my face. Regrettably, the tongue was two feet long and attached to a huge German Shepherd, named Atticus, who likes to start his day by taking a healthy piss through the fence on the little dog next door. The personality of the little dog next door is such that I not only condone this action, but join in from time to time.

The other end of the tongue was attached to Atticus Finch -- 145 pound German Shepherd 

(Photo courtesy of Leslie Marsh -- Click to enlarge)

The room was filled with light as this was the first morning of daylight savings time. Though the clock said 6:30am, it was twenty-minutes past full sun-up. I was still wearing most of my clothes from the night before, a sure indication that I had had a good time. If you have read any of my articles dealing with surviving a really good time, you will recall that the best thing you can do upon regaining consciousness is to close your eyes, remain motionless, and try to remember some details related to the previous evening.

I remembered Gerry Cavanaugh, a dedicated R1200GS rider, pouring some yellow stuff into my glass and saying, “This is what lemonade and 190-proof grain neutral spirits tastes like.” I also had a vague memory of women putting make-up on my ass. Eyes still shut, I took stock of my bloated body. Amazingly, there was no hangover nor wrist burns from handcuffs.

“So far so good,” I thought.

The first stabbing arthritis pain came when I swung my legs to the floor. “Fuck this,” I hissed to the dog who was watching me patiently. It took me a few seconds to brace for the aftershocks from my hips and knees, but I got upright on the second attempt. I never thought the day would come when pulling up my pants would feel like the equivalent of running a mile with a kitchen stove on my back, but that day was officially last Sunday.

I hobbled to the back door and let the dog out. The day was bright gray with the garden thermometer hovering at 42 degrees. I followed Atticus onto the patio and felt the morning cold of the pavers through my bare feet. The little dog wasn’t out yet, so Atticus pissed in the dried cone flowers and I pissed on a bush I never really liked. Every guy I knew in the Adirondacks routinely pissed off their back porches. This is a ritual uncommon on the Main Line in Pennsylvania, however.

I took my arthritis medication with a steaming hot mug of coffee and looked at the kitchen clock for the bad news. This limited activity had consumed an hour, and I was supposed to lead a ride at 9am. “Damn this fucking hip,” I thought. Assembling my riding gear seemed to take forever, as I was shuffling with a corpse-like motion. The garage door went up like the curtain for a morality play, framing the vision of my bike against the backdrop of the driveway. I hesitated, anticipating the jolt of pain I’d get throwing my leg over the saddle.

Do you remember that movie “Always,” starring Richard Dreyfus and Holly Hunter? It’s actually a remake of an earlier film with Spencer Tracey and Audrey Hepburn. Dreyfus plays the pilot of B-25 used for putting out forest fires. Holly Hunter is his squeeze. There is this scene in the flick where he and Holly are walking in the moon light, and they come across his plane bathed in mist on the tarmac. At that moment, Holly just knows the next mission is doomed.

Well it seemed like my bike was bathed in mist too. (Actually, it was. But this was the hot air coming from the clothes dryer vent. It appeared ominous nevertheless.) “I don’t have to do this,” I thought. Considering the pain in my knees, I didn’t think the guys would mind if I showed up in the truck.

“Who the hell are you kidding,” asked a little voice in my head. “This is the Mac-Pac, you dope. They’ll laugh first, then pull down your pants and paint your ass blue in front of everybody.”

It was then I remember that “Fireballs,” my 1995 BMW K75 hadn’t started the last time I’d hit the button (after a 5-week interval of lying idle). It required a jump start then. It had only been two weeks since that episode, but no one would blame me if I had a bad battery. (What’s more, I still hadn’t plugged it into the battery tender.) Raising my eyes in supplication to the motorcycle gods, I uttered a prayer that I wouldn’t mind if the bike was as dead as Kelsey’s nuts -- this time.

The K75 exploded into life the second my thumb hit the starter.

“You heartless red bastard,” I hissed into my helmet. For some reason, I managed to get in the saddle with less trouble than usual and got my left leg up to the peg on the second try. Fifteen minutes later, I met the group at the Dunkin Donuts in Exton, Pa. They were “Leather” Dick Bregstein, Gerry Cavanaugh, Jerry Cline, Mike Evans, Laura Hirth, Corey Lyba, Matt Piechota, Jim Robinson, and Todd Trombore. Veteran hot-shot Chris Jaccarino had planned to attend, but thought twice about it when he remembered what happened the last time he rode with “Leather” Dick. I was the last to arrive.

The riders (from left) Corey Lyba, Jim Robinson, Todd Trumbore, Laura Hirth,

Jerry Cline, Jack Riepe (on bike), Gerry Cavanugh, "Leather" Dick Bregstein,

and Mike Evans (who is showing inordinate interest in community theater).

(Photo courtesy of Matt Piechota -- Who took it -- Click to enlarge)

“We figured you were coming in the truck,” said Robinson. I couldn’t help but notice a tinge of regret in his voice and a can of blue paint alongside his red “K” bike.

The crowd gathered round and started looking at their watches. When 15 minutes had passed, cash exchanged hands. “Some of us bet that you wouldn’t be able to get off the bike,” said Gerry Cavanaugh, who made 5 bucks off Mike Evans.

Officially, the ride was billed as “The Flight Of The ‘Leather’ Dick Bregstein Phoenix.” The 100-mile route was somewhat sedate with gentle changes in elevation and mild twisties. The objective of the ride was to provide Leather Dick the opportunity to get acquainted with his bike in the company of well-intentioned friends (witnesses).

The official starting point was where Rt. 401 runs into the Lincoln Highway Rt. 30 in Frazer, Pa. Route 401 begins in your typical suburban neighborhood, with heavy tree cover and the occasional deer. Yet after crossing Rt. 113, you begin to encounter solid evidence of old WASP money. Homes become somewhat solitary and isolated from each other by paddocks, pastures, and open fields. Many are made of stone and predate the Revolution. Single lane stone bridges span creeks and picturesque ponds dot the side of the road. Each little community has a church with a stone or white spire pointing toward heaven, and is accompanied a churchyard full of ancient, but presumably, satisfied parishioners. (“Leather” Dick Bregstein pointed out that the residents of these cemeteries are spryer than I am. I reminded Dick that raw truth hastens the decline of mediocre friendships. I did this through a simple gesture using but one finger.)

Despite the opportunity to go faster, I led the Teutonic line at 45-50mph. I found myself more inclined to take in the scenery than to entertain the guys behind me.

The midmorning autumn air had lost some of its bite but it was cold enough to warrant having the liner in my Joe Rocket jacket. I mention this as I initially planed to just wear a long-sleeved shirt under the unlined jacket. The Parabellum Scout fairing does a great job of keeping the wind off my chest, and except for the discomfort in my hip and knees, it was becoming a delightful ride.

I am always amazed at what you can smell riding on a motorcycle. Apple orchards, corn fields, and dense stands of conifers each have a distinctive scent. Nothing can beat it when the wild flowers burst into bloom in the spring. Especially on roads like the Blue Ridge Parkway, which seldom gets the clouds of exhaust that flavor main highways. Yet as all of you are aware, you can be tooling along, sucking in nature’s perfume, when you hit the invisible funeral vapor of a dead deer. I have no mixed emotions about this and always smile. Occasionally, one cruises through an Amish community when the elders have been spreading manure on empty fields. I have come to like this pungent aroma too. I prefer it to the smell of messages approved by candidates and political groups.

Crossing Rt. 100, the road passed through a state park, stretches of forest and open fields, some where the last of the dry feed corn is still standing. The trees were wearing their fall colors, with a few well past their prime and others that had just gotten the memo. My personal favorites are the oaks and maples, which provide the traditional golden hues and the brilliant scarlets of the season. They remind me of harlots and Cardinals, mingling in a mad ball. “Deer Crossing” signs at 30-second intervals caution the rider that “ forest rats on stilts” are lurking in every shadow. I had heard that Pennsylvania was issuing doe permits to inner city youths and allowing them to hunt with bats. I approve of positive “out of the box” thinking like this. Two deer looked up from their task of destroying fall flowers at the base of a mailbox as I roared past. It was broad daylight and this pair couldn’t make up their mind as to which motorcycle they wanted to knock over.

It is not uncommon to find houses like this one, dating back to the mid-1700's

in rural Pennsylvania. While this one is now a community museum, you can

find plenty just like it as active residences.

(Photo by the author -- click to enlarge)

We turned left, heading south on Rt. 82, which followed tighter curves through more serious farm country. My left hip started to throb and my left turns lost a good deal of their precision. If I tried to give the gentle reader the notion that I carved anything off to the left, it would have been with a putty knife. At Route 322, we turned right and picked up the pace to 60mph, matching road conditions. We turned left onto Rt. 10 and headed south toward Sadsburyville. (Who names these places?)

This stone structure is a blacksmith shop that was in business when Ben Franklin was

giving speeches as to why when should turn our backs on Great Britain (1776, not recently).

It is used a a community hall where boy scouts now meet.

(Photo courtesy of the author -- Click to enlarge)

Route 10 is a sweet little road for the rider who doesn’t have to slide his knees on the ground in every turn. You begin to encounter Amish wagons south of the town of Blue Ball, and road apples (from the horses) are always in season. The scenery along this road is very pleasant and there are enough tight curves to keep the average rider occupied. Riding through these stretches, it becomes easy to understand why the local “embattled farmers” took this land for their own and drove out the Crown.

Note the weather vane on the roof of the blacksmith shop... Can you imagine

the one they would have had on the roof of the local bordello? I want this blog

to be well-known for its reference to items of historical significance.

(Photo courtesy of the author -- click to enlarge)

The illusion is lost when you hit Rt. 30 in Sadsburyville. This is the straightaway to the Lancaster outlet center and the human zoos, where you can view the Amish in their natural habitat. Still there is something legitimate to see here. Turning right, we headed over to Rt. 41, in the town of Gap. A mile from the intersection, a view of the valley to the north opens up on your right. Hundreds of farms are laid out like patches on a quilt. And if you hit this at the right time of day, you can see miniature Amish buggies moving about on little farm lanes. You have to look fast as traffic moves at a good clip here, with a traffic light at the foot of the hill. Turning left onto Rt. 41, you move through the town of Gap. The most noteworthy structure here is the clock tower, built in 1892.

The Town Clock Tower in Gap, Pa was built in 1892, 

four hundred years after Columbus discovered Pennsylvania, 

and asked an Indian, "Do you know the time?"

(Photo courtesy of Wikipedia -- Click to Enlarge)

We turned right at the clock tower, onto Rt. 741. This road runs straight through a pretty Amish settlement. In fact, it is the heart of the largest Amish settlement in the US. Traffic was light, enabling us to pass buggies on the far side of the oncoming lane. I always give the horses plenty of running room as they can dart out when spooked. I have come upon several roadside dramas, in which horses struck by cars are either lying dead or awaiting dispatch. The vehicle operator is usually an asshole who passed the buggy too closely, managing to clip the horse. The last such scene I witnessed was on a Sunday. The horse was dead. The driver of the car was a tourist from New Jersey, who had come up to watch the Amish try and live their own lives, minding their own business, in their own community. The Amish couple, dressed in Sunday black, and two kids looking both adorable and miserable, stood by the side of the road.

I remember thinking that I would make a poor Amish elder, as I would have pulled a chainsaw out from under the seat in the buggy and quartered this guy on the spot.

Our only stop on this little ride was at the Strasburg Rail Road, one of the most incredible operating steam train museums in the east. I love trains and I love this place. I get a real thrill out of watching huge steam locomotives from the early 20th Century pound around the sidings, belching fire, smoke and steam. Yet I am amazed at how close you can get to these things, as the engineers expect you to exercise good judgment. It is surprising at how often people demonstrate their lack of knowledge when it comes to appropriate behavior around old steam locomotives.

On one such occasion, I watched a guy position a little boy about three feet away from the steam box on one of these beauties. He wanted to take a picture. This is understandable. Close by the boy were a series of pipes and valves issuing steam or dripping boiling water. From time to time, a valve will release pent up steam as part of its function. I was thinking the caption for this picture could have been, “The Last Day Little Johnny Had Skin.” I wondered if this guy was aware that boiling water, steam, and flame are all part of the equation for propelling this 25-ton hunk of iron. On another day, I watched a woman who had just had a brain transplant from a bottle of Airwick Solid take her daughter by the hand and cross the tracks in front of a moving steam locomotive -- less than 20-feet away. It would have been a bad day had either the kid or she stumbled. You can’t stop one of these things in 20 feet. Understandably, the woman probably thought that I would run in and save her. Not unless she was naked.

While at Strasburg, Dick announced that he was going to raise the seat on his new 2000 BMW R1100R at his earliest convenience. Todd Trumbore insisted this could be done painlessly and without tools. He stepped up to the plate and the process took about five minutes. We then shoved off for lunch at the Whip Tavern, about 20 miles away. Taking Rt. 896 to Rt. 10, and Rt. 10 to Rt. 926 brought us out of Amish farm country and into horse farm country. The horses are immediately thinner and more picturesque. Instead of pulling plows, they jump over things at the command of gorgeous women in jodhpurs.

Bikes parked outside The Whip Tavern are a comforting sight on an autumn day.

On this occasion, the Beemers were in front and the Harleys were in back.

(Photo courtesy of Rogers George, who doesn't know it yet -- Click to enlarge)

Turning left onto Rt. 841 delights the rider with countryside right out of an English novel. This is an apt setting for “The Whip Tavern,” which is an authentic English pub, with a great menu and a fascinating selection of beer, cider, and ales. It’s an intimate place (meaning small), with a fireplace and jazz band on Sunday. Imagine our surprise when we walked in and discovered that Rogers George, his wife Val, and their daughter Hanna had been holding a table for us against all odds. Rogers used to be a friend of mine, until he causally remarked it was his intention to pirate readers from this blog for his own editorial delusions, titled, “Poor Rogers Almanac, or Mushrooms to Motorcycles.” He fancies himself a poet. Rogers lives in nearby Delaware, rides an “R” bike, and is presently building a scale model of the Panama Canal in his yard.

Rogers' wife Val and their daughter Hanna...

Hanna is listening to one of my stories and Val is thinking of the years in 

therapy this poor kid is likely to need as a result. In two minutes, she will 

forbid the child from reading this blog too. Tough break, Hanna.

(Photo courtesy of Rogers George, and he still doesn't know it -- Click to enlarge)

Laura Hirth looked at the menu and paused at “Bangers and Mash.”

“What’s a banger,” she asked me.

“You’re speaking to one,” I replied. Actually, a banger is a kind of hot dog-like sausage favored by the Brits. I was rewarded by one of Laura’s laser-like smiles for this exchange of information.

The author, Jack Riepe, 10% banger and 90% mash.

(Photo courtesy of Rogers George, anonymously -- Click to enlarge)

Lunch was great. I recommend the fish plate and Scotch egg as appetizers. I had fish and chips as the main event, washed down by Thistle India Pale Ale. It was boots and saddles 90-minutes later, as our little riding party split up and headed out. It took me 20-minutes to get back in the saddle. (Honest.) Dick and I followed a meandering road to Rt. 926 again, where a nice lady, probably wearing jodhpurs, left-turned across my bow. It wasn’t as close as some chance meetings I’ve had... But it was close enough.

Special guest, Charlie Somerdyk, arrived to join the festivities. It took him longer

to get a beer than it did to remove his pants, which he does for anyone with a camera.

(Photo courtesy of Rogers George, who writes a great blog -- What a guy!)

Traffic was thick on US-202 when Dick and I parted company, with a raised arm and a wave that signified “the boys were back in town.” I wish “Leather” Dick Bregstein the best of luck with his new bike, and look forward to thousands of miles in his company... Thousands of miles that are improved by his company.

I promised the first woman rider who participated in this event a free commemorative tee shirt. Laura won it. I expect she’d rather die than wear it.
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On a Related Note...

My daughter is a writer like myself in the public relations field. She claims there are entirely too many “Dick” jokes and references throughout my blog. I’d appreciate your opinion.

©Copyright Jack Riepe 2008
AKA The Lindbergh Baby (Mac-Pac)
AKA Vindak8r (Motorcycle Views)
AKA The Chamberlain -- Perdition's Socks (With A Shrug)