Trying To Break A Guiness Book Record

BMW Motorcycle Riders Go After Guinness Record In Fundraising Endeavor To Beat Pediatric Cancer

Snarls of high-powered motorcycles will tear the morning quiet of Hatfield, Pennsylvania on May 2, 2010, as hundreds of BMW riders from 18 counties (in six states) converge on this suburban community with the intent of smashing one barrier, while taking steps to eliminate another. To be smashed is the current standing count of the “largest group and collective parade” of BMW marque-exclusive motorcycles, as stated by the famous book of Guinness World Records. And while the bikes are assembling for the count, their riders will be contributing to a local hospital dedicated to stamping out pediatric cancer. According to Todd Trumbore, the primary organizer for the record-breaking attempt and fund-raising effort, this is an opportunity for bikers belonging to a tightly-knit riding community to band together and contribute to an even tighter community: children with cancer.

“The purpose of this event is two-fold,” said Trumbore. “It’s an opportunity for BMW motorcycle riders to be counted, and a chance for them to contribute to a cause that really counts.” Trumbore brought his idea of breaking the existing Guinness record to Bob Jones, the CEO of Montgomeryville Cycle Center, who immediately saw the potential to benefit a worthy cause. Jones pledged the use of his facility, and his staff, while offering to host all participants with a complimentary lunch.

“The BMW motorcycling community is undoubtedly one of the country’s tighter-knit groups,” said Jones. “As a rule, BMW bikers tend to be a solitary lot, riding great distances at speed — but by themselves. You will find them at many fundraising events, but they represent a true minority and tend to prefer the background. This is one event where every rider will have two things in common... A desire to eradicate cancer in kids and a motorcycle made in Bavaria.”

In keeping with Jones's perspective, it's not surprising to discover that the record number of BMW motorcycles gathered in one place, and ridden together (according to Guinness), is a modest 128 which was staged in Einsiedeln, Switzerland, on June 12, 2004. Yet records of this nature are set to be broken. Grass Roots BMW, in Cape Girardeau, MO, is currently awaiting confirmation of 241 riders in a subsequent record-breaking attempt event last September. If Trombore has his way, that record will pass to the Mac Pac.

"This number is almost routinely challenged by several BMW riding clubs in the United States, that conduct regional rallies at campgrounds or other places," said Trumbore. "Except that most of these guys don't show up in a single line. We're going to convene the largest BMW-exclusive group of riders, that have been recorded by Guinness, and take them on a ride through the Pennsylvania countryside." Riders will be counted as they register at the rallying point, Montgomeryville Cycle Center. They will be counted at the beginning of the parade/ride, and at the end, he added.

Trumbore is expecting more than 250 riders and has planned a routing that is conducive to keeping a large group together. There are six chartered BMW riding clubs within an 80-mile range of Montgomeryville. The Mac Pac, which serves the southeast Philadelphia area, has 250 active members by itself. The fund-raising, record-breaking endeavor has already received the support of these groups, several of which are now organizing group rides to attend.

BMW riders are an eclectic lot and it is expected that the event will draw an unusually high number of antique and vintage bikes, as well as some of the most sophisticated modern motorcycles currently available to the US market. "There will be those arriving on the new S1000RR, and a few showing up with sidecars that are more than 60 years old," said Trumbore. He has been riding BMW's for more than 30 years and has a collection of 34 vintage bikes he enjoys riding regularly.

The event is open to the motorcycle-riding public arriving on licensed and insured BMW motorcycles.

Registration will begin at 9am, rain or shine, Sunday, May 2, 2010, at Montgomeryville Cycle Center, 2901 Bethlehem Pike ( Rt. 309 ), Hatfield, PA 19440. The telephone number is: 215-712-7433. The official count will begin at 11am.

For additional information, contact:

Todd Trumbore

Event Coordinator

610-287-5275

Bob Jones

CEO Montgomeryville Cycle Center & Event Coordinator

215-712-7433.

Addendum...

It is with no small degree of pride that I signed my name to the growing list of Mac Riders who will serve as volunteers, helping to organize and administer the Guiness Record Book-breaking attempt described in the piece above. Mac Pac members have a true sense of compassion, and raised $1400 in 90 minutes, by sponsoring Leslie/Stiffie — my hot squeeze—in the Susan G. Komen 3-Day Breast Cancer Walk. They routinely ride to the assistance of any member in extremis (be it a household move or working against rising waters in a local flood). And they have played pivotal roles in bringing training and technical events to riders across the country.

If you ride a BMW — be it new, vintage or antique — I urge you to turn out at Montgomeryville Cycle, on the morning of May 2, 2010. Your presence will make a “mark for the marque,” and your pocket change, $5’s, $10’s, or $20’s could make the difference to some kid battling pediatric cancer. This will be one of the greatest gatherings of “the Teutonic Unicorns” for a fun event benefiting a good cause. While “Twisted Roads” has covered some truly inane group rides, the one on May 2nd, 2010 may be the shortest, but it will certainly be the most memorable. I look forward to seeing you there.

Fondest regards,

Jack • reep • Toad

AKA The Lindbergh Baby (Mac Pac)

AKA Vindak8r (Motorcycle Views)

AKA The Chamberlain -- PS (With A Shrug)

My First Moto-Joint...

Every neighborhood or town has a distinctive piece of road known for its peculiar characteristics. The most common of these is a straight stretch in some industrial locale (that shuts down over the weekend or on Sunday at least) or along some abandoned rail right of way that attracts the hot shots racers on both two and four wheels. Where I grew up, this length of pavement was Secaucus Road, which ran as straight as an arrow between Jersey City and Secaucus, New Jersey. Only two miles from midtown Manhattan, Secaucus Road was lined with swamp and had a slaughterhouse at one end, and a pig farm on the other.

Most towns have a “Dead Man’s Curve” too. In Hudson County, New Jersey, this was on Kennedy Boulevard, the dividing line between Union City and North Bergen, around 58th street. The traffic lights on Kennedy Boulevard were set to sync in those days, and it was fully possible to get up a decent head of steam — 55 to 65 miles per hour — early in the morning, and later at night. Then you’d hit that damn curve, which was tighter than a loan shark’s ass. So many people were killed there that it was one of the first places I ever knew to have a Jersey barrier... Even before US-1.

The old iron 14th Street viaduct in Hoboken, NJ ends at a “T” intersection about 25 stories in the air, clinging to two inclined roadways on the face of the lower Palisades. To the left is Jersey City and to the right is Union City. The nightmarish traffic jams that occur on this structure (which looks like it’s about to fall down) are legendary. This is 25% of the only four ways to enter the holy city of Hoboken, and it is about midway between the Lincoln and the Holland Tunnel river crossings into New York City. (It should be noted that the retaining wall on the cliff face here has fallen down a couple of times.)

(Above) The "Helix" dropping down into the Lincoln Tunnel. This picture is so old, that the third tube of the tunnel is not yet open. Photo from Wikipedia.

(Above) Night view of Manhattan from the cliffs of Weehawken, NJ.

These places are on my mind tonight as I have had a bit of an adventure on all of them. My race on Secaucus Road nearly ended in the swamp. I have almost been squeezed flat between a bus or two and the divider on "Dead Man's Curve." But the first time I ever leaned a motorcycle far over (like the big kids) was on the "Helix" coming out of the Lincoln Tunnel. But I wasn't quite myself at the time.

I was working on my first major literary project in 1976, and had engaged the services of an artist I had known in high school to illustrate the material. Ramone R. had a great talent for illustration and a rare sense of humor that often came out in his work. He was a minimalist when it came to line drawings, yet these were among his best stuff. Ramon lived in midtown Manhattan at the time, in a shithole of an apartment that defied description. A lot of my friends lived in Manhattan. I used to think they had contests among themselves to see who could find the shittiest place to live. My pal Scott Volk used to seek out apartments that were so shitty, roaches refused to live in them. (But I beat them all. I rented a place off Congress Street and New York Avenue in Jersey City that my father described as the prototype of Ralph Kramden’s dump in the television classic “The Honeymooners.”)

On the day upon which this story takes place, Ramone R. and I had been working for 6 hours straight and failed to find the connection between his art and mine.

“Fuck this,” said Ramone. “We’re getting no place fast. What we need is inspiration.” With that, he pulled out a plastic bag filled with shredded vegetation, and rolled a doobie as big as a hog's leg.

Now I was a late bloomer. In fact, there was talk that I was never going to bloom at all. I was 20, and had never smoked pot. I had long since discovered the benefits of the ancient Irish distilling process and would routinely go on a tear. But I didn’t smoke cigarettes and had never been a fan of inhaling the cigars I had started to enjoy. So for me, passing the bone or bong in a group was a given.

Ramone R. looked at me in disbelief when I told him this.

“You’re gonna get an education today,” he said. “This is really dynamite grass.”

The high I got from Ramone’s doobage was unlike anything I had experienced before. My ears went numb. I was utterly relaxed but pensive. I started to speak like a late night talk show host at a time when Joe Franklin (on WOR) was regarded as one of the kings of after-midnight talk TV.

Then Ramone’s girlfriend walked in, sniffing the air like a beagle.

In truth, she looked a lot like a beagle too. I expected her to lift a hairy leg and piss. She claimed to be a devout communist and had named her cat after Stalin’s wife. (I was tempted to ask if Stalin's wife shit in a reeking box under the sink in a kitchen.) Lots of women who looked like Ramone's squeeze were resigned to being communists in those days, apparently. They plotted to kill all the good-looking women and all the shallow guys who bought them nice presents too.

She wasn’t Russian but had taken a Russian first name that meant “Red Death To Those Who Thought With Their Dicks.” Not only did I think with my dick back then, but I used it as a kind of compass needle to point out the hottest female asses in large gatherings of people.

Ramone’s girl sat down opposite the two of us, and took the smoldering roach from his hand. “Red Death” inhaled in such a manner that the lit end glowed like a ruby in a fantasy novel, and served as a portal for all the smoke in the room to enter her body like she was some kind of a human air filter.

She then pulled off her shirt to reveal breasts that had never been confined in a bra, but which had taken on the shape of the drooping Chechnyan economy instead. I was never picky about things like this, but I wouldn't have picked these. (In those days, my standards were wide open. A pulse was pretty much the baseline requirement.) I recall she had a mole on one. Not the kind of mole that looks like an inflamed freckle, but one that was covered with fur, having the approximate dimensions of a hedgehog. (I had just seen the cult film classic Eraserhead and the pot I had smoked convinced me this mole could jump off and run around the room snarling.)

I was never one to judge people by their looks... Especially when it came to women who would take off their shirts on one hit of a joint. But I had met Ramone's girlfriend before. She was the most disagreeable communist who ever lived. Her face was constantly twisted in an expression of disapproval and the purity of her political beliefs were alleged to be proven by her aversion to hot showers, shampoo, and soap. She never called me "Comrade," but this was because she knew her mission in life was to publicly denounce those of my cushy ilk — if we were unfortunate enough to survive the revolution.

Ramone had met her at a party (a real party not the communist kind) and decided that she was the best option for getting laid that night. Their relationship kindled when he put on a beret and told her like he wanted to live like Ché Guevara. (Personally, I have never had to get laid that badly.)

“You should stay and meditate with us,” she said. "We'll smoke some more and get in touch with what's important." I suspected that meant I could look at her tits until I bought dinner, in the true spirit of the Revolution.

Now under the circumstances, I would have had a natural curiosity to see where this was going. But it was as if she had triggered a reflex reaction. My dick flipped me the keys to the bike down on the street and demanded we leave at once. I remember looking at the clock and saying something diplomatic like, “Don’t anybody get between me and the door.” I swear she hissed like a snake with a slow leak.

It was the summer, and the streets simmered in full daylight at 7:30pm. The pot had given midtown a softer quality and I felt oddly isolated from my surroundings. The curtain had gone up on Broadway, but the Saturday night crowd had yet to shuffle in. As usual, the Kawasaki 750 H2 started on the first kick, and I roared down to 9th Avenue, easily moving in and out traffic. I felt like I was part of a strange ballet, and this was so preposterous that I found myself laughing behind the cheap plastic face-shield, snapped onto the open-faced helmet.

In the next instant, I dove into the Lincoln Tunnel. It was like flying through a tube designed to magnify that bizarre two-stroke sound “Ying... Ying... Ying... Yinggggggggggggggggg.” The dim lights on the edges of the tunnel roof flashed by like an effect from a Stanley Kubrick movie. I came out the other side, feeling like a circus performer being shot out of a huge cannon... Then I flew up the “helix” doing about 65 miles per hour. Twenty minutes later, I was at my girl’s place. She was not a communist. She had been a star on the college equestrian team... She didn’t have a cat, and if she did, it wouldn’t be involved in a plot to kill the Czar. She had the kind of flawless breasts that ancient Greek sculptors would spend entire lifetimes trying to recreate in stone. She gave off a faintly scented pheromone that had an all-American girl air to it. The compass pointed straight and true to the red, white, and blue.

I was still pretty stoned when she opened the door, though the sensation was starting to fade.

“What are you doing here,” my squeeze asked. “I didn’t think I’d see you at all tonight. I figured you and Ramone would get into some kind of trouble in the city.”

“You have no idea what ideological hell I escaped. Do you have any ice cream or Oreos,” I asked, putting my arms around her waist, burying my face in her hair.

She kissed me and asked, “Are you fucking high?”

This is a story about an evening in my youth upon which I rode a motorcycle. Neither the author nor the editorial review board of Twisted Roads advocates the unsafe operation of a motorcycle while under the influence of substances that normally make individuals like myself susceptible to suggestions offered by topless women. The names have been changed in the odd event that someone I know, like Ihor Sypko, will figure out the real players, and inadvertently spill the beans. There is no moral to this story. And if the gentle reader wants to know if I learned anything from this experience, the answer is “no.”

©Copyright Jack Riepe 2010
AKA the Lindbergh Baby (Mac Pac)
AKA Vindak8r (Motorcycle View)
AKA The Chamberlain -- PS (With A Shrug)

Bird Caught In BMW Gas Tank

A glance at the odometer told me how much gas was in the tank. It read “63 miles,” which was how far I had ridden since topping off on my way back from my last run. In theory, this meant I had approximately three and a half gallons at my disposal, which at a reasonable 70 mph, translated into a 147-mile range. This should have been more than enough for the ride of last Thursday, April 8, 2010.

Maybe.

I have been riding this bike for a little more than 2 years now and can pretty much predict how it will behave under most conditions, including the extent of its thirst. It gets between 42 and 45 miles per gallon — unless I really twist on the throttle. “Fireballs” starts to hit the bottle heavily when the speedo gets above 90 mph, especially as its 71 horses dig in their hooves to move my ponderous ass. I am delighted to report that even at 7 grand in 5th gear, the machine responds “enthusiastically” to throttle inputs. But this spirit gulps 94 octane with reckless abandon.

Though the 1995 BMW K75 has a gas warning light, the meaning of this glowing red omen has become a subject of contention (at least for me). The factory preset position would trigger the advisory when there is still slightly more than two gallons of gas available (90 to 100 miles of range), which made me nuts. I can’t really explain why it made me nuts, other than I was always afraid I’d forget how long I may have been riding on it, or how fast I’d been going during these intervals.

An adjustment of the tank float by my mechanic appears to have lowered this margin to a gallon of gas, or a mere 40 miles — which is what I wanted. That way, I am compelled to get gas as soon as the damn thing lights up. And perhaps that should have been the end of my gas tank drama. Yet nothing is ever that simple.

The bike has a fuel pump in the gas tank that seldom makes a sound no louder than a low hum. This can become a chirping as the gas light goes on, and the fuel level drops in the tank. I have been told that this is a routine development as the pump works harder to suck the gas off the bottom. I have also been told that the gas in the tank serves to cool the fuel pump as it labors. And finally, I have been told that in 99 and 44/100ths percent of the time, any increase in the sound of the fuel pump means a blockage in the fuel filter, which is also located in the gas tank.

I have been told these things by BMW riders whose collective ages go back to the signing of the Magna Carta, and whose aggregate mileage is equal to three times the distance between the Earth and Saturn. They are Dr. Albert Hissingaz, Wilhelm Peltzer, and Heinrich K. Schmidt. (It is rumored that the K75 derives its alphabetic designation from Schmidt’s middle initial.)These statements cannot be contested.

Those not familiar with the unusual characteristics of the K75 will be surprised to learn that the gas tank gets as warm as a hot water heater in normal summertime operation. It was blistering hot on the day of The Great Slider Run. Temperatures were more appropriate for early July, as opposed to late March. And there was still three gallons of gas in the tank when my fuel pump started to make the “chirping” sound.

“What fucking fresh hell is this?” I asked in my most analytical tone. By the time I got to the White Castle in Toms River, the chirping of the fuel pump was quite audible over the running of the engine.

“That sounds like a blockage in the fuel filter,” said BMW sage Don Eilenberger. “It is easily fixed by replacing the fuel filter.”

By the time I got home, the chirping could be heard over a drive-by shooting... And it was constant, regardless of the gas level in the tank, though by this time the gas level warning light was glowing like a fresh rivet.

Which brings us back to last Thursday’s ride. The fuel pump was quiet for a few miles, than started in with the chirping noise again. Those of you with a strong sense of mechanical appreciation are now thinking, “Mechanical issues don’t heal like a flesh wound, stupid.” Well, there’s always a first time.

We stopped on the shoulder of the expressway for me to put my feet down. Hearing the sound, Dick Bregstein said, “You need a new fuel filter. But it’s easily fixed.”

(Above) The mighty Conowingo Dam is the largest structure of its kind in the universe. The angler in the water is actually a statue 324 feet high. Photo from Wikipedia.

Our destination was the Union Hotel (Tavern and Restaurant), in Port Deposit, Maryland. This was a short run (about 110 miles roundtrip) that would bring us to the shoulders of the Conowingo Dam. Turning left at the heavily wooded banks of the Susquehanna River, the road plunges beneath arches of oaks and maples whose roots have felt the marching feet of blue-coated troops heading off to the Civil War. This short stretch of a few miles provides the rider with glimpses of impressive stone railroad bridges in the woods, and the soothing sensation of pockets of cool air, where streams pass under the pavement before splashing into the bucolic Susquehanna. The road runs into historic Port Deposit, which is about three quarters of a mile long, and two blocks wide. Many of the buildings in this little town, are built from stone, hand-cut from cliffs towering over the main street.

We weren’t going that far.

The Union Hotel sits on a little bluff halfway between the dam and Port Deposit. I am not chagrined to let the gentle reader know that the tavern part of the Union Hotel is well-known to Harley riders in the region. The bar is typically surrounded by hundreds of Harleys — both stock and exotic —on any Saturday or Sunday. A piece of Wonder bread will be toasted to a crisp in seconds, if exposed to the sunlight refracted from that sea of parked chrome. I am an open-minded man, however, and will drink with the devil when I am hot. My objective was to snort a beer cold enough to shrivel my iguana on its way out.

(Above) US-1 crossing the Conowingo Dam. The pavement is wide enough for a 747 to land on. Photo from Wikipedia.

The parking lot was empty when we turned in. We were greeted by signs which advised that no rider wearing club colors would be admitted to the premises. These were repeated on the door of the bar — which was closed. But the restaurant (in a separate building) was open. And it was here we got the surprise of our lives. The Union Hotel was built of hand-hewn logs in 1790. The structure remains authentic inside and out. It is like dining in a museum of Americana. Our server, Heather, was dressed in period costume and presented us with menus, which include rabbit, venison, bear, and alligator tail, in the appropriate seasons. We ate light. Gerry Cavanaugh and Dick Bregstein had Maryland crab chowder, which they rated as “very good.” I had an open-faced pepper steak sandwich that was excellent. This restaurant was the kind of place you’d take a woman you really wanted to impress. We were there about 90 minutes.

(Above) The restaurant building for the Union Hotel (Tavern and Restaurant). Photo from the internet.

The chirping resumed as soon as I hit the starter button. Gerry looked at the gas tank in amazement, and said, “You got a blocked fuel filter, but it’s easily replaced.”

The ride home was fast, but not as fast as I had envisioned, nor quite as uneventful as the run down. The lack of municipal funding has the cops out in force. They were everywhere, and the stretches of pavement on which Dick and I have had some fun in the past were crisscrossed by radar beams. The attention of the authorities was warranted on at least one curve, however. Traffic was stopped as cops and fireman dealt with a pickup truck that was against the embankment — on its roof. Two young gentlemen, both in handcuffs, were cooling their heels in the back of a police car.

While there was never any hesitation nor lack of power from my bike, the chirping from the gas tank became a constant shrilling. It sounded like a song bird caught in wringer. My thought was that the electric fuel pump would draw more current as it worked against added resistance of a clogged fuel filter, either blowing a fuse or frying a relay. I had no idea if this was even a possibility, but not knowing inspired me to utter a fervent, “Shit, I just want to get home.”

I did.

I switched out the fuel filter and changed the oil (that filter too) on Sunday. Actually, Clyde Jacobs changed them while I made him a hot dog and poured a cold beer. My intentions were good though. I told Clyde I wanted to watch the process, but he asked, “to what purpose,” and I had no good answer. The bad news is that the fuel filter did not seem substantially clogged. We ran the bike for ten minutes but there was no chirping. I will be very surprised if a $600 fuel pump does not sacrifice its life for a $29 fuel filter.

Actually, the fuel pump for a K75 is not $600... It is $19,289.

Anybody want to bet me it’s not the fuel filter?

©Copyright Jack Riepe 2010
AKA The Lindbergh Baby (Mac Pac)
AKA Vindak8r (Motorcycle Views)
AKA The Chamberlain -- PS (With A Shrug)