From ibmwrNoSpam@NoSpamworld.std.com Mon Jun 23 06:22:31 1997 Date: Mon, 23 Jun 1997 10:53:23 -0500 From: Ingemar Luttu Subject: BMW: EP2/SCHWARZWALD pars tertia To: bmwmcNoSpam@NoSpamworld.std.com, europrezNoSpam@NoSpamtwinight.org Reply-To: Ingemar Luttu Friday 6th of June. Woke up early in the tent. Some kind of blacksmith working inside my head. Could it have been the three nice Weissenbeers from the evening before? Well, after a shower and an hour it was all gone, and I felt fine again. Georg, Sven-Erik and I put our tents together, I had some coffee, and we packed things onto our bikes. We had made appointment with Matz to come to the campingground at=20 9 o=B4clock for starting the day=B4s tour. So Matz did, and we got away=20 some time later. We didn=B4t have so many km=B4s from Gem=FCnden to Neuen= - b=FCrg, so we had the chance to go on smaller roads, enjoying the nice weather and the nature. We had also planned to visit the Zweirad-Museum (two-wheel museum) in Neckarsulm, this was Matz=B4 suggestion, and I am grateful for this. We got there after some odysseys, half an hour before opening, so we had a nice ice-cream in the nearby gelateria. It was a very hot day, so it felt fine to get inside the museum, where temperature was more comfortable. It was a very interesting museum, with most things on two wheels represented, from bicycles of stone age until newest inven- tions. Motors of different kinds didactically split to show their interio= r and functions. That the letters NSU come from NeckarSUlm was something I learnt as well. It took us some hours to go through the museum, could hav= e taken a lot longer, but our intention was Neuenb=FCrg, not to late. We no= - ticed after a while that Matz was missing somewhere in the museum. He was last seen at the HPN-object on its special podium. After some 20 minutes we had to look for him, and yes, he was still there, admiring and investi= - gating the HPN from Paris-Dakar rally. With joint force we managed to get him away, to leave the museum, get onto our bikes for transport to Schwarzwald.=20 Neckarsulm is pretty close to Heilbronn, a bigger town, which we passed=20 through in the afternoon heat. After Heilbronn, we had intended to take smaller roads, pretty close to Neuenb=FCrg as we were. I had some feeling of going in circles, or quadrants, or something, but since I had passed over the map reading to those who don=B4t have to wear reading glasses, I had pretty a good time on the roads. After an hour or so, when we were supposed to be close to Neuenb=FCrg, this sign showed up on the road, tha= t we were riding towards Heilbronn(!), and with only 24 km=B4s left. Well,=20 some changes were made, and suddenly there was a sign Pforzheim, and we were in the right direction. In Pforzheim we saw the first sign with the name Neuenb=FCrg, and from here there were no difficulties.=20 We got to Neuenb=FCrg via this nice road leading upwards, with a feeling we were going into the mountains (anyhow for me as a flat country inhabi- tant). Passed the village, as written down by Carlo, went to the right in direction Dobel(?), didn=B4t notice the fish, nor the hotel, nor the railroad tracks. Had a lovely ride upwards about 4-5 km=B4s, until we und= er- stood it wasn=B4t exactly right. I took out the paper from Carlo, we went downhill, saw the fish, and then the hotel and the motorcycles. We felt like coming home. An imposing line of BMW=B4s outside. We got off the bik= es, saw people sitting around a big table outside the hotel. Sven-Erik, who made his second EP, saw that these were the right people. I didn=B4t=20 recognize anyone, of course. I am pretty used to meet bigger amounts of people, having to shake hands and present, and I always dislike it, becau= se when I=B4m through, I never remember a single name. This time it was real= ly different. Every outspoken name put on a string somewhere, I felt I know these people, and the faces immediately seemed familiar. This is very=20 strange for me, and after this short convention, I still can see the face= s in my mind, with belonging names. We sat down, had a beer, chatted with the one sitting closest. Just feeli= ng good. After some time we got keys to the rooms, I had a single room, disl= ike snoring sounds, and what a room. Carlo really knew what he was offering u= s. In the evening we had dinner =E0 la carte. I don=B4t remember who I was s= itting with, but it was a very nice evening. A very strange happening to me. All these unknown people, I felt like knowing them. Anxiety for this new=20 feeling? No, I felt too good for that. The EP2 meeting had really started in a positive way, and when I went to bed, I was already longing for tomorrow, and the great ride through Schwarzwald. What I didn=B4t know when I fell asleep in my room, was that= a lot of things happened in the late evening/night. I heard Sven-Erik was a mechanic half night through, managing to get Katty=B4s bike in order.=20 Though Swede, Sven-Erik really is a helpful man. We had got to Neuenb=FCrg (it was a real place, not just a point on the m= ap), had met the other prezzez and prezzettez, made ourself comfortable, empti= ed our bikes from overweight. The EP2 had at last begun. When I layed my hea= d on the pillow, I thanked everyone there for wanting this as much as I had. Tomorrow riding in group through Schwarzwald, yippee=A1=A1 Ingemar From ibmwrNoSpam@NoSpamworld.std.com Mon Jun 23 18:40:32 1997 Posted-Date: Mon, 23 Jun 1997 17:02:26 -0500 (CDT) From: "Adam Wolkoff" To: ldriderNoSpam@NoSpamusaa.net, bmwmcNoSpam@NoSpamworld.std.com Date: Mon, 23 Jun 1997 17:05:44 +0000 Subject: BMW: Minnesota 1000 Ride Report (long) Reply-To: "Adam Wolkoff" The third Minnesota 1000 24 hour endurance rally was held June 21-22, 1997. This year, the event drew over 120 riders, who competed in five classes for a shot at the winner's circle in "Minnesota's Toughest Motorcycle Event." As an Ironbutt competitor with previous experience in endurance events (and a previous MN1K winner), I was assigned to the "expert" class. Other classes were "Standard" (for unfaired motorcycles, or those with factory equiped handlebar mounted fairings), "Sport" (primarily Japanese and Italian sportbikes), "Touring," and "Unique" (which included one hopeful participant competing on a 50cc moped). Riders attempt to earn points by traveling to various locations, primarily in the upper midwest. The event's name is something of a misnomer, as participants are not required to ride more or less than 1000 miles, nor are bonuses located solely in Minnesota. This year, bonus locations were as close as several blocks from the start/finish line to as far away as Hells Half Acre, Wyoming (a breezy 1900 mile jaunt). The rules are few. Essentially, riders are free to plan their own routes, but must return to the finish line within 24 hours. The rule sheet handed out to competitors also specified one rule not commonly found in events of this sort: no running with scissors. The route I planned covered Minnesota, Iowa, Miossouri, Nebraska and South Dakota. Along the way, I jotted notes about interesting events, sights and thoughts. These are presented here for your amusement and edification, with the caveat that free advice is always worth what is paid for it. PRE-RALLY PREPARATION Some things are mandatory (motorcycle, protective gear, maps). Some things are just a good idea (camelback with drinking tube, radar detector, sheepskin for seat). Some things are another thing altogether. Take rider Tim Conway, competing in the touring class on a borrowed K75RT. Tim had faced some bad luck last year, and he wans't about to let anything get in his way. In order to save every minute for riding, Tim even purchased some Nicorette gum to cut down on smoke breaks. Tim's plannong obviously paid off, as he won his class and will be competing in "Expert" next year. SOME PEOPLE JUST DON'T GET IT This year, the rally featured mandatory bonus stops, usually at local bike shops who helped sponser the event. Each was worth one point, with the exception of Moon Motors, which was worth two points due to the shop's limited hours. Another wrinkle was that riders were permitted to secure one mandatory bonus PRIOR to the start of the rally (This rule no doubt appealed to Rallymaster Eddie James' decidedly different sense of humor). Since Moon was worth double, I decided it was worth grabbing, even though it meant riding 80 miles before the start of the event. I arrived at the shop some 30 minutes before it opened. A short time later, another rider pulled in on a K11RS. He eyed me warily. I try to break the ice by asking him about the mandatory bonus choices. He was clueless. After further discussion he warmed up a bit, after I assured him that I had no plans of poaching his service appointment. Though friendly, this fellow rider is vocally not impressed with the whole idea of endurance riding. "Those People," he tells me, "have screwed up the idea of what motorcycling should be." I try to explain to him that riding is many things to many people. He is not convinced. I explain that long distance riding, like marathon running, is a personal challenge that produces tangible rewards on many levels of personal development. He looks at me blankly. My explanation is going nowhere. Just then, the cavalry arrived. A large group of fellow compeitors roared up. GPz1100s parked next to ratty old Hondas. Fellow competitors--some strangers only a few minutes earlier--joked and socialized together. My potential convert, now vastly outnumbered (remember: the majority is ALWAYS sane) slunk back to his bike. I hope he learns that motorcycling is big enough for all of us. ITS A GAME OF INCHES The Minnesota 1000 is played out over twenty four hours and thousands of highway miles (1380 of them for me this year). Yet a single miscalculation, a second of indicison, can make the difference between absolute glory and abject defeat. Some lessons I learned well from last year's competition. My time management skills have vastly improved at fuel stops. What routinely took 15+ minutes last year can now be completed in six minutes. Some lessons I learned again. Last year, I felt my biggest weakness was a failure to constantly analyze my route. I made a concerted effort to refrom this year, and suceeded--to a degree. I know I picked up bonuses this year that I would have blown by last year. On the oher hand, my attempt to bag three state capitals outside of Minnesota failed, by my brain's apparant inability to (1) realize that the state capital of Kansas is closer to Lincoln, Nebraska than is the capital of South Dakota, and (2) bagging Topeka would have set up a run for Chicago and more huge bonuses. Sigh. I plan to purchase one of those signs made famous by a former IBM CEO and affix it to my bike: THINK. A number of riders learned that fuel is a scarce commodity at night in rural Nebraska and Iowa. One rider was forced to "access" a shed and "borrow" some gas from a lawnmower in order to keep moving. I was also surprised that sizable towns in northern Nebraska do not have 24 hour gas. Lesson: At night, in such areas, get gas when you see it is availble. It may not be available up the road. THOSE ARE MY LOW BEAMS, HONEST Several hours after dark, my main headlight decided it was going on strike. Luckily, I had invested in 220 watts of PIAA driving lights, so I was not blind. My fellow motorists were not as fortunate, since they were now blinded by my lights. Eventually I was able to persuade the high beam to funtion. I decided under the circumstances, I would deem my headlight (locked on high beam) as a "low beam," and the PIAAs would be deemed my "brights." Whenever anyone flashed their headlights at me, I flashed back with the PIAAs. It seemed that everyone was happy, most of all me, who got to ride with LOTS OF LIGHT all night long, with impunity. CROSS-CULTURAL EXPERIENCES One bonus required the rider to record a particular phrase of grafitti located inside a covered bridge on a dirt road outside of Winterset, Iowa. You may remember this bridge from such films as "The Bridges of Madison County." I found my way to the bridge, climbed off the bike and set off to find the grafitti. I was carrying the bonus list in an official looking aluminum case (like the cops use when they write your speeding ticket) so I suppose I must have looked somewhat "official" to the group of German tourists examining the structure. Of course, I was also still wearing my Aerostich and helmet, but mayby motorcycle riding, 'stich wearing, helmet sporting bridge inspectors are common in the Fatherland. I located the grafitti and recorded the answer, then hurried back toward the bike. One of the Germans grabbed my arm, and asked "You are studying the bridge, ya?" I politely answer in the affirmative, while trying to shake his grip. "What did you lean," he asked. I look at him seriously, and adopt my most official tone: "Lassie killed chickens." He dropped my arm, I remounted the bike, and sped off. The moped rider, piloted by a teenager from West Virginia, had a cross culteral experience of a legal kind. Mopeds in that state do not require licence plates. Minnesota does require licence plates, as a number of law enforcement officials were happy to point out to this hapless rider. On one such occasion, Our Hero had just conviced the cop that he really didn't need a plate, only to be then told that "this town has a curfew and you're in violation!" Eventually the officer must have figured that anyone riding an event like the MN1K on a moped deserved some sympathy, and cut the guy loose. Dennis Bitner and I saw each other in Mitchell, South Dakota, some time around O-Dark Thirty. He had just fueled and I was on my way to the pump. I think we each wondered what the other was doing there. Dennis was the only other rider I saw the whole tweny four hours on the course. A MODEST PROPOSAL A number of riders from Chicago showed up to run the event. Many placed in the money. Mike Cornett won the touring class. Look out, all you 1088 participants, he's heading your way next. Mike DeSantis took second in the same class (and on his first 1000+ mile day no less). The chaming and determined Sue Hoff also placed in her class. Next year, I propose a new class, composed entirely of riders from Chicagoland, be created. LESSONS TO BE LEARNED, REDUX I spoke earlier of the lessons to be learned from long distance riding. Many of these are of the charachter building sort. It is really no fun to make a mistake that costs points, but there is some redemption to be had by correcting the error, or finding new solutions. In the end, perserverence does pay off. Mind does conquer matter (at least for a while). Doing it right really does feel good. Plus, these events are just a lot of fun, plain and simple. Take that, Mr Nonbeliever. EXTREMES One extreme is speed. The "Tell it to the Judge" award is given to the rider who earns the largest speeding ticket. This year's "winner" was written up for exceeding the limit by 40 mph! How he escaped being carted off to jail is not known to me, but I would like to be a fly on the wall when the next insurance premium notice arrives. Another extreme is mental toughness, the iron will needed to stick to a project and see it through to completion. Not every rider has The Will. Joan Oswald has it in spades. Joan's first setback occurred just moments into the raly, when her purse (and its money, credit cards, military ID, postal ID, green card, etc. etc) blew off the back of her bike and into the hands of some urban youths. She and her husband, Rick, spent the first three hours of the rally calling credit card companies. (Rick, who managed to keep his sense of humor, joked about making a donation "to the underpriviledged children of South Minneapolis" after watching three such urchins run off with their money.) Joan's hard luck continued when her bike went down in South Dakota. She was bruised and sported a broken finger, but was willing to continue the rally. Her bike, similarly down but not out, was apparently in agreement. 1997 Ironbutt riders, take notice: Ms. Oswald will be at the fisish line. Of this I have no doubt. AND A GOOD TIME WAS HAD BY ALL One thing that is not a surprise abotu the MN1K is the professionalism with which it is run. Rally packs are clear and concise. Local sponsers have embraced the rally, making for nice door prizes. The start/finish was again at Bob's Java Hut, which generously donated free coffee and beverages. Lisa McDonald, the local councilperson, arranged to have the street closed in front of Bob's, so there was plenty of room to park 120 bikes. Another nice thing about the MN1K is how it has managed to remain friendly despite doubling in size. The awards ceremony is a good example. Participants are encouraged to tell about their rides. We were all treated to some amusing stories about mishaps, near mishaps, and things that go bump in the night. The volunteers all worked hard to see that riders were checked in and out with a smile. Everything ran smothly, which proves that all problems were anticipated and solved before they happened. Jon Diaz deserves mention here too. Jon won a substantial door prize from a local motorcycle shop. Clas guy that he is, Jon donated his prize back to the rally workers, as thanks for a job well done. In its first year, the Minnesota 1000 billed itself as the Premier long distance event in the Upper Midwest. The rally has certainly grown into this billing. I ran more miles than last year, and earned more points, but my efforts were not enough for a repeat title. I am very satisfied with my third place finish, given the level of competition. Make plans now to join us next year! Regards, Adam Wolkoff Saint Paul, Minnesota awolkoffNoSpam@NoSpamnospam.visi.com http://www.visi.com/~awolkoff/FeBUTT.html St. Paul, MN LoRent Racing--Ironbutt 97 #35 *Sponsorship Opportunities Available* From ibmwrNoSpam@NoSpamworld.std.com Fri Jul 4 15:10:35 1997 From: "Pat Roddy" To: "bmw list" Subject: BMW: Peachtree Roadrace Camera Bike! Date: Fri, 4 Jul 1997 14:38:54 -0400 X-Priority: 3 Reply-To: "Pat Roddy" I had one helluva bang of a start to this July 4th. Recently I was contacted to drive my LT for a cameraman for ESPN, covering the Peachtree Road Race, from what I understand is the world's largest 10K race. This year, over 50,000 runners lined up early for the start of the race. My friend, fellow president Mike Nolan was also chosen to carry another cameraman for ESPN. Mike would have the toughest duty this morning, following the lead womens' wheelchair racer as well as the lead female runner. This put him in considerable traffic, while my assignment was to stick to the leaders. Mike and I met the cameramen and the technical guru at a Buckhead hotel yesterday to mount and test the microwave antennaes that were required for the live feed uplink to a hovering helicopter, which was then transmitted back to the local Fox affiliate for live broadcast. Mike's middle name is also McKyver, and it was his ingenuity that I followed in mounting a 5 foot mast to my LT, allowing the microwave transponders to be above our and the cameraman's heads. I won't go into details here, but suffice it to say it took some 'McKyvering', and a last minute heroic effort with my Gerber pocket tool's saw on a 2x4 mount that was bottoming out on my final drive, just moments before we were to roll. But roll we did. Race Time We met our crew again at the hotel this morning at 0530 sharp. The tech whiz immediatley started mounting all his electrical gizmos on our bikes. I've never seen so many tie wraps, used so quickly and expertly, at one time. Denny is a true whiz. Each bike was outfitted with two sets of Allan Clark headsets with boom mikes so the pilot and cameraman could stay in immediate, VOX contact. Then, there was the aircraft radio which allowed us to hear and contact the director, up in the chopper. Then, the microwave antennaes, which looked like a couple of external modems were affixed, via a Nolan-made platform, atop the masts. It took Denny about 8 minutes to wire up each bike. I don't know about Mike, but as the sun started coming up, I started to get the butterflies, much as I used to get before a big balloon race. Denny gave us the thumbs up, everyone mounted and got our gear on, did a few quick voice checks, and off we went. The race begins on Peachtree Street, at Lenox Square (for those of you familiar with Atlanta), just 3 blocks from the hotel. We approached the police barricades and with out LTs adorned with large OFFICIAL VEHICLE stickers, they yawned and waved us through. I should mention at this time I was riding with only a hat with visor and the headset, the 'Stich and helmet left back in my man's car. As we got nearer the mall, several wheelchairs were warming up, doing sprints up and down the street. Peachtree, at this point, is six lanes wide with a suicide lane in the middle. We rolled right up to the starting line, did a 180, and dismounted. We were early, and a few minutes later Denny strolled up, looked overhead, contacted the chopper and did a last check on video and audio feeds from our bikes. One minute later, he walked off, heading back to the hotel for bagels. His job was done. As time drew nearer, my gut got tighter. I imagined all the bad stuff that could happen, the LT wouldn't start, I'd step in antifreeze while loading up and go down in front of a zillion spectators, you know, all that stuff that zips through the mind. Then my mental training from racing balloons for over a decade kicked in, I went onto my zone of focus, and all colateral thoughts were banished to the netherlands of my mind. Only one thing dominated my thoughts, the directions my cameraman had given me on our ride over. "Listen to me, I'll tell you where we need to be. Stay to the outside of all curves (there are many in Atlanta's streets) because the chairs and the runners will take the shortest route. Don't block their watering stations, keep out of the misters, miss as many potholes as you can, and stay loose, Pat. I know this is your first time. I am an old pro at this and we are going to do just great. You do what you do best, and I'll do my best and it'll be a walk in the park. Oh yeah, the chairs will try and draft you so don't let them get right behind us. They will use any advantage they can. I know almost all of them and they know me, and they WILL use us if they can. These are the world's top chair racers too. They know every trick" My gut jumped again, but when RIch said "Let's go!", all the butterflies flew off somewhere else, probably into the guts of one or more of the 50,000 runners immediately behind us. I donned my hat, headset, and favorite deerskin gloves, stashed a spare battery, video cable and videotape in my tankbag, and fired up the LT. Mike did the same, and we rolled away from the starting line about 50 yards. I didn't count, but there seemed to be at least 50 or so chair racers. Sleek suits like skiers wear to cut air resistance, long tapered helmets making their heads appear alien-like, and when in their tuck, they were flat while their wheels, angled in sharply at the top, looked so aerodynamic. The wheelchair race started sharply at 6:57 AM, and as soon as the starter's arm went down, my command to "roll on" came through the headset. It amazed me how fast the chairs caught us, and all through the next 6.6 miles, Rich would direct me to speed up a little, swinglleft, swing right, get 1 foot closer, close on him, cross over on him, the chatter was fairly constant but he was a cool customer. A consummate pro-never got excited, and was very complimentary of my driving skills. I was hoping that being a 'rookie' at this camera bike driving wasn't too evident :-) Here we were, riding a 6.6 mile course lined with countless thousands of spectators, wearing no helmet, only gloves and a golf shirt and jeans. I did finally feel some of the heat that the LT is purported to shed, but I also had my side covers and saddlebags off to to accomodate the mast. I dutifully ran every red light, and my only problem, other than once or twice allowing the chairs to pull even with us (those guys could MOVE fast, at will, even uphill), was having a police bike to contend with and after the second time I waved him the hell out of our way, he paid more attention to his mirrors. Damn Harley driver. :-) A Mercedes convertible, filled with some sort of VIPs, kept pace well ahead of us and never got in our way. Mike was probably a few blocks behind, and although I had a trip key to talk to him if I'd wished, I was too damn busy. With all the obstacles ahead, water stations, misters, rough streets, manhole covers, and always taking lines that I would never take while riding, kept my mind, and my right wrist, extremely busy. We stayed with the chairs up to what is known as The Big Turn, a hard 90 degree left. Rich said to stay with the chair through the turn, and although the chair was doing 25-30, we were at his outside and I had to do 35 or so to stay abreast with him through this hard turn. We accelerated with him down the hill, and pulled up short of Piedmont Park. The runners were going to start in 10 minutes, 6 miles behind us. I executed a 180 with a very heavily laden bike, and started going 'counterrace', heading back to Lenox Square. This is where it got fun-speeding down Peachtree, using all 7-9 lanes, weaving in and out of the chair racers, at about 60 mph. I kept the K in second gear all the way back, treating the fans to it's whine but more importantly, being able to chop throttle and scrub off speed if needed. There were many shadows cast across the street by high buildings, and the chairs were very low profile. That is just what would make the day turn to shit-cream a chair, at speed, not to mention ourselves, the bike, and $75,000 of equipment. I was not going to allow that to happen. We got lots of waves, especially from kids lining the streets. Normally, I always wave to kids who wave at motorcyces. I feel they are all future riders because I used to wave at every motorcycle I saw as a kid. Every one. But today, I couldn't do it. There was too much concentration, the zone of focus was quite narrow. I only had to veer off a few times, where folks would pick the most asinine time to run across the street. Being able to tell my cameraman what I was doing through the headset was a major advantage. I tell you, this guy was cool. I hardly knew he was back there, facing rearward, with a 30 pound camera on his shoulder. It only took about 5 head bangs with the camera to force me into a permanent 'crotch rocket crouch' to avoid that uncomfortable occurence from happening again. We returned to the starting line, with 4 minutes to spare. We turned around again, and positioned ourselves again 50 yeard down track. It was pretty amazing-50,000 runners, many world class, facing us with their game faces on. That 4 minutes seemed to last an eternity, and I then noticed how fatigued my right hand was and how dry my mouth was. The starter's flag went down and we were rolling again. The chairs made it to the finish must faster than the runners would, because of all the downhills. This time, I stayed in first gear, which takes more effort to 'remain smooth' than in second. We bobbed and weaved again down Peachtree, watching the leaders exchange first place many times. By mile 3 though, Rich told me his Kenyan friend, the favorite runner for this race (last year's winner too) would start to pour it on. Only one other runner was keeping up, but I could see in his eyes he wasn't going to do it today. The Kenyan, just arriving in Atlanta hours before, began to lope. He was a magnificent runner, and having a 'front foot' seat all the way was a major hoot. I wanted to holler encouragement to him, but the fans were doing that. Besides, Rich would get an amplified earful and that would not be cool. Applause was exploding all the way down the street-when my bike was spotted, the applause would begin. I fantasized that everyone was applauding my bike and skills, but those fantasies were fleeting. I knew who the applause was for, this runner who was on course to break the Peachtree Record. But alas, Atlanta's high humidity and early morning temperatures forbade that, at least this year. As we reached the park, spectators were now at least 5 deep. The cheering was getting louder, and I didn't want to foul up the finish. Rich told me he has been on more than one bike that broke the tape instead of the runner. I was not doing that. Not me, not today. The road is very serpentine through Piedmont Park. I was letting the Kenyan 'tell me' where to go,as he shifted left, I shifted right, and so on. We pulled away from him in the last 100 hundred yards (from 5 feet to 30 or so), and when the tape came upon us, I exited to the right at the Y in the road, as he went left and lunged across the finish line. Race workers quickly moved a barricade for us and we rode through. Rich jumped off to go film an interview with the winner. I could breathe again. I could now feel the full extent of my concentration-my right arm was all but numb. Although all through both races I kept telling myself to relax, my right arm ignored this feeble command coming from the brain. Man, what would I do if this were a marathon of 26 miles? What about a 120 mile bicycle race? Well, maybe it was rookie jitters. Minutes later, Mike pulled up, and a healthy sweat was upon his forehead. He had chosen to wear his Darien, and the sweat was due to the high heat and humidity, not to mention that Mike was in considerable traffic both races. In fact, his cameraman had had 'some words' with the director in the chopper, when Mike got hung up behind a runner while the leading female got ahead of them. The caeraman tersely told the director "I KNOW how to film these events, OK?" I am sure 'dumbshit' followed that, but it was saved for only Mike's closed circuit set ;-) The direcotr had also told my cameraman to tell me NOT to go under any trees. Yeah, right. Atlanta is covered with them, and you cannot avoid them. I told Rich to "have that chopper pilot come down here, rotate 90 degrees, and chop the trees away for us. A three man 'chain saw' with twin rotors. Rich just laughed. All three camera bikes rejoined at the end. I failed to mention the third bike, piloted by Stuart Beatson, that was filming the chair race and was not involved in the TV feed. He followed the chairs to the end and his day was over while Mike and I returned to film the runners. Stuart is an old pro at this, and he was a fountain of knowledge about tactics for driving a film crew. I was thankful for his willingness to share his knowledge today. My wrist wasn't the only one sore this morning. I could see Mike grabbing his right with his left hand immediately after dismounting. I smiled, knowing exactly what he was feeling in that wrist. We remounted 20 minutes later and headed back to the hotel. The race walkers were just starting their trek, almost an hour after the race had started. When we passed through the barricades on Peachtree Street, we had to 'break the intersection', so to speak, and picked our way through the walkers. Grass does not grow under the feet of these cameramen. They had planes to catch. My man was heading to Australia, near Brisbane, for a marathon next week. ( If any Aussie presidents are reading this, and you are near Brisbane, and you see a tall, lean cameraman with 2 on his hat (for ESPN2), ask him if he is Rich Jayne. Nice guy). The second is heading for Spain, and the third is taking his family on holiday to England. I can just imagine what these guys passports look like :-) Well, now I am no longer a rookie. I earned my wings today, and I would not hesitate to do it again. In a second. Neither would Mike. He's ready to go at it again too. Now to go and relax, have a few beers with friends, and go watch fireworks somewhere tonite. It has been one heckuva start to Independence Day, 1997, USA. pr From ibmwrNoSpam@NoSpamworld.std.com Sat Jul 5 11:09:46 1997 Date: Sat, 5 Jul 1997 07:48:41 -0700 (PDT) To: bmwmcNoSpam@NoSpamworld.std.com From: roozbehNoSpam@NoSpamwco.com (Roozbeh Chubak) Subject: BMW: K1200RSs in Unnatural Horizontal Positions Reply-To: roozbehNoSpam@NoSpamwco.com (Roozbeh Chubak) It has been only a week or ten days since the K1200RS has been available for delivery even though most of us plunked down our deposit many moons ago. And yet these ten days have been long enough for a couple of rider error mishaps. No, mine was not one of them. :-) Case 1 ------ This involved a prominent local BMW enthusiast who -- as I understand it -- was the first to get delivery of his bike at my dealer since he had been the first to place his order. Well, he was out on an extended bonding experience with his K1200RS, and then...... he made a wrong turn. The road became unpaved, then got worse and worse. He turned around, and on the way back, riding on shitty surface he dropped his gorgeous Checker Yellow bike. :-( I saw the bike afterwards. Mirror broken, front turnsignal pod and rear signal light broken off, but I did not see any cracks in the fairing which was badly scratched. Understandably, the owner feels really bad about this. (I do too. It is this sorta thing that can happen to any of us with very expensive consequences.) Case 2 ------ THis is equally tragic, but the schadenfreudes among us *will* crack a smile on learning the facts. (Earlier when I said "rider" errors, I was using the term very loosely in this case. Read on!) I was not there myself to witness the incident, but a friend who was spending a few hours at the dealer waiting for his bike to be set up -- not a K1200 -- shared his observations with me. Picture the scene: Proud soon-to-be-owner of a beautiful K1200RS arrives at the dealer cash in hand to accept delivery. Naturally, he has his Minister of Finance with him who, throughout the entire couple of hours it took to do all the paperwork, sat with her purse on her lap, making no effort to tone down her body language which made it clear she still does not understand why anybody would want to spend $17,000 on a motorcycle. So now the paperwork is completed, and the bike has just been washed and the gorgeous metalic blue paint is gleaming in the afternoon sun. So while waiting for the completion of some final detail, the new owner approaches the bike that he bought just seconds ago and admires its looks. Next, he sits on the bike which is on the center stand. (The observer was too far away to hear if the proud owner uttered any "VROOM... VROOM..." sounds.) Then he gets off the bike, and starts fiddling with it. And... as he is fucking around with the gear shit lever, it happens: Perhaps he is using to much force, or perhaps on getting off the bike the centerstand was no longer fully engaged, the real reason is not clear. But it happens in slow motion: - The scream of the hapless owner attracts everyones' attention - They look up and see him watching helplessly as his bike is in process of falling onto its side - The bike hits the ground with a LOUD crashing sound - As the spring action of plastic fairing is bouncing the bike up, the very loud groans of a couple of the sales [and other] staff of the dealer are heard. - The bike settles on its side, this time with a much more subdued sound. Yup. The bike crashes with 000,000 miles put on the odometer by the owner. The owner is devastated. His Minister of Finance is not amused. There is a lot of handholding done by the dealer and his staff. What a way to start a relationship with your bike. :-( Regards, Roozbeh _______________________________________________________________________ Roozbeh Chubak AMA #552002 BOOF #1 BMWOA #38643 Village Idiot Idiologue Berkeley, CA BMWRA #21280 '98 K1200RS: "Blue By You" DoD #6666 '96 R1100GS: "Beau Geste" ======================================================================= From ibmwrNoSpam@NoSpamworld.std.com Sat Jul 5 02:22:06 1997 Date: Sat, 5 Jul 1997 02:00:38 -0400 From: Nick Pettefar Subject: BMW: Jap/US humour To: bmw mc club Reply-To: Nick Pettefar >Subject: BMW: Humour-no BMW >A Japanese company and an American co. had a boat race; >The Japanese won by a mile. >The Americans hired analysts to figure out what went wrong. Living in Japan, I have to report that the Japanese are just as lazy and disorganised as anybody else. They can't go to the loo without having a meeting to decide which one... The real reason, I think, behind the success of Japanese firms over the "Western" ones is: 1) they were/maybe still are on a "Mission" to win and 2) the average Japanese has very little in his life that is worthy of their energies and so, and are encouraged very much to, put all their energies and maybe their whole life into the "Company". = There is a dedication here that is unbelievable. Not that the = people work very hard, it's just that they're always there. = They travel for up to three hours each way to get to work = and the general ethos is that the last person to leave the = office each night is the first to get promoted. Loyalty is a = religion here. You can't conceive of it unless you = experience it, and even then you can't really believe how = powerful it is. They have crap hours, crap holidays (modelled on the = two weeks a year US system, (which is why they nearly = always go on guided tour types of holiday i.e. two weeks to see India in!), moderate wages, and moderate working = conditions. People are employed for almost any reason. Getting petrol is a good example. Each garage has = probably four people standing on the forecourt. When you drive in, they rush over to you, shouting "Welcome!!" and = wave you to the proper place. They then ask you what you = want and how you will pay. While you're doing that and = whilst they're filling you up, they clean your all the car = windows, the mirrors and anything else they can get to. They empty your ashtray and will clean the inside of the = windscreen. They also check your oil and your tyres. = After you have paid, you get waved out and then they = stop you at the exit, wait for a suitable gap in the traffic, = and then wave you out, bowing to any drivers they've = possibly inconvenienced. If you ride in on a bike or = scooter, you don't get anything cleaned or the traffic = stopped, boo hoo. They still wave and bow a lot though. You NEVER serve yourself! At every car park, there are usually two or so people who wave people in and out, sort out tickets and other mysterious car park type things. All these people are Company Men and are intensely loyal to the Company. I often see BMWs here. Yesterday we saw a K1100LT. I've seen the new RTs, GSs, F650s and all the rest. They are quite sought after. Most bikers here want = something "different" and BMWs certainly fill that desire. Apparently, AJS, Norton and BSA are making bikes for the Japanese. They are assembled in Portsmouth and shipped exclusively to Japan. They have the Yamaha 400 single 4-stroke SR400 engine in, so aren't terribly exciting. Bloody expensive though! Y880,000 which I suppose is about $7650! Just to be "different". We have a Kawasaki ZZ-R1100, because they're cheap and fast and look nice. We bought a special export version, which has the full 148BHP. All domestic bikes here are severely restricted. 97BHP for over 750ccs. We bought our bike from Bika-Gai in Ueno. It is a small area, mainly one street, which has up to 60 bike shops in it. One shop owns many buildings and a whole = cul-de-sac! Harleys are very popular, but fit very well with the average Japanese wannabe psyche. They love to pose, have different things and ape the film and music stars. Most bikers here are like = this, I think. Hence all the Japanese Harley copies. Most roads in most places are a complete and utter traffic nightmare, especially on 35'C days like today! Non-stop traffic with the only open parts being when you are stopped at the lights and a gap creates itself. The lights are everywhere, sometimes 15 metres apart!! Ugh! Fortunately, you can lane-split and they often have "scooter lanes" down the inside. I mentally class my ZZ-R1100 as a "scooter" and use them with gay abandon. There are some fantastic bike places here though, and, if anyone chooses to visit (some = have) I just love showing them. Wonderful fantastic twisties up and around mountains, rivers, forests, beaches, lakes, etc. Almost completely deserted, usually in great condition, wonderfully breathtakingly scenic and a 99.9% absence of The Bill! Great! I = remember a good thrash on the way to one of these = places between us and a couple on a nearly new = K1100RS. That was good fun. When we toured New Zealand, we bought a used K100RS in Christchurch. It was a bit ironic that the machine had = come from Japan! It had a metal rear mud flap with = BMW Japan Corp. on it. Obviously a well-travelled bike! Cheers! God Save The King! M'lud DoD 1069. From ibmwrNoSpam@NoSpamworld.std.com Tue Jul 8 08:22:37 1997 From: mark.novitzNoSpam@NoSpamny.ubs.com X-Openmail-Hops: 2 Date: Tue, 8 Jul 97 08:05:00 -0400 Subject: BMW: Riding/Rally in RubberCow Country (Pt. 1) To: ormont1NoSpam@NoSpamjeflin.tju.edu, alanNoSpam@NoSpamloop.com, cgrodnerNoSpam@NoSpamndsisrael.com, zeauNoSpam@NoSpammindspring.com, wdbNoSpam@NoSpaminnocent.com, bmwmcNoSpam@NoSpamworld.std.com, rdallandNoSpam@NoSpampanix.com Reply-To: mark.novitzNoSpam@NoSpamny.ubs.com Another report from the '97 Rubber Cow Rally...very long-winded...it's probably of particular interest to those who are either from the NY area or at least intend to ride around the Catskill Region of New York. Many of the roads we took were fun and/or full of beautiful scenery and places to stop--so if you're planning a trip to the area soon, read on. Otherwise, read at your own risk... Friday: Had a commitment to attend a cookout, etc. in Sands Point/Port Washington, Long Island on Friday afternoon. Less than 32 miles in over 1 hour and 15 minutes. There was absolutely no reason for the traffic--no accident, no police--just sheer volume. Next time I think of visiting Long Island on a holiday weekend, do me a favor: shoot me first. Michael Ormont (IBMWR/New Sweden from Philly) was going up to Gummikuh with me, so he made the trip to Long Island with The Heavenly Jane and I. Jane took a ride back to NYC with another party (thank god for that) and Mike and I left at approx. 6:30/7:00pm for the trip to Round Top, NY. Without having to take Jane back to NYC, we were able to avoid NYC entirely by taking the Throgs Neck Bridge straight across the Long Island Sound directly into lower Westchester/upper Bronx and, since I grew up in both NYC and Westchester, I was able to navigate us quickly to NY87 for the long slab-haul up the Thruway. By the time darkness fell, we were very close to our destination. My in-the-saddle navigation skills (fully in tune from 10 days on the road to/from Nova Scotia) held up fairly well until the "follow signs to the resort" part--there was some lack of signage in general, and the darkness wasn't helping. It turns out that we took a wrong fork about 2 miles away and ended up at the lovely Bavarian Manor (it basically looks like someone's house, except it's got a cash bar and lots of strange people come to dinner every night), where we were quickly re-routed to a dark road leading up to Reidlbauer's Resort. At the site, it took us a while to figure out what the hell was going on. If you want to experience "udder" confusion, try showing up at a fairly large rally held by some of the most insane BMW riders around, for your first time ever (Mike nor I had ever "done" this rally before), in the dark, at around 10:30pm, when the band and the alcohol are in full kick and swing. It was nuts. After circling the "lower" area (in front of the main tent) once or twice--jam-packed with tents/campers/people--we realized that we had to cross the "military zone". See, there was a VERY large open area behind the main tent, clear-cut, but surrounded by woods, however, since folks were LAUNCHING LARGE-SCALE FIREWORKS in the area, we decided to avoid it. Being that there was no room anywhere else, we had no choice. We went across the main tent, past the bottle rocket and roman candle departments, until we hit the tree-line, and then began riding along toward the back of the clear-cut. Although the middle of the "field" was fairly empty, tents ran all along the sides as far as my headlight beam would take me. Finally, at the back end of the field, we spotted an area we could put both our tents along the tree line (we could have camped anywhere in the center, but if were going to be so far from the main facilities, we wanted to be on the edge of the forest, for ease of calling nature--if you get my drift). Mike and I earned our Eagle Scout Merit Badges for pitching tents in the dark--and we decided to head back to the Bavarian Manor for "bar food"--they had told us they'd be serving bar food until 11:30 or so. They lied. We showed up, the kitchen was completely closed, I had a beer, Mike had a Coke and we sat around for a while and talked to some of the locals. As a friend of Mike's said: "Forget the city. The real crazies live out in the country!"--you got it right there, pal. This was some collection... "Where can we get some food at this hour?", I ask the bartender at almost midnight. "Well the only thing I know of is the Cumberland Farms--they're open 24 hours." Off we went. Two zombies wandering around a Cumberland Farms after midnight in search of food--not just food, but bad food. And we got it. We gassed up ("Well, as long as we're here...") and put the food into the side cases and headed back. At 1:00am under the main tent, the band is still kicking strong and Mike and I are sitting in the back feasting on (warning:what you are about to read is very, very frightening): cold Chef Boyardee Ravioli right out of the can (thank you, Mr. Leatherman/can opener), Fritos with artificial Chili Cheese dip, some kind of pre-packaged Italian sandwich/hero, Nestle Quik, Diet Coke, and, of course, Pop-Tarts for dessert. Basically, when you look back on it, what we did was disgusting--but at the time, it was what we needed to do. So there. During "dinner", Don Eilenberger strolls over and falls into a chair. Literally. The Dinkel beer got him, for sure. He mumbles something about Curry not showing up 'cause he owes Don some part or something...It's freezing outside, and he's wearing nothing but a T-Shirt. He claims he doesn't notice. But I didn't worry about him--I know that God watches over the Village Idiots and looks out for them... As Mike and I are riding the bikes across the field toward the tents on the far side, I realize as the markers cross in front of my beams...150, 200, 250..."Hey, Mike! We're camping on a driving range!!!" (continued) From ibmwrNoSpam@NoSpamworld.std.com Tue Jul 8 08:32:22 1997 From: mark.novitzNoSpam@NoSpamny.ubs.com X-Openmail-Hops: 2 Date: Tue, 8 Jul 97 08:17:12 -0400 Subject: BMW: Riding/Rally in RubberCow Country (Pt. 2) To: ormont1NoSpam@NoSpamjeflin.tju.edu, rdallandNoSpam@NoSpampanix.com, bmwmcNoSpam@NoSpamworld.std.com, wdbNoSpam@NoSpaminnocent.com, zeauNoSpam@NoSpammindspring.com, cgrodnerNoSpam@NoSpamndsisrael.com, alanNoSpam@NoSpamloop.com Reply-To: mark.novitzNoSpam@NoSpamny.ubs.com Saturday: More Pop-Tarts for breakfast. I live for my morning nicotine and sugar rushes. Mike and I sit out in camp-chairs on this dry Catskill morning staring out at the tree-covered mountains looming over the main-tent and ask, "So what's up for today?". Neither one of us is sure, except Mike might want to visit his parents in Willow, NY, about 25 miles away, at some point and say hi. "Fine with me", I say, "How about if we take the long way around to Willow?". Over the next half hour, Mike and I spec out a route that will take us through some great roads out to the farther western point of Catskill Park and around the south, up and through, and back to Woodstock/Willow. It looked good, the day was looking great, and we were off--we were going to circumnavigate the Catskills. Here's the route: Local Roads to 23 West to 145 North to Local Road to Gilboa, NY to 30 South/West to 17 East to 55 East (Rt. 17 Exit 99/Liberty, NY) to 209 North to Local Road through Sampsonville back to 209 North to 213 West to 28 North/West to 212 East to Willow, NY (Stop/Rest) 212 East to 32 North to Local Road to Round Top, NY Total Trip: 250 Miles An unbelievable day. A 250 mile run to go to a town that was 25 miles away to begin with. It almost never got hot, even though the sun was shining and there was barely a cloud in the sky most of the day. Many of the roads we were on had not a car on them. Even Route 17 (a usually-busy 4 laner across lower NY) was virtually empty for the 25 miles we were on it. In fact we didn't see a car for the first 15 or 20 miles of that stretch--the only major route we took all day. Where was everyone? As for the twisties--let's put it this way: I'm no great rider, I don't ride a true "sport" bike--but even I, usually self-depricating, even I can tell that I'm starting to get pretty good--the MSF course did wonders for me and my riding style. Mike, too, he rides an RT, and it's newer ('96) and he's been riding many more years. If nothing else, we worked our asses off that day. All those local roads, 30 South/West around the western edge of the Catskills, 55 East, 213 and 28 North/West--these roads--they're not the Blue Ridge Parkway, but, then again, we weren't sitting with our left hands on the tank bag and the throttle-lock on...we were riding long and hard on both the straights and the curves and, bottom line, it was a very tiring 250 miles... Back at the campsite, sprawled out in our chairs, exhausted, we were greeted by the friendly sight of Reid Dalland and his K75RT, just up from Brooklyn for the last night of the rally--we told him that the rally was sold out--they had no more dinners left, and that we were heading out for German food at about 6:30/7:00. He pitched his tent (a one-man Eureka that was designed by--get this--his brother!) nearby and we went back (yet again) to the Bavarian Manor. Here's the dinner tally: Mark, Saurbraten with Potato Dumplings and Red Cabbage. Mike, some kind of steak wrapped around bacon and pickle with Schpetzle. Reid, the assorted Wurst platter, with krauts and the other works. I had an awesome Weiss beer, though I couldn't tell you which one. It was all very civilized (it is a "family" place") and overall, a pretty enjoyable meal, even if the Apple Strudel for dessert wasn't that good... Mike and I were kind of useless once back at Reidlbauer's--we stumbled around but were too exhausted from the day, and the lack of sleep the night before, and the meal we just ate...Reid, fortunately, knows lots of folks and made off on his own way to leave Mike and I to our own devices, which were basically our sleeping bags. Thanks to the Weiss beer, I woke up numerous times throughout the next few hours and I assure you that the band and the crowd once again rocked well into the 1am hour... (continued) From ibmwrNoSpam@NoSpamworld.std.com Tue Jul 8 08:39:56 1997 From: mark.novitzNoSpam@NoSpamny.ubs.com X-Openmail-Hops: 2 Date: Tue, 8 Jul 97 08:17:44 -0400 Subject: BMW: Riding/Rally in RubberCow Country (Pt. 3) To: ormont1NoSpam@NoSpamjeflin.tju.edu, rdallandNoSpam@NoSpampanix.com, bmwmcNoSpam@NoSpamworld.std.com, wdbNoSpam@NoSpaminnocent.com, zeauNoSpam@NoSpammindspring.com, cgrodnerNoSpam@NoSpamndsisrael.com, alanNoSpam@NoSpamloop.com Reply-To: mark.novitzNoSpam@NoSpamny.ubs.com Sunday: "How you getting back, Reid?" "Not sure, but I was thinking...nice day, nice roads..." Another perfect weather day. I was waiting for the sun to come over the treetops and dry the dew off my rainfly and windshield but I ran out of patience and just started stuff-sacking away...we all chatted with our neighbors as the heat began to come up, Mike and I snapped a few pictures... Mike, faced with the choice of stopping by Willow to see his parents (they weren't at the house when we stopped by on Saturday) or riding with Reid and I on a bunch of the roads that we didn't cover on Saturday--well, let's just say that his parents never had a chance. "What're gonna do, Mike?"--"I'm going with you guys." Reid led most of the time at a wonderfully leisurely pace, especially in contrast to the constant hard and fast riding Mike and I did the day before. It was great to ride the same kind of roads again but see them in a completely new way, with lots more time to look over and above and through the trees...Mike and I also led at times, though I assure you, as was the case all weekend, that when _I_ took the lead, THAT was when the deer decided to come out. Three times this weekend (once each day) I had to brake for crossing deer--none of those times was I alone, but I was always at the front of the pack...what's the deal with that? 32 South to 23A West to 214 South/West to 28 West to Local Road South to Oliveria/Claryville (CR 47) to 55 West to Breakfast at the Liberty Diner It was kind of tough to find the Liberty Diner, but once there, it was packed!!! As Reid said, no cooking after church in this town! Everyone was at the diner...and so were we...pancakes, eggs, omeletes, home fries...and my usual chocolate milk for the morning sugar rush. We spent much of breakfast talking about the local road out of Big Indian that ran through past Claryville to 55. It was a truly great road with beautiful sites everywhere. There were so many places we could have stopped. At one point the road climbs fairly hard and fast, obviously heading to the top of the mountain, and just as you reach the top of the last hill, when you expect to look off to one side or the other and so some panorama or vista, instead, off to the left is a beautiful lake, sunk into the top of the mountain like gravy in a pile of mashed potatoes. We also passed a French-style chateau kind-of place with multiple dwellings and horses, a huge YMCA area right in the middle of nowhere (with hundreds of kids playing outside), and a one-person-wide rickety-looking wooden suspension bridge that crossed over the river we were riding up alongside for most of that road. Highly recommended. After breakfast, Mike became increasingly depressed about the lack of choices that existed for getting back to Philly. He eventually sucked up to the God of Slab and decided to hit 17 East to make for the Turnpike or the Parkway or something like that...Reid and I decided to retrace our steps and follow 55 back to New Paltz to get the full NY44/55 effect--it's a pretty good road, and it would take us back to the Thruway so we could try and make some time. At the East-West split, we waved so-long to Mike and got on our way. 55 East to 209 North to 44 East to 299 East to 87 South It was getting hot out. I had stopped for some water and two aspirin in New Paltz. I was feeling feverish, but I didn't know why--I had no other symptoms of illness. I lowered my windshield to get myself a little more air, drank some more water, filled up my Camelback, and just held the bad feelings at bay. The NY Thruway was a disaster. We only got on for two exits, and spent the bulk of that time in traffic, or, more likely, splitting lanes. As I told Reid: my feet were hot...and I hate when my feet get hot. We pulled off, as intended, for Harriman State Park. 6 East to Harriman State Park Roads to I've never really explored this Park. It's always full of city people who are trying to get as far away as they can without going that far away. As someone who likes to ride, I can make it that much further to the Catskills or the Adirondacks when I want to get away. Reid knew Harriman pretty well and he showed me around. Amazingly, Reid found his girlfriend's car in one of the parking lots we passed through (she was hiking for the day)--he left a note for her, which must have been quite surprising. There were hundreds of cars parked in dozens of lots and sides of the road all over the place. Either Reid knew where to look or there was an amazing stroke of luck and he had the eagle eyes to complement it. Reid showed me his favorite "twistie practice ground". A 3.5 mile unnamed, unnumbered stretch of road that runs between the end of Route 17A and Kanawauke Circle inside the State Park. Reid says it's the closest thing to the Blue Ridge within about 30 miles of New York City. That's pretty much true. But since it's only three and a half miles, we ran it 4 times, stopping at each end and turning around under the Thruway underpass at one end and another parking lot at the other. After all the leisurely pace we had been keeping the entire day since coming out of the campsite, Reid sure turned on the steam for that stretch. He seemed to know it pretty well and ran it very, very hard. I tried to keep up. Once again, I felt mentally great...I've already put on close to 7,000 miles this year, and with the MSF course at the very beginning of the season, and all these miles of practice, and, well, I don't know, but you guys know...sometimes it just feels like everything is really falling together. On the last pass around these twisties, I pulled in real hard on the second curve, a tight right hander, and for the first time ever scraped something on the ground--pretty sure it was the cylinder guard--it scared the hell out of me, but it felt great to finally do it once... CR 106 East to Palisades Parkway South to George Washington Bridge to NYC And that was all she wrote. Or he wrote. Reid made his way on through Manhattan to Brooklyn, and I'm sending him this hoping that he'll reply and let me know that he got home OK. Same goes for Mike. Me? I'm fine--another minor obligation nearly led to my falling asleep in my salad plate at my girlfriend's mothers' place, but once I was home for good, the great god of sleep came and took me away until he was attacked by the devil himself, the 6:30am alarm... ...now where's that chocolate milk? /novitz/ /nyc/ /'85 r80rt - 'EQUUS'/ From ibmwrNoSpam@NoSpamworld.std.com Tue Jul 8 09:09:56 1997 From: mark.novitzNoSpam@NoSpamny.ubs.com X-Openmail-Hops: 2 Date: Tue, 8 Jul 97 08:50:41 -0400 Subject: BMW: RubberCow Followup To: ormont1NoSpam@NoSpamjeflin.tju.edu, alanNoSpam@NoSpamloop.com, cgrodnerNoSpam@NoSpamndsisrael.com, zeauNoSpam@NoSpammindspring.com, wdbNoSpam@NoSpaminnocent.com, bmwmcNoSpam@NoSpamworld.std.com, rdallandNoSpam@NoSpampanix.com Reply-To: mark.novitzNoSpam@NoSpamny.ubs.com --openmail-part-0056d782-00000001 Content-Type: text/plain; charset=US-ASCII; name="PUBLIC:" Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit Mark commented on a road I mentioned to Reid the night before: > We spent much of breakfast talking about the local road out of Big > Indian that ran through past Claryville to 55. It was a truly great > road with beautiful sites everywhere. There were so many places we > could have stopped. At one point the road climbs fairly hard and > fast, obviously heading to the top of the mountain, and just as you > reach the top of the last hill, when you expect to look off to one > side or the other and so some panorama or vista, instead, off to the > left is a beautiful lake, sunk into the top of the mountain like gravy > in a pile of mashed potatoes. We also passed a French-style chateau > kind-of place with multiple dwellings and horses, a huge YMCA area > right in the middle of nowhere (with hundreds of kids playing > outside), and a one-person-wide rickety-looking wooden suspension > bridge that crossed over the river we were riding up alongside for > most of that road. Highly recommended. Some history and comments on the road mentioned.. I'd taken the road - which runs from Curry NY to Big Indian NY (in Curry, look for the sign saying Claryville off 55).. on the way up to Udder Nonsense to see how things had changed over the past 3+ decades.. The year I graduated high-school, before entering college, I worked in this valley, at the YMCA camp. There are few spots I know of that have the concentrated beauty of this valley. The road in question follows the Neversink River - supposed to be one of the best trout streams in NY. The road is never much more than 20 feet from the river - and often a lot closer. The mansion they passed was the summer house of the original owner of most of the valley - an early 20th Century Robber Baron - named Forstman.. who owned what at the time was Forstman Mills (it is now one of the better known mill companies - makes towels, sheets and such, and I forget the name). He bought about 8 miles of the valley, from mountain ridge to mountain ridge and set about building his summer camp. The main house has 45+ rooms, 4 floors and a tower going one story higher, elevator, gold fixtures, exotic woods throughout and is stone/shingle construction. He also built a few outbuildings - like a 20 stall stable, a watchmans house for the winter, and various support buildings of all sorts. The main house was built around 1918, and was for the time fully modern - electricity (with a generator plant in another building), elevator and steam heat. Around 1958, the Newark NJ YMCA Area Association decided their summer camp in NJ was too small, and being encroached upon by development (it was in upper NJ, Sussex county on lake Waywayanda) and struck a deal with the decendents of Forstman - they bought the entire property, with the mansion fully furnished for $50,000. 10,000 acres of land, the mansion, the river all for $50,000... the YMCA paid for it by selling several of the oriental rugs in the mansion. Mr. Forstman was a nature fancier - he liked deer - to the extent that he built a 12 foot deer-fence around the entire property and then stocked it with deer brought from Europe.. when I worked there walking at night was a hazard - deer were everywhere, hunting had not been allowed in the valley for almost 50 years. Luckily for me - the deer must have gotten the 4th of July off - didn't see a one! On days off - if we had nothing to do - we could stay overnight in the mansion - free. 4th floor - bedrooms off the billards room, gold fixtures in the baths and an observatory off the octagonal tower room with a telescope where you could see the entire property. The YMCA at that time was also running the mansion as a guest house for visiting parents, and as a conference location.. might make a super spot for a mini-IBMWR rally once the camp closes at the end of August. Time changes things - but I'm happy to say - it appears the valley has only improved. When I worked there - the pavement ended 30' past the mansion (Mr Forstman had some influence with the state in getting it paved to that point).. The preferred route would probably be north to south (Big Indian to Curry) since the upper portion (that climbs up the hill) was recently gravelled (and was 'interesting' coming down with loose gravel in the corners and the center of the lane), but either way it's a great road. Not a fast road - but a great one. Wish I had more time on my way up to stop and take a few pictures.. Anyone up for a ride sometime soon? There's a German guest house in Olivera that I stayed at with my wife the year we got married.. saw it Friday - still in business! Best, Don BTW - the valley in question is called Frost Valley, as is the YMCA camp.. dunno exactly why, but perhaps some mapmaker around the turn of the century had too much DinkleAcker and misspelled Forst(man).. ======================================= Don Eilenberger Spring Lk Hts, NJ, USA deilenbergerNoSpam@NoSpammonmouth.com ======================================= --openmail-part-0056d782-00000001 Content-Type: application/x-openmail-1166 Content-Transfer-Encoding: quoted-printable TO: bmwmcNoSpam@NoSpamworld.std.com FROM: deilenberger/OU=nyux/DD.RFC-822=deilenberger#a#monmouth#f#comNoSpam@NoSpamsvbear CC: mark.novitzNoSpam@NoSpamny.ubs.com --openmail-part-0056d782-00000001-- From ibmwrNoSpam@NoSpamworld.std.com Wed Jul 9 19:51:02 1997 Date: Thu, 10 Jul 1997 09:34:29 -0700 From: Mick Furchert To: bmwmcNoSpam@NoSpamworld.std.com Cc: FILKJFNoSpam@NoSpamSMTPGATE.lmtas.lmco.com Subject: BMW: Dry Starts Reply-To: Mick Furchert DRY. Start the engine and immediately take it to red line and hold it there for 60 seconds. Apparently this radical procedure is required since boxers have a terrible time setting rings. This procedure seems radical, but I had the good fortune to go throught the BM factory in Spandu while the R1100 was in production but not released yet, because this was the re-birth of the 'Boxer', the qualitly control was enormous. What amazed me was to see brand spanking new R1100 rolled onto a dyno type machine and started up and gunned to 100 mph, 1st,2nd,3rd,4th etc in 10 seconds flat then shut down rolled off and next one on, it was unrool. Cheers from Australia Mick K100RS From ibmwrNoSpam@NoSpamworld.std.com Wed Jul 23 18:55:14 1997 From: Bmwbobs2NoSpam@NoSpamaol.com Date: Wed, 23 Jul 1997 18:38:57 -0400 (EDT) To: bmwmcNoSpam@NoSpamworld.std.com Subject: BMW: Bavaria Ride Trip Report Reply-To: Bmwbobs2NoSpam@NoSpamaol.com Hello all, Regarding the numerous requests I have received to tell people about our June trip I hope the following offers a taste of the fun that was had by all. Our group for the Bob's BMW "Baltimore to Bavaria Breakfast Ride" totaled 33 people on 26 bikes. The ages varied from 18 to 73. There were 9 women, two of whom rode bikes and 21 men plus our 3 tour guides. All pretty experienced riders. We added a visit to the BMW Zentrum and the BMW Museum to what Edelweiss Bike Travel offers as their "High Alpine Adventure" which also allowed us some free time and an extra night to enjoy the sights and Bier Garten in Munich before taking delivery of our various BMW motorcycles for the tour. That evening alone was worth the price of admission! Try and visulize a parking garage of BMW enthusiasts that are basically taking "delivery" of their new machines. It was great fun. The Zentrum is BMW's factory owned store in Munich (cars and bikes) and you often get to see new products, colors, gear, etc. on display. One also gets a chance to see just how good the service at a good dealership is in the USA by comparison to the very limited operating hours and staffing offered in German shops. We had the following machines: 2 F650,1 F650ST, 3 R850R, 2 R1100R, 4 R1100RS, 4 R1100RT, 1 R1100GS, 1 K1100RS, 5 R80GS (not available in the US), and 2 K1200RS. Our tour guides rode a K1100LT, R100GS/PD and a R80GS. Collectively, we must have pulled some strings because we had unbeatable weather. :-) I spent less than 6 hours in 10 days with my gore-tex liner in my BMW Marrakesh riding suit and only half that time did it actually rain, and then only lightly. Generally speaking the weather and temperatures were as perfect as one could get. High 60's to low 80's the whole time with bright sunny skys accented by beautiful clouds here and there. It just added to the drama of where we rode. Hotels, with only one exception, were way beyond my expectations and usually set right in the middle of the roads we had been riding all day. We woke to snow-capped mountains, fresh air, great breakfasts (hence, the breakfast ride name!), and more roads and fantastic scenery to challenge our senses and riding skills. At this time of year neither the roads or the hotels were crowded so we were treated like royalty just about every where we went. For those of you that have never been on a motorcycle in Europe, motorcyclists get treated very well anyway. By the second and third days just about everyone had found riding friends of similar styles, capabilities, speeds or like interests in how many photo ops and tourist type visits you wished to cram into each days schedule. Many new long time friendships were created on this trip and a few previously, casual friends got to know each other much better through days spent riding followed by evenings spent telling of the days events over good food and fine biers and wine. If you bump into me at a rally or in the shop, ask me about the Italian-Austrian border crossing and I'll tell you about the best experience of my trip and my infamous statement " you're never lost unless you're late for dinner". As for passes and twisties, I began to lose count; and were it not for the fact that the next day held more of the same, would have probably turned around at many points and redone what I had just completed! We did the Julierpass at 2284 meters, the Timmelsjoch-Hochalpenstrasse at 2509 meters, the Grossglockner at 2369 meters, the Passe di Stelvio at 2759 meters, which was something like 47 switch- backs up and 38 more down! This is challenging and exciting motorcycling! You could spend a lot of your day just crossing the mountains before you really traveled more than 50 or so kilometers as a crow flys. Often, it was just plain hard not to stop every 5 or 10 minutes to take in the view and perhaps grab a photo. Most of mine were taken by my wife, Suzanne while riding as passenger. With lots of snow, like 10 feet or more in some places on the roadside, the visability around several turns was quite limited yet also spectacular to be riding through. At one stop several of us had a playful snowball battle! Some tunnels were thrilling, while others were simply scary due to their lack of any light and the wet crumbling surfaces within them. Many of the group stopped off to visit some of the numerous castles we encountered and got a healthy dose of local history. One particularly interesting visit was to the town of Glurns which dates to the 1300's and is one of the only completely walled city's in Europe. Coming down from the mountains in the Tirols you look down on this jewel and to ride by without a visit would be unthinkable. Another great visit was to the Schloss Bruck castle in the town of Lienz in Austria that is filled with museum artifacts from many centuries of ownership. Our climb to the highest level in the tower netted us a spectacular 360 degree view of the countryside that clearly showed how this place had survived the test of both time and invaders. You could easily see anyone that might approach no matter how clever they might have been. On the last leg of our final day we got to finally get into 5th gear and blast along the autobahn at speeds easily exceeding 120 mph for the duration of almost 95 kilometers as we returned to the outskirts of Munich for our last evening together. My brief comments here, much like the photograhs taken, only serve to remind me and the others of what a great experience it was. It can't be captured in words or film. I have had numerous poeple ask me if I will host another tour, including those that participated and those that wanted to join the Bob's group and could not. The answer is an unqualified YES! Perhaps in the fall of 1998. Perhaps a Spanish castle tour this time, who knows! Respectfully submitted, Bob Henig ```````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````` BMWBobs2NoSpam@NoSpamAOL.Com 10630-Y Riggs Hill Road, Jessup, MD 20794 Parts: 301-924-5155 Sales: 301-497-6192 Service: 301-497-8949 FAX: 301-776-2338 ````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````` From "Bryan Lally (lallyNoSpam@NoSpamlanl.gov)" Date: Wed, 27 Aug 1997 19:55:44 -0600 (MDT) From: "Bryan Lally (lallyNoSpam@NoSpamlanl.gov)" Subject: BMW: Jemez ride report (was: I have fallen down and can't get up! AH) GWBDMBNoSpam@NoSpamaol.com's keyboard spoke: > Ok so when I need a tech / answered I will not get one answer. BUT....... > do we not have one soul, sole or what ever,... riding? Are we all stuck in > some mind warp that says '"we must first fix before we ride"? Do we not have > a great little bar with interesting people inside. A pool game? A great 4 > calendar cafe. Some well kept secret back road. Some sort of interactive > day. > Ok so Lee did his nothern exposure and has some interesting rides. Is that > it for the WORLD!!!! > > I come home after x days and want to see some escape rides. Pleasseeeee take > me away! I am about to open the window and yell " I can not take it any > longer, you can take this XXXXX and shove it. My future is in your > collective hands. Please tell me about those great rides and terrific people > along the way. Gately, Have a bad day? Did it rain on you? Hard as it is to believe, some of us did go out riding, although that was _after_ we played with the RainX. I wrote this up for the scenic-byway-in-national-forest guy. Perhaps it will help. - Bryan New Mexico 4, from Los Alamos to Jemez Springs As you leave Los Alamos, and come to New Mexico 4, you have a decision to make. Bandelier National Monument beckons to the east. But today is a day for riding, so you turn west, towards Cuba, La Cueva, Jemez Springs, into the heart of the Jemez Mountains. The road climbs. Steeply. You're immediately in the middle of a switchback hard to the left, marked 10mph. The panorama starts to unfold to the east, but you don't dare look, as the pavement is twisting wildly beneath you. If you had dared to look, you would have seen the valley of the Rio Grande, Santa Fe, and several small mountain towns climbing the ridges of the Sangre de Cristo mountains. You continue to climb. You thought the air was thin in Los Alamos, at 7300'. You're quickly heading for 9800', through a pine forest that belongs to Bandelier, to the Department of Energy, and to the Santa Fe National Forest. The road is a mountain joy, never going straight. Deer, elk, porcupines, coyotes, and raccoons are common. Black bear are not rare. All of a sudden, you start to go down, and you almost immediately have to stop. You are staring at the Valle Grande, part of 3 valles that form one of the largest calderas in the world, created by the collapse of the Jemez volcano system nearly a million years ago. This is truly the heart of a mountain range. The open land in what looks like a 12 mile diameter crater is a private ranch, and you know that if you were reincarnated as a cow, this is where you'd live. There is a herd of several thousand elk that live with the cattle, and both can often be seen near the road. The road wanders along the edge of this giant crater for several miles, with the steep crater wall on your left, and beautiful high alpine meadows on your right. As you leave the caldera, the road turns into a continuous sequence of high speed sweepers. You cross the upper sections of the East Fork of the Jemez River. This is part of the Santa Fe National Forest. The pines are slightly more open than before, and are covered with moss, here in what most people expect is a desert. You're generally going down now, heading for La Cueva. Campgrounds, picnic areas and hiking trails are found every few miles, and the smell of wood smoke is common on the weekend. On a special weekend in May, Internet BMW Riders meet here for lunch. The scenery continues to amaze. As you drop down into La Cueva, you see a spectacular rock cliff in the distance. The last 15 miles have all been in the National Forest. In La Cueva, the road joins the Rio San Antonio, and soon meets the East Fork again. 8 miles of winding road along this beautiful river, complete with hot springs and rainbow trout bring you to the village of Jemez Springs, where you should stop for an espresso, and maybe a burrito. While you're relaxing, you ask yourself the question "where should I go next?" The answer soon becomes obvious - back the way I just came. From van husen Date: Mon, 01 Sep 1997 16:13:22 +0200 Subject: BMW: Crazy?!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I would like to share with you an article I found on motorcycle-online. It seems that I, to the dismay of my family and my "biketouring friends",am heading down the same slippery slope. I rediscovered motorbikes rather hesitantly in October 1995 after a long inactivity(15+years), immediately going for a BMW as I felt myself older and mature (I was 38 at the time). I did not want to go fast, just wanted to cruise a little bit. I made the terrible mistake to enroll with my R 850 R in a trackschool at the famous (infamous) Nuerburgring back in June 1996 and I have been hooked ever since. The R 850 has been replaced nearly immediately with a Honda CBR and now with the most extreme sportbike possible, a Ducati 748 SP. I still had, until a few days ago, my RS 1100, but riding on the streets started to scare me a little bit due to some pretty "close shaves" I had. I have sofar attended 3 trackschools this year and I'm enrolled in 2 more. My wife thinks I am a complete nutcase and the discussions at home sometimes get pretty unpleasant. But as written in the article below, the joy I feel and the friends I make render it impossible to stop.I will continue to have a BMW for streetuse, but once you have gotten used to the thrill of the track, everything else gets kind of dull. I hope I didn't bore you with with " coming-out". """""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""" By Bob Larson, Contributing Writer/Motorcycle-online Danger is Your Middle Name "I (sign here) understand that riding my motorcycle on a racetrack brings with it the possibility that I may be killed or injured due to the actions of myself or others." "I (sign here) understand that compliance with school rules and the instructions and orders of school staffers is essential because riding a motorcycle on a racetrack is very serious and very dangerous." "I (sign here) understand that riding my motorcycle on a racetrack brings with it the possibility that my motorcycle may be damaged or destroyed due to the actions of myself or others." These hair-raising snippets are quoted directly from a release form I hold in front of me,requiring my signature so that I might attend yet another motorcycle track school. I suspect they use a toned down version of this very document before civilians are allowed to ride the Space Shuttle. Of course I'm aware that such waivers are a necessary evil in the litigious United States, and it's unlikely that any track school here could stay in business very long without them. It's just that the very real act of putting pen to paper and saying in effect, yes, I agree that I am a certifiable nut case, does give one pause for reflection. It was just one year ago when I first signed my life away in similar fashion and journeyed into the fracture-prone world of motorcycle racers. Going in with only my street riding experience, I approached the racetrack as if it were a minefield waiting to blow me clear into the next life at the slightest misstep. Certainly the release forms didn't help change my preconception. Since then I've spent time circling various tracks at other bike schools and two different car events, and have noticed a striking change in my attitude. Far sooner than expected, it seems I've become glazed over about the whole first-hand experience of the racetrack. What once appeared as an exotically dangerous activity marked by an appalling frequency of injuries, now sort of resembles perfectly normal life. Albeit an exceptionally interesting life. The waiting track ambulance, once ominous to me in its implications, now just seems like a logical and sensible precaution. Riders crash, bikes flip, flags come out, shit happens. Are my lap times are coming down yet? Perhaps this is how one begins a typical descent into madness, when ideas are embraced that were formerly regarded as insane. I hope the truth is merely that I underestimated the extent to which our perceptions of risk are subject to change, given a bit of familiarization and possibly a touch of adrenaline addiction. I don't have it so bad yet that I need to start racing, but I'm also not willing to make any predictions about that particular subject. There was a time when I wasn't even going to ride a motorcycle, period. Whoever that idiot was masquerading as me has long since left the building. It's funny, you don't have to sign much more than your license to ride on the street, and yet there are more than a few amateur and professional motorcycle racers who refuse to do so! Believe it or not, these tank-slappin' rocket jockeys think the street is too dangerous for a bike. The track, they would argue, is usually designed with crash safety in mind. Furthermore,most of the people sharing it with you are at least all going in the same direction at approximately the same speed and behave predictably. Street riding, on the other hand, is filled with all kinds of nasty variables -- hard stoppie things in the worst possible places, triple-digit closing speeds, potholes, speed bumps, sand, oil, blind driveways and legally blind drivers. They may have a point. In fact, the most recent study by the U.S. National Highway Traffic Safety Administration (NHTSA) has pronounced street motorcyclists four times more likely to be injured and fully 16 times more likely to die in a traffic crash than their automotive counterparts, per vehicle mile. To us riders, this data raises an obvious question: Are we crazy? Like it or not it seems most people will proceed from the simplistic notion that motorcycles are dangerous. The point they seem to miss completely is that bikes beat the hell out of a brisk walk any day of the week, and are one of the all-time great sources of fun and fulfillment. From the oddly profound joy of a well-carved corner, to the many friendships and acquaintances I've made among riders, this sport we share has enriched my life in ways I could have barely imagined at the outset. Danger is relative in a world that will inevitably kill you. With that in mind, I feel confident in my belief that motorcycling is not only a highly reasonable risk, it quickly became an unexpectedly vital one to me as well. My interest is now cautiously expanding onto the racetrack, and I realize I'm probably following a path treading down a rather slippery slope. But it's often the more treacherous route that leads to the most worthwhile destinations. The ink on those release forms is drying, and somewhere a roomful of lawyers must be smiling. It's time to put my pen down, shut up and ride. I'll see the rest of you lunatics out on the slippery path. """""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""" """""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""" Bernard van Husen Mad in Bergamo Date: Mon, 27 Apr 1998 17:02:58 -0700 (PDT) From: Warren Harhay To: bmwmcNoSpam@NoSpamworld.std.com Subject: BMW: Badboys, Fatboys and Knuckleheads (long) Sender: ibmwrNoSpam@NoSpamworld.std.com Reply-To: Warren Harhay X-No-Archive: yes X-Bmw-List: Majordomo 1.94.3 X-Web-Page: http://www.ibmwr.org/ X-Copyright: (c) IBMWR and the original author(s). Here's more delete key fodder: Badboys, Fatboys and Knuckleheads A report from the field on the Laughlin River Run Thought I'd pass along a few observations of the just completed Laughlin (Nevada) River Run. An annual motorcycle weekend that is a wierd almagam of moto gettogether/casino-AMA-Harley Davidison cross promotion, poker runs, babes, booze, boobs, bravado, gamble and gambol. All this frosted with a very light coating of law enforcement activity then baked under a Springtime sun in the now warming oven of the eastern Mohave. The venue: the gambling boom town of Laughlin located in the southern tip of Nevada bordering Arizona (Bullhead City) and California (Needles). A river runs through it. The Colorado. Here, just south and in sight of the Davis Dam, some forty years ago the proprietor of a riverside bait and beer shack named Don Laughlin convinced the U.S. Post Office to colocate a branch bearing his name. Later, with some additional convincing of more than a few others, this small worm, minnow and Bud shop was to transform itself into the Riverside Hotel and Casino. It now establishes the northernmost terminus of a strip of gambling halls and hotels all dedicated to the pursuit, as so delicately phrased by the gaming industry, of "Nevada style fun". Bait is no longer sold at the Riverside ( human forms are still available), though beer continues to flow just as freely as the bordering Colorado's streams into Lake Havasu. It is here that last week Badboys, Fatboys and Knuckleheads were all to converge for a celebration. There were lots of motorcycles too. Local newspapers reported that upwards of 40,000 participants were expected to attend this rally-event. Forty dollar rooms in Bullhead City were sold out at an elevated one hundred a night (2 night minimum) rate months ago. Promoters billed this as the largest motorcycle gathering in the West. Though now temporarily bikeless, I went. Bikers polished, shined, prepped then checked out their trailers and pickups. Exhibitionists prepared their exhibits. Bandannas were banded. Chaps were unfurled from winter storage. Rider wear was chosen for it's conformity to agreed upon non-conformity. Riders checked their suspensions, tires and rain gear. Costumes set, attitudes for some were adjusted to that simmering level of contemptuous arrogance. The Casino managers anxiously awaited the approaching hordes. I am sure they salivated at the prospect. The first wave of invaders to Laughlin proved not to be two wheeled but two winged. Millions of grasshoppers hatched as the combination of El Nino stimulated rains and springtime heat triggered a simultaneous birthing covering the gambling town in some places a foot deep with these jumping writhing, wriggling insects. They were not welcome. They had no money. All around Laughlin the roar of decibel enhanced motorcycles rang through the thin desert air. These sonic evangelists proclaiming saved lives through their (overly) loud pipes. Their thunderous arrival signaled the commencement of this annual celebration of what has been dubbed the "biker lifestyle". These "events" share a similiar ambiance of outrageousness, arrested adoloscence swathed in black leather bespeckled with chrome. Here along the "strip" the goal is demonstrating oneupsmanship in boorishness with banality. Hand made "Show your tits" signs abounded and were frequently flashed to passing female passengers by young men seated along the roadside as if suspended in mid-puberty. Outrageous? I don't think so. Inside any one of the betting parlors showrooms you get world class views of blemish free perfection for a two drink minimum. No sign, no shouting is necessary. The parking lots fronting the Casino castles were filled with all forms of two wheeled transport. Harley Davidson clearly was the predominant brand. Harleys were the bike of choice although a scattering of BMWs, Goldwings and rice rockets were sprinkled throughout the continuum of bikes present. I made it a point to check the VINs of all the black Road Kings that came close to looking like my recently stolen bike. This search was futile but I did feel that some sense of at least minor accomplishment by undertaking this hapless task. In cordoned off areas tents of canvas covered vendors offered the essentials: beer, trailers and knifes. Bargain leathers of all forms, yet all black, were available as well as the now fashionable "unhelmet" beanie. Good fashion and style is timeless. That being the case, you could, of course, purchase a NAZI replica helmet to make that statement that has long been pent up deep within your psyche. Little black and white stickers of varying profanity and vulgarity were optional accoutrements for the style challanged. A new addition to the garb were tee shirts boldly emblazoned with the SS insignia. I half expected to see replica Zyclon B gas cannisters offered as beer can holders, but alas, noone has gone this far. Yet. In the dubious reach to achieve even more bizarre headgear, two riders were observed with helmets representative of the spiked combat helmets worn by the Kaiser's forces during World War I. True retro! An interesting touch carrying the Germanic military infuence back even one more generation before the NAZI era. I am sure these helmets lacked DOT or Snell approval as an unplanned dismount could cause the same kind of brain damage demonstrated in secondary school biology classes known as "pithing" a frog. If that happened, these guys would be pithed, I am sure. In one Laughlin related incident, two helmetless riders heading in opposite directions had a meeting of the minds as the result of a high speed head-on collision in the nearby ghost-town/watering hole of Oatman Arizona. Martyred while entangled in the twisted wreckage of their devastated machines, it is unknown if their lives could have been spared if only their pipes would have been louder. Authorities did, however, speculate that helmets may have saved them both. Arizona has no helmet law. Another observed trend that became more widespread was the act of smoking a cigar while astride the motorcycle in motion. It clearly must be better to experience both motorcycling and a stogie simultaneously. It is unknown whether the still smoldering detritus of the smoked cigar when fallen creates ashholes. But I think it does. Yamaha defied the brand myopia with its prescence and display. The Yamaha trademark of three tuning forks indicates that these folks know something about sound. At their tent it was obvious to all present that Yamaha had finally attained parity in achieving that illusive coolness. A number of Royal Star customs were outfitted with road pipes that were as loud as their paint schemes. Yamaha has exhibited no shame in knocking off the Royal Star name from a prior Brit marque, or the obvious cloning of the Road King look, but now they had attained an overarching achievement with four, not just two, straight pipes to blast life back into the dead. These pipes didn't just save lives they could resurect it! Smiles and approving nods greeted each blast and throttle twist. I thought I saw the Corbin alligator skin seat actually try to crawl off the bike! On the strip the roar of bikes coming and going created a chorus of cacophony that seemed to resonate among the gathered throng of observers. I began to notice that the riders faces astride these bikes wore nothing but a scowl or a grimace. If this is such a joy, where were the signs of enjoyment? I could understand the gals frowns. They had little on which to sit themselves upon and furthermore they had much to concentrate on looking pretty and suave while thier SO had only to concentrate on being cool and not falling over. I was amazed at the show of skin, not for it's sex appeal but for the almost taunting attitude to the harsh, hot pavement. Calamine lotion would not easily soothe a road rash, but bare skin IS cool. Occasionally a BMW rider, ST1100 or a sports bike would pass by, as if sucked by some navigational mistake into this parade of cretins. They were out of place to be sure, but their look generated a familiar resonance of being within me. I wished then that I had my bike. I wished I was in the street riding not standing along side it. The longing for my now-sold ST or the shopbound K1200 further soured my mood. You may gather from my description a disapproving dissonance of tone. Maybe I'm sore that I couldn't participate. Just a wannabe, an observer. I claim no objectivity in my description. We all perceive our environment through unique filters and I admit mine may be tuned to much too finely limited spectrum. Yet I do find comfort in these folks' freedom of expression. Even if that which is expressed is more base than my preference. My scorn or ridicule is tempered with the realization that I am no position to judge. In their eyes I'm just a crazy old long distance rider obsessed with big mile days and the affinity for the solitude of the ride. However, if this costume party, surly attitude and possession of the "one true brand of bike" is all these folks claim from their adoption of motorcycling as a lifestyle, they are to be pitied more than scorned. The communion of man and machine in pursuit The Ride is for me the holy grail of motorcycling. The Ride is the dispenser of motorcyclene, that most elusive and addictive narcotic of the motorcyclist who is at one with his machine in pursuit of the fulfillment and joy of The Ride. I've got to go ride, soon. w ------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Warren Harhay, SysAdmin: Access Nevada http://www.accessnv.com STOC#174 HSTA#6854 AMA#500320 BMWMOA BMWRA#21750 BOOF#101 IBA SS1000/BBG/50CC 1997 Iron Butt Rally Finisher #28h OK, OK #40 Amateur Radio: K8NPI ARRL/OO