(Enter your own psych joke here)
Most licked sign in Europe
No Pussy for you, bad boy!
Sunday, July 29, 2007
Friday, July 13, 2007
The Curse of Sabo
Well, Sabo’s been and gone for our annual weeklong festival of sitting indoors glowering about how much riding we’d be doing if it would just stop raining.
This is the third year in a row we’ve been frowned upon by the weather gods. Sabo has the dubious distinction of being able to say that he’s spent 24 days in Germany over the last three summers but he still has yet to see one dry day. All that rain has not only curtailed our riding plans every year, it’s also caused Sabo to miss seeing a lot of great scenery such as the sight of the Alps from my house. The only saving grace in the whole sad story is that, because he’s an airline pilot, he doesn’t have to pay air fare to get here.
Sabo first visited in August 2005 after we’d had warm sunny weather the whole month of July. And that August it rained nonstop. July 2006 was again great, but August, while Sabo was here, set a new record for wet. So this time we all got smart, and said, “Come in July,” and – you guessed it – we had the wettest first half of July on record. Maybe if Sabo lived in Death Valley seeing rain would be a treat for him, but for crying out sideways, the guy lives in Portland and works in Seattle.
He left yesterday morning on the 5:35 train, and by noon the streets were drying under grey skies. By 3 o’clock the sun was fully out, children were playing in the streets, and the sound of lawn mowers echoed through the neighborhood while the Alps stood proudly in the middle distance. I knew then that he’d made it to his flight in Frankfurt and was westbound.
By nature I’m not such a solitary creature as you might think based on how much time I spend riding solo. I do, in fact, like to share quality experiences, such as awesome rides, and on almost every ride I find myself bookmarking a route as a must-share for when Sabo gets here. Here I’d been looking forward since last year to show him this fantastic setting that makes my riding – not to mention my day-to-day life – so amazing, and now I’m going to have to wait yet another year. That is, if it’s not raining the whole time he’s here next.
He left yesterday, and I’m still going through the five stages of grieving. I’m not grieving for his departure, I’m grieving for the death of all that precious time we’ll never get back. I’ve passed through Denial (“Oh no, not again!”) and Anger (“Frickin’ rain!”) and Bargaining (“Please please please stop raining, I’ll be a nicer person”) and now I’m firmly in the middle of Depression (“Ah, what’s the use?”). In a couple of days I’ll come out of it and be in Acceptance, but it was a low blow to have a “Polar Low” dump a record amount of rain on us while my best buddy was here for his once-a-year visit.
A pity for Sabo, too, who had paid $650 for a week’s motorcycle rental, only to have it sit in the garage part of that week. We were hoping he’d exceed the 1500-kilometer allotment that came with the rental. In fact, we were optimistic he’d have to pony up for another 500 or so upon turning it in. Instead, we rolled up after seven days boasting a mere 1100 km on the trip odometer.
He arrived Tuesday July 3rd, and we were scheduled to pick up his bike the next day. Instead, we spent Wednesday –the 4th of July – waiting for the pouring rain to abate. About 3 o’clock we finally gave up and told the shop we’d pick the bike up the next day. No sense paying a full day’s rent for a couple of wet hours one afternoon.
First thing Thursday morning, despite the continuing rain, we picked his shiny new R1200GS with its clever expandable handbags. We went home and packed, and then set out at 11:30 in steady rain. We cautiously rode for five and a half exhausting hours through the Austrian Alps in the rain. We were anything but fast – we only averaged around 40 KPH, compared with my usual average of 60 KPH on dry Alpine roads. The roads finally dried off late in the afternoon and we were able to up the pace a bit, but we were still riding under heavy grey overcast, wiping sporadic sprinkles from our visors.
Like last year, we climbed over the mighty Timmelsjoch pass with a view mostly of clouds and not of the Alps. It’s a spectacular view, I know. I wish Sabo could see it someday. Down the other side of the pass under clearing skies we cruised into San Leonardo Italy for dinner at our favorite organic restaurant (the one by the bridge, if you know it) where we gorged ourselves on “Bio-pizza” and “Bio-hefeweizen”. It tastes better if it’s “Bio”, right?
Friday dawned bright and blue, with only a few fair-weather cumulus clouds poking around the peaks. After a hearty breakfast, we cheerfully packed up the bikes and rode off for what was supposed to be a banner day of eight or ten passes in a big loop through the Dolomites, that grand section of the Italian Alps with the monstrous jutting rocky crags at every peak. We climbed over the Jaufenpass, down the valley on the other side and then up the Penser Joch, and down through the long Sarntal valley south toward Bolzano.
There are some fantastic looking castles on the ridges and peaks overlooking the valley, and I knew Jeff was under orders from the staff of his coffee hangout in Portland (Anna Bannana’s on NW 21st, where he gets his mail) to take more pictures than last year. I spied a nice photo-op turnout on the left, a dirt parking area with two driveways that would make for easy-in, easy-out. A glance in my mirror showed Sabo 50 meters behind me, and a car behind him. I turned on my left blinker and began slowing, paying attention to the two prominent potholes in the driveway of the lookout point.
As I braked and began my turn, I heard a screeching of tires behind me and in that split second thought, “What the hell is Sabo doing?” and, simultaneously, “Why isn’t his ABS working?”
Before I could even complete the thought I was hit hard by a car – the one that had been behind Sabo – and knocked over to my right in a high-side. The bike landed hard on the pavement and my foot was semi-crushed by something, maybe the swingarm of the bike, as it ground to a stop on its side. The woman in the Audi that hit me was getting out and Sabo was parked nearby and dismounting by the time I stood up. I hobbled in a circle to test my foot and found it would hold my weight, so I limped back to my still-running bike and shut it down.
Sabo and I righted the bike and Sabo pushed it into the parking area where we assessed damages. She’d struck me in the left-side hard case and then the bike had landed on the right one, so both cases had broken off the bike and were all scuffed to hell with big gouges in the plastic. The left-side luggage bracket was snapped and a mounting hook had sheared off of the right-side case, which meant there’d be no riding again with either bag. The battery had leaked acid all over the right side of the engine, and a cracked fuel injector nozzle meant that when the key was turned, fuel spurted out all over the side of the bike. Not good. Not drivable.
I asked the driver, a fifty-five year old grandmother of five named Frieda if she’d seen my blinker. She told me, “Yes, but I drive this road every day. I see lots of motorcycles with their blinker on by mistake. I saw your blinker but I thought you had forgotten it.” I said to her flatly, “No, Frieda. I meant it.” I mean, what do you say to that kind of logic? Next time I’ll wave my arms, too?
Frieda may be a horrid driver, but at least she took responsibility. She stayed while we waited for the police for an hour, who after several phone calls admitted they weren’t actually on their way. Then she drove with me to Bolzano to find a tow truck, led the tow truck back to the accident site and drove me to the BMW shop. She stayed to find out what it would cost, and, eyes popping at the initial estimate, drove with me to her insurance carrier’s office twenty minutes away. She never once tried to say it was anyone else’s fault but her own.
When I say she’s a horrid driver, I’m not saying it just because she hit me. I rode as passenger in her car a total of about two hours that day, and she had horns blown at her no less than three times in critical situations which would have resulted in accidents but for the vigilance and abrupt maneuvering of other drivers. Her response to hearing a horn blown at her is to blow her own. Perhaps she thinks the other horns are a signal of merriment. At one point – and this is true – I put on my helmet in her car while she had a horn-blowing contest with a semi that needed to merge. Somehow, no credit to her, it worked out. On a scale of situational awareness she’d score a negative number. If ever there was ever a case for emergency revocation of driver privileges, she’s it. There should be at least be urgent warnings on the radio when she’s out and about.
Martin Bertolin, the frenetic cappuccino-powered service manager of BMW Bolzano proved that we were far enough north in German-speaking Italy that things would actually get done, and done right, yet far enough south into Italy that only the necessary things would get done, without anyone fussing over unnecessary details. [In Germany: “Ja, such pity vee cannot release to you zee machine, but vee do nott haff zee corrrect sticker for zee logbook.”]
The accident occurred at 12:45, the bike arrived in his shop at 15:30 on a hectic Friday afternoon, and he managed to get me on the road by 18:00 with a new fuel injector and new hard bags. I’ll be sending Martin a present, that’s for sure. Maybe some decaf.
Onwards, then. Sabo and I doggedly pursued our plan to see the Dolomites, turning eastbound out of Bolzano up the Eggerstal Valley, grinding along with all the Friday evening traffic. We’d lost six hours riding, but at least we were back on the road. Near 7 o’clock we found ourselves above the traffic, blasting along in fresh mountain air near the top of the Karerpass. We hadn’t gone far from Bolzano when we decided to stop, but we’d missed lunch and it was getting on time for beer and pizza.
Stopping to enquire for rooms at one hotel turned up the interesting fact that while there weren’t actually any rooms, there was a stunningly beautiful barmaid. We went up the road and found a falling-down hotel called, ironically, the Savoy, and took rooms for €40 each. Sabo graciously let me have the one with the double bed, an act of sympathy I was later grateful for as I thrashed around all night with a swollen foot and bruised body. Naturally, we went back to the first hotel for dinner, and it was a great move. The view was great – of the mountains, I mean – and the food was superb. Man, one gets spoiled eating anywhere in Italy. The food’s great, and there’s natural beauty in abundance everywhere you look.
Saturday we finally got to check off one big box we’ve been wanting to check for three years: Riding the Dolomites. The roads are serpentine and the vistas breathtaking. That’s true of all of the Alps, pretty much, but just somehow more so in the Dolomites. Being a gorgeous summer Saturday, there were droves of bicyclists and cars to contend with, but therein is one of the more satisfying aspects of being on a motorcycle: the ability to dispatch such moving obstacles one by one, and blasting on ahead. Sabo improved his passing techniques exponentially this trip, and emerged a far better rider than when he arrived, and way better than he was last year. We talked about it at length, and he expressed a deep sense of satisfaction for having taken his Alpine riding skills to a new level.
It would be wondrous to ride the Alps without any other road users, but that’s a pipe dream in summer. They’re there, so instead of wishing for something that’s not, one should use every opportunity to pass as a whetstone to hone one’s riding skills. I wouldn’t recommend doing this on Palomar mountain or the Capistrano Highway. In fact I’d go so far as to say it’s only possible here in the Alps where the drivers are better trained, better disciplined, motorcycle conscious and generally very good at moving over to allow bikes to pass. You never see anyone full of resentment hogging the road. Drivers are happy to have you go past and get on down the road, they don’t want your headlight in their mirror for one minute more than necessary. Can’t say the same about my experiences in California, sadly.
By mid-afternoon Saturday we’d traversed five Dolomite passes and crossed back into Austria. Sabo led the way on a route we’d picked to skirt the traffic of Innsbruck. He memorized the route by using village names as fixes, and if you ask him today he can still cite them: Natters, Mutters, Götzens, Axams, Zill. The road we chose was but a small squiggle on the map yet it turned out to provide some of the most awe-inspiring vistas of our whole trip, looking across the Inn River valley north to the Bavarian Alps.
Northbound into Bavaria the road was thick with BMW motorcycles headed to Garmisch-Partenkirchen for the big BMW Motorrad Days Biker Meeting. There were also BMW-sponsored tour groups coming the other way from Garmisch, easy to spot as each group was comprised of one or two of each of the new models in BMW’s 2007 lineup being led by a guy in a green day-glo vest. We saw maybe ten such groups in the hour it took to approach Garmisch from the south.
Our hotel wasn’t in Garmisch but in Oberammergau about 20km away. After getting cleaned up finding a café to order our (much needed) nightly repast of beer and pizza, we found we’d missed the last shuttle bus to the show. Rather than get a cab we decided to just skip the BMW beerhall for the evening in favor of trying out a few sidewalk cafés there in Oberammergau. My foot was still pretty sore so I had no complaints about keeping the walking to minimum. Oberammergau is a tourist town, it’s exceedingly charming, quaint, and picturesque. There might have been a big party going on in Garmisch, but we were having a great time right where we were and just didn’t feel the need to try and trade up.
Sunday we rode to the show about ten and stayed until about three. The show is free and there are dozens of booths with all the after-market goodies you’d associate with BMW motorcycles plus lots of food, beer, demonstrations and activities. Next year I’ll bring the family, there’s even a tent for kids. The day was warm and sunny, except for one huge thundershower that soaked the place for an hour about lunchtime. Was it nature or just a crafty plan on BMW’s part to get everyone into the mess hall for lunch? Whatever, it worked.
Leaving the show, the sky was clear overhead but we could see some weather moving up from the south. Half an hour westbound out of Garmisch the sky went to dark grey, then to sprinkling, then to really raining. It’s a two-hour ride home in dry weather from Garmisch, but more than three when it’s pouring. So our trip ended on Sunday just as it had begun on Thursday, with us going on tiptoes into the corners, puckering at the limits of tire grip and silently thanking BMW for the GS’s wide tiller that’ll pick it up in a corner when it loses its footing.
Here’s the rest of the diary:
Monday, July 9th: Rain. Feeling pathetic and ashamed, we take the car (gack!) to the Held moto-apparel shop, which is an hour away on what are fantastic motorcycling roads in the dry. But Sabo comes away happy, with a new riding jacket, riding trousers, and two pairs of gloves from the bargain bin. Score!
Tuesday, July 10th: Mostly rain, but just enough clearing in the afternoon that we manage to sneak in 120 km in the farm-and-fruit country above Lake Constance.
Wednesday, July 11th: Steady rain. Sabo returns the rental bike in semi-defeat.
Thursday, July 12th: Sabo departs, weather resumes a spectacular summer.
Some critics might say we should just bundle up and ride no matter the weather. If there’s a mission involved, especially one with some reasonable expectation of better weather at the other end, I’d agree. (In fact, that’s just what we did.) But to launch for a day’s pleasure ride in crappy weather is, in my opinion, just inviting trouble, plus it’s not really fun. The concentration required and the lowered speeds make it feel more like work. Obviously, the likelihood of an accident is much higher because the roads are slippery. But even doing your best on a slippery road isn’t always enough, as car drivers can’t see (and don’t look for you) through rain-streaked foggy windows. Rain washes dirt and gravel into corners that you can’t see through your own rain-streaked foggy visor. So before you’ve even set out you’ve lost your ability to mitigate some of the most crucial risks of riding.
My idea of fun riding is all about relishing the performance and capabilities of the machine, savoring the great scenery, and arriving somewhere you can sit outside in the nice weather admiring the bikes while lying about getting your peg down in that last big sweeper. So when I complain that we got rained out, in reality I mean that we made a decision not to expose ourselves to undue risks for what would have been a minimal amount of riding pleasure.
Riding all day in the rain does teach you some important lessons, though, the main one being that it can be done and done safely. In southern California one seldom gets the chance to put wet weather riding skills to the test, much less improve and refine them. If any good came from all the time we spent in the downpour, it’s that we’re both better riders for it.
As far as securing Sabo a sunny ride, maybe we’ll try again this year in late September. That’ll fool the weather gods. And Sabo won’t launch from the US until I’ve got a positive high-pressure good weather forecast. Or, if that doesn’t work, we’re already well-practiced in saying, “There’s always next year.”
Until then, that’s the Reidman’s ride report. Now get out there and ride!
See photos here:
http://www.kodakgallery.com/gallery/creativeapps/slideShow/Main.jsp?albumId=590554460208&ownerId=59372270808
This is the third year in a row we’ve been frowned upon by the weather gods. Sabo has the dubious distinction of being able to say that he’s spent 24 days in Germany over the last three summers but he still has yet to see one dry day. All that rain has not only curtailed our riding plans every year, it’s also caused Sabo to miss seeing a lot of great scenery such as the sight of the Alps from my house. The only saving grace in the whole sad story is that, because he’s an airline pilot, he doesn’t have to pay air fare to get here.
Sabo first visited in August 2005 after we’d had warm sunny weather the whole month of July. And that August it rained nonstop. July 2006 was again great, but August, while Sabo was here, set a new record for wet. So this time we all got smart, and said, “Come in July,” and – you guessed it – we had the wettest first half of July on record. Maybe if Sabo lived in Death Valley seeing rain would be a treat for him, but for crying out sideways, the guy lives in Portland and works in Seattle.
He left yesterday morning on the 5:35 train, and by noon the streets were drying under grey skies. By 3 o’clock the sun was fully out, children were playing in the streets, and the sound of lawn mowers echoed through the neighborhood while the Alps stood proudly in the middle distance. I knew then that he’d made it to his flight in Frankfurt and was westbound.
By nature I’m not such a solitary creature as you might think based on how much time I spend riding solo. I do, in fact, like to share quality experiences, such as awesome rides, and on almost every ride I find myself bookmarking a route as a must-share for when Sabo gets here. Here I’d been looking forward since last year to show him this fantastic setting that makes my riding – not to mention my day-to-day life – so amazing, and now I’m going to have to wait yet another year. That is, if it’s not raining the whole time he’s here next.
He left yesterday, and I’m still going through the five stages of grieving. I’m not grieving for his departure, I’m grieving for the death of all that precious time we’ll never get back. I’ve passed through Denial (“Oh no, not again!”) and Anger (“Frickin’ rain!”) and Bargaining (“Please please please stop raining, I’ll be a nicer person”) and now I’m firmly in the middle of Depression (“Ah, what’s the use?”). In a couple of days I’ll come out of it and be in Acceptance, but it was a low blow to have a “Polar Low” dump a record amount of rain on us while my best buddy was here for his once-a-year visit.
A pity for Sabo, too, who had paid $650 for a week’s motorcycle rental, only to have it sit in the garage part of that week. We were hoping he’d exceed the 1500-kilometer allotment that came with the rental. In fact, we were optimistic he’d have to pony up for another 500 or so upon turning it in. Instead, we rolled up after seven days boasting a mere 1100 km on the trip odometer.
He arrived Tuesday July 3rd, and we were scheduled to pick up his bike the next day. Instead, we spent Wednesday –the 4th of July – waiting for the pouring rain to abate. About 3 o’clock we finally gave up and told the shop we’d pick the bike up the next day. No sense paying a full day’s rent for a couple of wet hours one afternoon.
First thing Thursday morning, despite the continuing rain, we picked his shiny new R1200GS with its clever expandable handbags. We went home and packed, and then set out at 11:30 in steady rain. We cautiously rode for five and a half exhausting hours through the Austrian Alps in the rain. We were anything but fast – we only averaged around 40 KPH, compared with my usual average of 60 KPH on dry Alpine roads. The roads finally dried off late in the afternoon and we were able to up the pace a bit, but we were still riding under heavy grey overcast, wiping sporadic sprinkles from our visors.
Like last year, we climbed over the mighty Timmelsjoch pass with a view mostly of clouds and not of the Alps. It’s a spectacular view, I know. I wish Sabo could see it someday. Down the other side of the pass under clearing skies we cruised into San Leonardo Italy for dinner at our favorite organic restaurant (the one by the bridge, if you know it) where we gorged ourselves on “Bio-pizza” and “Bio-hefeweizen”. It tastes better if it’s “Bio”, right?
Friday dawned bright and blue, with only a few fair-weather cumulus clouds poking around the peaks. After a hearty breakfast, we cheerfully packed up the bikes and rode off for what was supposed to be a banner day of eight or ten passes in a big loop through the Dolomites, that grand section of the Italian Alps with the monstrous jutting rocky crags at every peak. We climbed over the Jaufenpass, down the valley on the other side and then up the Penser Joch, and down through the long Sarntal valley south toward Bolzano.
There are some fantastic looking castles on the ridges and peaks overlooking the valley, and I knew Jeff was under orders from the staff of his coffee hangout in Portland (Anna Bannana’s on NW 21st, where he gets his mail) to take more pictures than last year. I spied a nice photo-op turnout on the left, a dirt parking area with two driveways that would make for easy-in, easy-out. A glance in my mirror showed Sabo 50 meters behind me, and a car behind him. I turned on my left blinker and began slowing, paying attention to the two prominent potholes in the driveway of the lookout point.
As I braked and began my turn, I heard a screeching of tires behind me and in that split second thought, “What the hell is Sabo doing?” and, simultaneously, “Why isn’t his ABS working?”
Before I could even complete the thought I was hit hard by a car – the one that had been behind Sabo – and knocked over to my right in a high-side. The bike landed hard on the pavement and my foot was semi-crushed by something, maybe the swingarm of the bike, as it ground to a stop on its side. The woman in the Audi that hit me was getting out and Sabo was parked nearby and dismounting by the time I stood up. I hobbled in a circle to test my foot and found it would hold my weight, so I limped back to my still-running bike and shut it down.
Sabo and I righted the bike and Sabo pushed it into the parking area where we assessed damages. She’d struck me in the left-side hard case and then the bike had landed on the right one, so both cases had broken off the bike and were all scuffed to hell with big gouges in the plastic. The left-side luggage bracket was snapped and a mounting hook had sheared off of the right-side case, which meant there’d be no riding again with either bag. The battery had leaked acid all over the right side of the engine, and a cracked fuel injector nozzle meant that when the key was turned, fuel spurted out all over the side of the bike. Not good. Not drivable.
I asked the driver, a fifty-five year old grandmother of five named Frieda if she’d seen my blinker. She told me, “Yes, but I drive this road every day. I see lots of motorcycles with their blinker on by mistake. I saw your blinker but I thought you had forgotten it.” I said to her flatly, “No, Frieda. I meant it.” I mean, what do you say to that kind of logic? Next time I’ll wave my arms, too?
Frieda may be a horrid driver, but at least she took responsibility. She stayed while we waited for the police for an hour, who after several phone calls admitted they weren’t actually on their way. Then she drove with me to Bolzano to find a tow truck, led the tow truck back to the accident site and drove me to the BMW shop. She stayed to find out what it would cost, and, eyes popping at the initial estimate, drove with me to her insurance carrier’s office twenty minutes away. She never once tried to say it was anyone else’s fault but her own.
When I say she’s a horrid driver, I’m not saying it just because she hit me. I rode as passenger in her car a total of about two hours that day, and she had horns blown at her no less than three times in critical situations which would have resulted in accidents but for the vigilance and abrupt maneuvering of other drivers. Her response to hearing a horn blown at her is to blow her own. Perhaps she thinks the other horns are a signal of merriment. At one point – and this is true – I put on my helmet in her car while she had a horn-blowing contest with a semi that needed to merge. Somehow, no credit to her, it worked out. On a scale of situational awareness she’d score a negative number. If ever there was ever a case for emergency revocation of driver privileges, she’s it. There should be at least be urgent warnings on the radio when she’s out and about.
Martin Bertolin, the frenetic cappuccino-powered service manager of BMW Bolzano proved that we were far enough north in German-speaking Italy that things would actually get done, and done right, yet far enough south into Italy that only the necessary things would get done, without anyone fussing over unnecessary details. [In Germany: “Ja, such pity vee cannot release to you zee machine, but vee do nott haff zee corrrect sticker for zee logbook.”]
The accident occurred at 12:45, the bike arrived in his shop at 15:30 on a hectic Friday afternoon, and he managed to get me on the road by 18:00 with a new fuel injector and new hard bags. I’ll be sending Martin a present, that’s for sure. Maybe some decaf.
Onwards, then. Sabo and I doggedly pursued our plan to see the Dolomites, turning eastbound out of Bolzano up the Eggerstal Valley, grinding along with all the Friday evening traffic. We’d lost six hours riding, but at least we were back on the road. Near 7 o’clock we found ourselves above the traffic, blasting along in fresh mountain air near the top of the Karerpass. We hadn’t gone far from Bolzano when we decided to stop, but we’d missed lunch and it was getting on time for beer and pizza.
Stopping to enquire for rooms at one hotel turned up the interesting fact that while there weren’t actually any rooms, there was a stunningly beautiful barmaid. We went up the road and found a falling-down hotel called, ironically, the Savoy, and took rooms for €40 each. Sabo graciously let me have the one with the double bed, an act of sympathy I was later grateful for as I thrashed around all night with a swollen foot and bruised body. Naturally, we went back to the first hotel for dinner, and it was a great move. The view was great – of the mountains, I mean – and the food was superb. Man, one gets spoiled eating anywhere in Italy. The food’s great, and there’s natural beauty in abundance everywhere you look.
Saturday we finally got to check off one big box we’ve been wanting to check for three years: Riding the Dolomites. The roads are serpentine and the vistas breathtaking. That’s true of all of the Alps, pretty much, but just somehow more so in the Dolomites. Being a gorgeous summer Saturday, there were droves of bicyclists and cars to contend with, but therein is one of the more satisfying aspects of being on a motorcycle: the ability to dispatch such moving obstacles one by one, and blasting on ahead. Sabo improved his passing techniques exponentially this trip, and emerged a far better rider than when he arrived, and way better than he was last year. We talked about it at length, and he expressed a deep sense of satisfaction for having taken his Alpine riding skills to a new level.
It would be wondrous to ride the Alps without any other road users, but that’s a pipe dream in summer. They’re there, so instead of wishing for something that’s not, one should use every opportunity to pass as a whetstone to hone one’s riding skills. I wouldn’t recommend doing this on Palomar mountain or the Capistrano Highway. In fact I’d go so far as to say it’s only possible here in the Alps where the drivers are better trained, better disciplined, motorcycle conscious and generally very good at moving over to allow bikes to pass. You never see anyone full of resentment hogging the road. Drivers are happy to have you go past and get on down the road, they don’t want your headlight in their mirror for one minute more than necessary. Can’t say the same about my experiences in California, sadly.
By mid-afternoon Saturday we’d traversed five Dolomite passes and crossed back into Austria. Sabo led the way on a route we’d picked to skirt the traffic of Innsbruck. He memorized the route by using village names as fixes, and if you ask him today he can still cite them: Natters, Mutters, Götzens, Axams, Zill. The road we chose was but a small squiggle on the map yet it turned out to provide some of the most awe-inspiring vistas of our whole trip, looking across the Inn River valley north to the Bavarian Alps.
Northbound into Bavaria the road was thick with BMW motorcycles headed to Garmisch-Partenkirchen for the big BMW Motorrad Days Biker Meeting. There were also BMW-sponsored tour groups coming the other way from Garmisch, easy to spot as each group was comprised of one or two of each of the new models in BMW’s 2007 lineup being led by a guy in a green day-glo vest. We saw maybe ten such groups in the hour it took to approach Garmisch from the south.
Our hotel wasn’t in Garmisch but in Oberammergau about 20km away. After getting cleaned up finding a café to order our (much needed) nightly repast of beer and pizza, we found we’d missed the last shuttle bus to the show. Rather than get a cab we decided to just skip the BMW beerhall for the evening in favor of trying out a few sidewalk cafés there in Oberammergau. My foot was still pretty sore so I had no complaints about keeping the walking to minimum. Oberammergau is a tourist town, it’s exceedingly charming, quaint, and picturesque. There might have been a big party going on in Garmisch, but we were having a great time right where we were and just didn’t feel the need to try and trade up.
Sunday we rode to the show about ten and stayed until about three. The show is free and there are dozens of booths with all the after-market goodies you’d associate with BMW motorcycles plus lots of food, beer, demonstrations and activities. Next year I’ll bring the family, there’s even a tent for kids. The day was warm and sunny, except for one huge thundershower that soaked the place for an hour about lunchtime. Was it nature or just a crafty plan on BMW’s part to get everyone into the mess hall for lunch? Whatever, it worked.
Leaving the show, the sky was clear overhead but we could see some weather moving up from the south. Half an hour westbound out of Garmisch the sky went to dark grey, then to sprinkling, then to really raining. It’s a two-hour ride home in dry weather from Garmisch, but more than three when it’s pouring. So our trip ended on Sunday just as it had begun on Thursday, with us going on tiptoes into the corners, puckering at the limits of tire grip and silently thanking BMW for the GS’s wide tiller that’ll pick it up in a corner when it loses its footing.
Here’s the rest of the diary:
Monday, July 9th: Rain. Feeling pathetic and ashamed, we take the car (gack!) to the Held moto-apparel shop, which is an hour away on what are fantastic motorcycling roads in the dry. But Sabo comes away happy, with a new riding jacket, riding trousers, and two pairs of gloves from the bargain bin. Score!
Tuesday, July 10th: Mostly rain, but just enough clearing in the afternoon that we manage to sneak in 120 km in the farm-and-fruit country above Lake Constance.
Wednesday, July 11th: Steady rain. Sabo returns the rental bike in semi-defeat.
Thursday, July 12th: Sabo departs, weather resumes a spectacular summer.
Some critics might say we should just bundle up and ride no matter the weather. If there’s a mission involved, especially one with some reasonable expectation of better weather at the other end, I’d agree. (In fact, that’s just what we did.) But to launch for a day’s pleasure ride in crappy weather is, in my opinion, just inviting trouble, plus it’s not really fun. The concentration required and the lowered speeds make it feel more like work. Obviously, the likelihood of an accident is much higher because the roads are slippery. But even doing your best on a slippery road isn’t always enough, as car drivers can’t see (and don’t look for you) through rain-streaked foggy windows. Rain washes dirt and gravel into corners that you can’t see through your own rain-streaked foggy visor. So before you’ve even set out you’ve lost your ability to mitigate some of the most crucial risks of riding.
My idea of fun riding is all about relishing the performance and capabilities of the machine, savoring the great scenery, and arriving somewhere you can sit outside in the nice weather admiring the bikes while lying about getting your peg down in that last big sweeper. So when I complain that we got rained out, in reality I mean that we made a decision not to expose ourselves to undue risks for what would have been a minimal amount of riding pleasure.
Riding all day in the rain does teach you some important lessons, though, the main one being that it can be done and done safely. In southern California one seldom gets the chance to put wet weather riding skills to the test, much less improve and refine them. If any good came from all the time we spent in the downpour, it’s that we’re both better riders for it.
As far as securing Sabo a sunny ride, maybe we’ll try again this year in late September. That’ll fool the weather gods. And Sabo won’t launch from the US until I’ve got a positive high-pressure good weather forecast. Or, if that doesn’t work, we’re already well-practiced in saying, “There’s always next year.”
Until then, that’s the Reidman’s ride report. Now get out there and ride!
See photos here:
http://www.kodakgallery.com/gallery/creativeapps/slideShow/Main.jsp?albumId=590554460208&ownerId=59372270808
Saturday, June 16, 2007
Fine Driving Fine
A few days ago I received a nice letter from the government of Switzerland, thanking me for bringing my motorcycle and my tourist Euros to their beautiful albeit neutral country back in April and politely inviting me to visit again soon. Oh and by the way, would I please immediately send them €80 for going 10 kph over the speed limit in some little town. Gack!
Driving (not riding) in Germany I’ve gotten two “Blitzer” (radar speed camera) tickets for the same infraction of driving ten over, yet each one only cost me €15. Okay, that’s fair; I think. It’s kind of like an annual tax on my driving style. But €80? That’s steep. I mean, c’mon – is there a cop in America who’d even bother putting down his donut for 6 mph over the posted.? I don’t think so. Imagine getting popped in Heidiland for really speeding, like 50 kph over – you’d need to take out a second mortgage to pay that fine. If they catch you in person you have to pay on the spot. They do take credit cards.
2009 UPDATE: If you’re caught going more than 50 kph over the limit, they can take up to a third of your annual income. Read that sentence again.
I was planning of touring Switzerland next month with riding buddy Manfred, now I’m not so sure I want to. In Germany, Italy and Austria at least you get a fair chance – they only use cameras that take photos from the front which means bikes can’t be ID’d. To catch bikes, the cops have to stand roadside with the radar gun. You can usually spot them in time, especially if the opposite direction motorists flash their lights like they usually do. But the Swiss are getting all tricky now, using lasers mounted in the center divider of the motorway and cameras that take your picture as you’re riding away, like the one that nailed me.
Someone in the UK sells a spray that makes your license plate too shiny to be photographed since all speed cameras use a flash. I asked around and was told that the cops can still read your plate using computer technology to digitally enhance the photo, and then the penalty is an automatic loss-of-license. Okay, scrub that plan. I guess I’ll just ride slow in Switzerland.
Driving (not riding) in Germany I’ve gotten two “Blitzer” (radar speed camera) tickets for the same infraction of driving ten over, yet each one only cost me €15. Okay, that’s fair; I think. It’s kind of like an annual tax on my driving style. But €80? That’s steep. I mean, c’mon – is there a cop in America who’d even bother putting down his donut for 6 mph over the posted.? I don’t think so. Imagine getting popped in Heidiland for really speeding, like 50 kph over – you’d need to take out a second mortgage to pay that fine. If they catch you in person you have to pay on the spot. They do take credit cards.
2009 UPDATE: If you’re caught going more than 50 kph over the limit, they can take up to a third of your annual income. Read that sentence again.
I was planning of touring Switzerland next month with riding buddy Manfred, now I’m not so sure I want to. In Germany, Italy and Austria at least you get a fair chance – they only use cameras that take photos from the front which means bikes can’t be ID’d. To catch bikes, the cops have to stand roadside with the radar gun. You can usually spot them in time, especially if the opposite direction motorists flash their lights like they usually do. But the Swiss are getting all tricky now, using lasers mounted in the center divider of the motorway and cameras that take your picture as you’re riding away, like the one that nailed me.
Someone in the UK sells a spray that makes your license plate too shiny to be photographed since all speed cameras use a flash. I asked around and was told that the cops can still read your plate using computer technology to digitally enhance the photo, and then the penalty is an automatic loss-of-license. Okay, scrub that plan. I guess I’ll just ride slow in Switzerland.
Thursday, June 7, 2007
Safety Eguipment, and Why Don Should Wear Gloves
Dear Don,
Thanks for trusting me to answer your questions about safety gear. I understand your safety gear consists of a helmet and a motorcycle jacket, and that you wear sneakers with shorts or jeans, and that you never wear gloves. Please stand in the corner while I scold you.
Don, don’t scrimp on safety equipment. Live by this acronym: ATGATT. That stands for All The Gear, All The Time. That means you should be ready to crash every time you leave the house. Like the AMA says, “Dress to hit the road.” Professional racers wear top-notch protective equipment, yet they have gravel runoffs everywhere and don’t have to contend with intersections, Armco barriers and contaminated roadway surfaces, much less cars filled with idiot drivers. Their crashes are in many ways much more controlled and safer than those of a road rider, so why would you wear less in the way of protective gear? Read more here:
http://www.advrider.com/forums/showthread.php?t=235903
Every time, and I mean every single time you ride you should have full protective equipment including hip, knee, elbow and shoulder armor, gloves, helmet and some kind of back protection. Check that the armor in your gear says CE on it, meaning it meets the crashworthiness standards of the European Community. A little piece of foam in the elbow is better than nothing, but it’s better to have properly tested armor. Yes, it’s hot in So Cal in the summer and it’s tempting to ride in jeans and a t-shirt. But there’s no reason to sacrifice safety when there are plenty of good, armored textile or perforated leather jackets and riding trousers (or overpants) that have ventilation to keep you from overheating. Think it’s hot now? How about spending the summer in a cast? Or a coffin. ATGATT. Live by it.
I used to commute on my motorcycle from Linda Vista to Santee in the Highway 8 Traffic From Hell. I wore Alpinestar boots, Tourmaster overpants (which have zippers up the sides so they go on right over slacks), a Held Air-Vent textile jacket, Held gloves, an Arai helmet, and yes, a day-glo safety vest. I would arrive at SEE and strip off all my gear and stash it in the side cases where my flight gear and briefcase had been. Entering the FBO to conduct a flight test I looked like I had arrived by car. On weekend rides I wore the same gear except for the safety vest and Dainese riding trousers instead of for the Tourmaster overpants. Now I’ve got Rukka trousers with Gore-Tex.
I can say with authority that all that gear doesn’t make one too hot to ride. In fact, it isolates you from undesirable distractions like bees going up your sleeves, sunburn on your neck and the horrid thought of what falling off at 75 will feel like. This leaves you free to concentrate on the tasks at hand, namely, situational awareness, risk mitigation through fluid machine control, and incremental improvement of your riding skills by application of knowledge learned from magazines, books and classes. A good pilot is always learning and improving.
Your hands are especially vulnerable in any crash, because you can’t (and shouldn’t) stop yourself from thrusting them out in front of you to stop your body from crashing into whatever it is you are slamming into at the moment, be it asphalt, porous friction concrete, algae (just ask Tom, who high-sided his mountain bike in a algae-rich puddle on the street and spent ten weeks in bed with titatium pins holding his pelvis together), or the lacquered sheet metal of a Ford Excursion. As an experiment, run as fast as you can and then dive hands-first to the pavement like you’re stealing second. Then, as you sit in the ER having your hands bandaged, imagine how often you ride your GS that slowly. Not often. Any crash will only be worse. A lot worse.
I wear a pair of Held “Steve” summer-weight gloves most of the time. They are very protective but not waterproof. Until recently, whenever it was wet or cool out I’d put on my Büse (that’s a brand) gloves that are warm and waterproof, but rather less-protective than the “Steves”. This year, I had a big re-think: Why would I wear gloves that are less protective in a situation when I’m more likely to crash, i.e., when it’s wet?
As it was time to replace the old Büses anyway, I went to Held – which is conveniently located about an hour from my house – and bought their best “Akira Tex” Gore-Tex racing gloves. The cost? €204 ($275). Expensive, yes, but they are the most protective gloves money can buy, plus, they’re waterproof and breathable. That sum may seem like a lot, but it’s a lot less than I’d be willing to pay just to be able to fondle my own dong were my hands to be wrapped in bandages for the sixteen weeks needed for a skin transplant to take. As I expect I’ll get ten years service out of the Akira Tex gloves, that’s only $27.50 per year.
For comparison, my Steves cost €93 ($125) and the Büses €48 ($65). Good gloves aren’t cheap, but they’re less expensive than paying someone to fondle your dong for you. Not that I would know. Cough cough.
I bought my first pair of Held gloves in 1999. I was in San Jose on a day-long layover and I popped out in the crew car to visit the local motorcycle shops. I found this hole-in-the-wall shop called Helimot, named after the owner Helmut from Germany who makes motorcycle racing leathers. Hel-i-Mot, get it? He had a stock of Held gloves, and I tried on a model called “Udo Mark.” (I’ve no idea where they get these names – racers they sponsor?) They fit perfectly and they were so well made I happily shelled out about $100 for them and took them home.
They served me so well, by being so comfortable, durable, good looking and safe that in 2004 I replaced them with the “Steves” (which took the place of the “Udo Mark” in their model lineup). And now I’ve added the expensive “Akira Tex” Gore-Tex pair to my collection. Altogether, I’ve got about $525 invested in just three pair of Held gloves, all because I value my hands. A lot.
As far as the rest of your gear goes, don’t let anyone tell you you are safe in jeans or sneakers. I have a scar on my right knee the size of an oyster from a 10-mph crash (yes, ten mph) in Levi 501s. White 501s, too, dammit, my favorite jeans in the ‘80’s, which I thought would protect me, but they tore through faster than a wet paper bag full of coffee grounds over a new berber carpet. And sneakers? I’ve seen a video of a guy wearing sneakers who botches a wheelie and winds up after the crash with his left foot hanging by a tendon. Want to see it? Always wear boots, like lineman’s boots, or better yet, motorcycling boots. BMW make some really good ones, as do Alpinestars, Oxtar, Sidi, Dainese, Daytona, Gaerne, Tourmaster, Hein Gericke, and many others. Motorcycling boots are better than lineman’s boots because they’re much easier to get in and out of. Read about boots here:
http://www.webbikeworld.com/motorcycle-boots/
The best gear is expensive, but you can get yourself fully outfitted for $1000 or less. (What’s your insurance deductible?) You already have a jacket and a helmet. Now think like a pilot and do a thorough preflight of yourself. Are you ready for an engine failure right after liftoff? Ready for that semi ahead to lose its rear tire in your path? Ready for that SUV to turn directly into your path without a blinker? And just like in the cockpit, the best gear is completely unobtrusive. You put it on, and it becomes part of you. Good gear is worth every penny because you forget about it moments after putting it on. I have no qualms about spending the money required to buy good riding gear.
Go shopping with a discerning eye for what works for you, not what works for the salesman. Ask the sales staff what makes it expensive and what the safety features are. In no time you’ll get an idea about which gear from different brands falls into the same basic price point and safety level. Then pick the gear that (a) will give its life for you should you fall, (b) is so comfortable that you’ll forget you’re wearing it, and (c) makes you look cool. Don’t forget to look cool. Under the day-glo vest.
Cheers, and safe riding
Thanks for trusting me to answer your questions about safety gear. I understand your safety gear consists of a helmet and a motorcycle jacket, and that you wear sneakers with shorts or jeans, and that you never wear gloves. Please stand in the corner while I scold you.
Don, don’t scrimp on safety equipment. Live by this acronym: ATGATT. That stands for All The Gear, All The Time. That means you should be ready to crash every time you leave the house. Like the AMA says, “Dress to hit the road.” Professional racers wear top-notch protective equipment, yet they have gravel runoffs everywhere and don’t have to contend with intersections, Armco barriers and contaminated roadway surfaces, much less cars filled with idiot drivers. Their crashes are in many ways much more controlled and safer than those of a road rider, so why would you wear less in the way of protective gear? Read more here:
http://www.advrider.com/forums/showthread.php?t=235903
Every time, and I mean every single time you ride you should have full protective equipment including hip, knee, elbow and shoulder armor, gloves, helmet and some kind of back protection. Check that the armor in your gear says CE on it, meaning it meets the crashworthiness standards of the European Community. A little piece of foam in the elbow is better than nothing, but it’s better to have properly tested armor. Yes, it’s hot in So Cal in the summer and it’s tempting to ride in jeans and a t-shirt. But there’s no reason to sacrifice safety when there are plenty of good, armored textile or perforated leather jackets and riding trousers (or overpants) that have ventilation to keep you from overheating. Think it’s hot now? How about spending the summer in a cast? Or a coffin. ATGATT. Live by it.
I used to commute on my motorcycle from Linda Vista to Santee in the Highway 8 Traffic From Hell. I wore Alpinestar boots, Tourmaster overpants (which have zippers up the sides so they go on right over slacks), a Held Air-Vent textile jacket, Held gloves, an Arai helmet, and yes, a day-glo safety vest. I would arrive at SEE and strip off all my gear and stash it in the side cases where my flight gear and briefcase had been. Entering the FBO to conduct a flight test I looked like I had arrived by car. On weekend rides I wore the same gear except for the safety vest and Dainese riding trousers instead of for the Tourmaster overpants. Now I’ve got Rukka trousers with Gore-Tex.
I can say with authority that all that gear doesn’t make one too hot to ride. In fact, it isolates you from undesirable distractions like bees going up your sleeves, sunburn on your neck and the horrid thought of what falling off at 75 will feel like. This leaves you free to concentrate on the tasks at hand, namely, situational awareness, risk mitigation through fluid machine control, and incremental improvement of your riding skills by application of knowledge learned from magazines, books and classes. A good pilot is always learning and improving.
Your hands are especially vulnerable in any crash, because you can’t (and shouldn’t) stop yourself from thrusting them out in front of you to stop your body from crashing into whatever it is you are slamming into at the moment, be it asphalt, porous friction concrete, algae (just ask Tom, who high-sided his mountain bike in a algae-rich puddle on the street and spent ten weeks in bed with titatium pins holding his pelvis together), or the lacquered sheet metal of a Ford Excursion. As an experiment, run as fast as you can and then dive hands-first to the pavement like you’re stealing second. Then, as you sit in the ER having your hands bandaged, imagine how often you ride your GS that slowly. Not often. Any crash will only be worse. A lot worse.
I wear a pair of Held “Steve” summer-weight gloves most of the time. They are very protective but not waterproof. Until recently, whenever it was wet or cool out I’d put on my Büse (that’s a brand) gloves that are warm and waterproof, but rather less-protective than the “Steves”. This year, I had a big re-think: Why would I wear gloves that are less protective in a situation when I’m more likely to crash, i.e., when it’s wet?
As it was time to replace the old Büses anyway, I went to Held – which is conveniently located about an hour from my house – and bought their best “Akira Tex” Gore-Tex racing gloves. The cost? €204 ($275). Expensive, yes, but they are the most protective gloves money can buy, plus, they’re waterproof and breathable. That sum may seem like a lot, but it’s a lot less than I’d be willing to pay just to be able to fondle my own dong were my hands to be wrapped in bandages for the sixteen weeks needed for a skin transplant to take. As I expect I’ll get ten years service out of the Akira Tex gloves, that’s only $27.50 per year.
For comparison, my Steves cost €93 ($125) and the Büses €48 ($65). Good gloves aren’t cheap, but they’re less expensive than paying someone to fondle your dong for you. Not that I would know. Cough cough.
I bought my first pair of Held gloves in 1999. I was in San Jose on a day-long layover and I popped out in the crew car to visit the local motorcycle shops. I found this hole-in-the-wall shop called Helimot, named after the owner Helmut from Germany who makes motorcycle racing leathers. Hel-i-Mot, get it? He had a stock of Held gloves, and I tried on a model called “Udo Mark.” (I’ve no idea where they get these names – racers they sponsor?) They fit perfectly and they were so well made I happily shelled out about $100 for them and took them home.
They served me so well, by being so comfortable, durable, good looking and safe that in 2004 I replaced them with the “Steves” (which took the place of the “Udo Mark” in their model lineup). And now I’ve added the expensive “Akira Tex” Gore-Tex pair to my collection. Altogether, I’ve got about $525 invested in just three pair of Held gloves, all because I value my hands. A lot.
As far as the rest of your gear goes, don’t let anyone tell you you are safe in jeans or sneakers. I have a scar on my right knee the size of an oyster from a 10-mph crash (yes, ten mph) in Levi 501s. White 501s, too, dammit, my favorite jeans in the ‘80’s, which I thought would protect me, but they tore through faster than a wet paper bag full of coffee grounds over a new berber carpet. And sneakers? I’ve seen a video of a guy wearing sneakers who botches a wheelie and winds up after the crash with his left foot hanging by a tendon. Want to see it? Always wear boots, like lineman’s boots, or better yet, motorcycling boots. BMW make some really good ones, as do Alpinestars, Oxtar, Sidi, Dainese, Daytona, Gaerne, Tourmaster, Hein Gericke, and many others. Motorcycling boots are better than lineman’s boots because they’re much easier to get in and out of. Read about boots here:
http://www.webbikeworld.com/motorcycle-boots/
The best gear is expensive, but you can get yourself fully outfitted for $1000 or less. (What’s your insurance deductible?) You already have a jacket and a helmet. Now think like a pilot and do a thorough preflight of yourself. Are you ready for an engine failure right after liftoff? Ready for that semi ahead to lose its rear tire in your path? Ready for that SUV to turn directly into your path without a blinker? And just like in the cockpit, the best gear is completely unobtrusive. You put it on, and it becomes part of you. Good gear is worth every penny because you forget about it moments after putting it on. I have no qualms about spending the money required to buy good riding gear.
Go shopping with a discerning eye for what works for you, not what works for the salesman. Ask the sales staff what makes it expensive and what the safety features are. In no time you’ll get an idea about which gear from different brands falls into the same basic price point and safety level. Then pick the gear that (a) will give its life for you should you fall, (b) is so comfortable that you’ll forget you’re wearing it, and (c) makes you look cool. Don’t forget to look cool. Under the day-glo vest.
Cheers, and safe riding
Sunday, March 4, 2007
March Forth!
Today was March Fourth, the only day that is a commandment unto itself, and it was also the “first” day of the motorcycling season over here. Most owners keep their bike registered either from March 1 (like me) or April 1 to Oct 31. No sense paying insurance and registration on a bike sitting dormant the winter months.
The first three days of March brought heavy rain and high winds, which precluded any sane person from wheeling their machine out of the shed for even a short ride. But the fourth day dawned crystal clear and the temps were forecast to “soar’ to 55° in most areas, so despite my house being infested with a demanding overseas intruder – my dear elderly mother from California, expecting my attention – I was off shortly after breakfast to “clear the carbon deposits from the carburetors” as we used to say.
I toyed with the idea of ringing up my riding buddy Manfred, but decided better of it as I what I really needed to do most was maximize my time away from the obligations of home by converting dead dinosaurs into global warming. No flap-jawing about when to meet, where to go, and when-do-you-have-to-be-back – just one steady stream of carbon emissions laid down over the hills and into the Alps as far as possible within my time-away allotment. A solo jaunt fit better with my other goals anyway, as I wanted to concentrate on polishing up the basic skills which had rusted the last four months, as well as do a comprehensive machine/riding gear field test.
Now, I readily admit to lusting heartily after other machines during the off season, Actually, I’m always in a state of lust for any number of bikes I don’t have. But sometime around mid-December every year I become convinced my life will be just oh-so-much better and next riding season will be oh-so-much more fulfilling if I would just have a shiny new adrenaline factory to sit astride in the coming year. My heavy old plodding work mule? Iron age! I need something better, dammit! Newer, faster, and for sure a lot more expensive!
This winter it’s been the new Triumph Tiger, my report of which you’ve read. Even as recently as last Saturday while it was pissing down rain, I was at the Trumpet dealer looking at the improved-saddle ABS version of the new Tiger. In blue, my favorite color. It looked hot.
But today, wheeling Ol' Blue, my trusty ol’ 2002 1150GS out of the driveway, I was struck by how much affection it is possible to have for a machine which truly suits. Underway, after any trepidation of making a rookie mistake had faded away I was struck by just how much fun I was having. I let out a whoop like Jeff Sabo getting the hot new flight attendant’s phone number. I said – out loud – “Yeah, man, yeah! This is it. THIS bike suits me down the ground. This absolutely rocks.” True Zen happiness settled in and I didn’t think about wanting another bike again.
So Ol' Blue and I rocked out over the hills here and into the Austrian Alps for 150 kilometers, and I came back a happy man. My bike works, my kit works, riding season is officially underway. March Forth indeed!
I told Sabine later, “Thank you for letting me go riding today. You’d have had every right to say ‘She’s your mother, you stay home and keep her company.’ But I want you to know it was the right thing to tell me to go riding. I’m much happier and better adjusted now. And just so you know, if I hadn’t gone, our marriage would have collapsed under the burden of my resentment. So good call.” She just laughed.
Highlights:
Summer-weight gloves with the grip heaters set at 50% the whole time
Not having a single close call due to bad judgment or over-eagerness
Passing in one clean swoop four cars who were all stuck nose-to-tail up a hill behind a slow van
The unlimited visibility of winter, with springtime temperatures – the Alps were stunning
The camaraderie expressed by every passing bike – we all waved
Taking some photos for the scrapbook to remember this especially good beginning to a riding season. Like this one:
The first three days of March brought heavy rain and high winds, which precluded any sane person from wheeling their machine out of the shed for even a short ride. But the fourth day dawned crystal clear and the temps were forecast to “soar’ to 55° in most areas, so despite my house being infested with a demanding overseas intruder – my dear elderly mother from California, expecting my attention – I was off shortly after breakfast to “clear the carbon deposits from the carburetors” as we used to say.
I toyed with the idea of ringing up my riding buddy Manfred, but decided better of it as I what I really needed to do most was maximize my time away from the obligations of home by converting dead dinosaurs into global warming. No flap-jawing about when to meet, where to go, and when-do-you-have-to-be-back – just one steady stream of carbon emissions laid down over the hills and into the Alps as far as possible within my time-away allotment. A solo jaunt fit better with my other goals anyway, as I wanted to concentrate on polishing up the basic skills which had rusted the last four months, as well as do a comprehensive machine/riding gear field test.
Now, I readily admit to lusting heartily after other machines during the off season, Actually, I’m always in a state of lust for any number of bikes I don’t have. But sometime around mid-December every year I become convinced my life will be just oh-so-much better and next riding season will be oh-so-much more fulfilling if I would just have a shiny new adrenaline factory to sit astride in the coming year. My heavy old plodding work mule? Iron age! I need something better, dammit! Newer, faster, and for sure a lot more expensive!
This winter it’s been the new Triumph Tiger, my report of which you’ve read. Even as recently as last Saturday while it was pissing down rain, I was at the Trumpet dealer looking at the improved-saddle ABS version of the new Tiger. In blue, my favorite color. It looked hot.
But today, wheeling Ol' Blue, my trusty ol’ 2002 1150GS out of the driveway, I was struck by how much affection it is possible to have for a machine which truly suits. Underway, after any trepidation of making a rookie mistake had faded away I was struck by just how much fun I was having. I let out a whoop like Jeff Sabo getting the hot new flight attendant’s phone number. I said – out loud – “Yeah, man, yeah! This is it. THIS bike suits me down the ground. This absolutely rocks.” True Zen happiness settled in and I didn’t think about wanting another bike again.
So Ol' Blue and I rocked out over the hills here and into the Austrian Alps for 150 kilometers, and I came back a happy man. My bike works, my kit works, riding season is officially underway. March Forth indeed!
I told Sabine later, “Thank you for letting me go riding today. You’d have had every right to say ‘She’s your mother, you stay home and keep her company.’ But I want you to know it was the right thing to tell me to go riding. I’m much happier and better adjusted now. And just so you know, if I hadn’t gone, our marriage would have collapsed under the burden of my resentment. So good call.” She just laughed.
Highlights:
Summer-weight gloves with the grip heaters set at 50% the whole time
Not having a single close call due to bad judgment or over-eagerness
Passing in one clean swoop four cars who were all stuck nose-to-tail up a hill behind a slow van
The unlimited visibility of winter, with springtime temperatures – the Alps were stunning
The camaraderie expressed by every passing bike – we all waved
Taking some photos for the scrapbook to remember this especially good beginning to a riding season. Like this one:
Wednesday, January 10, 2007
All Wet
The wettest I’ve ever gotten while riding was one sweltering August Saturday a few years ago here in Southern Germany. My riding buddy Manfred and I were making an all-day test ride of a Triumph Tiger 955i and an Aprilia Caponord, courtesy of the local Triumph dealer. We had already done one big loop which brought us back to neighboring town Amtzell, which happened to be hosting an off-road endurance race in their gravel pit. We parked the bikes and walked to the pits to find some friends from the local BMW shop who had entered with a few old GS’s (and who were actually doing pretty well).
After an hour cooking under the hot summer sun, we decided it was time to rack up some more kilometers on the test bikes. As we were putting on our jackets Manfred glanced at the towering cumulus all white and cottony, pointed at my Cordura jacket and asked “Is that waterproof?” I shrugged. Having only recently moved from Southern California, I’d never found out. I seemed to remember something about it being waterproof (or was that the liner?) but I had never tested it in actual rain. The jacket is made by the German manufacturer Held, and it has zippered air vents on the back, shoulders, and running the full length of the sleeves. On the back in yellow stitching it proudly proclaims “Air Vent.” Looking at the darkening sky I was hoping it would keep me dry in a shower, at least long enough to find some shelter. Um, Cordura’s waterproof, isn’t it?
We headed off on the bikes. One minute it was sunny and I was sweating inside my helmet, wishing my jacket had a few more vents to open. The next minute the sky went black, the wind picked up, the temperature dropped and the floodgates opened. My jacket needed a new name: “Water-Vent.” In under three minutes I was about as wet as if I’d jumped in a swimming pool. Chilly too. Even if I’d had the waterproof liner (or a rain suit) with me there wasn’t time to find a place to pull over and change. My Tourmaster overpants are more or less waterproof, but not if the water is flowing in through the jacket and down the inside of the waist. I was soon squishing in my seat, feeling rivulets of cold water run down my legs.
Fortunately, I was only ten minutes from home. I went home and got dried off, hanging up my dripping clothes in the garage while my wife laughed. Half an hour later it was 72° in light rain, the clouds breaking up. I put on my cheap no-name waterproof jacket – cheap because it has no vents – and my waterproof Dianese trousers and hit the road again. Can’t waste a good summer day, so away I went. An hour later the streets were starting to dry and I was wishing for some vents to open. But at least I was dry.
Fast forward two riding seasons here, and I’ve learned a lot about changeable weather. I always ride with either a waterproof jacket or a packed rainsuit, ready for anything. Last July in Italy, riding again with Manfred, he on his Sprint ST, me on my R1150GS, I got to find out how ready I really was. It was once again a sweltering hot day and the cumulus clouds were building up to darken the sky. I was once again clad in my Air Vent jacket, vents open, feeling pretty smart about having such nice airflow keeping me cool while poor Manfred must be suffering in his expensive unvented Gore-Tex. As the fifty-caliber raindrops starting pelting down I pulled over under the eaves of a roadside residence, searching my mind for which side case held the rain jacket while three toothless old women pleaded with me from the doorway to come inside, “Signore, signore, oh signore…” I waved and smiled, determined to demonstrate my Boy Scout level of preparedness. Fear not, ladies, I’ll be dry-clad and underway in but a moment.
While I fumbled with the keys the wind shifted so that the eaves no longer offered any protection, creating some urgency to get my rubber rain coat on. This caused me to forget my careful packing job and I opened the wrong sidecase. The contents shifted, and I had to fight to smash everything back inside to get it closed. Correct sidecase finally located, I removed the never-been-opened rain coat and tried to get it on.
Problem – it was completely zippered and velcro’d closed, both up the front and at the sleeves. Clawing and ripping at the evil closures with wet fingers, I struggled to get it over my increasingly wet jacket, which was once again venting more water than air. Rain jacket finally on, I looked down at the sidecase lid which was flopped open perpendicular to the precipitation like a bucket. It was rapidly filling with rain, soaking my toilet kit and clean clothes. Fack! I struggled with closing the lid on all the shifted (and now wet) contents while the rain streamed down the crack between my helmet and collar.
I then tried putting on my waterproof winter gloves, and found that because of their fleecy lining they were almost impossible to pull on over wet hands. I think that’s when I started to cry. What should have taken one minute or less had now taken five and I was both rain- and sweat-soaked, frustrated and embarrassed. Thankfully, the old women had long since given up on me and gone back inside. I couldn’t see them anyway through my steamed up visor.
I got restarted and set off to find Manfred about a mile ahead standing dry under the canopy of a gas station, smirking in his Gore-Tex jacket. By the time I got there I was sweating through every single pore of my body, as the rubber over-jacket allows not a molecule of air to enter for any cooling effect whatsoever. It’s a well-known fact that if you’re ever cold you can put your gummy on and you’ll be warm in no time. But what about when you’re already warm and you put it on? Can you spell S-A-U-N-A? Jeez, I’d hate to spend as much money as Manfred did on a Gore-Tex jacket, and then be all comfortable and everything.
I’m in the market now for a new summer jacket to replace the old Air Vent, which has seen better days. I’m a tight bastard, so I flinch every time I glance at the price tag of a real Gore-Tex jacket. Ever the delusional, I have myself fairly convinced that I can buy a non-waterproof vented jacket and be smart enough not to be caught out again. Bet on it?
After an hour cooking under the hot summer sun, we decided it was time to rack up some more kilometers on the test bikes. As we were putting on our jackets Manfred glanced at the towering cumulus all white and cottony, pointed at my Cordura jacket and asked “Is that waterproof?” I shrugged. Having only recently moved from Southern California, I’d never found out. I seemed to remember something about it being waterproof (or was that the liner?) but I had never tested it in actual rain. The jacket is made by the German manufacturer Held, and it has zippered air vents on the back, shoulders, and running the full length of the sleeves. On the back in yellow stitching it proudly proclaims “Air Vent.” Looking at the darkening sky I was hoping it would keep me dry in a shower, at least long enough to find some shelter. Um, Cordura’s waterproof, isn’t it?
We headed off on the bikes. One minute it was sunny and I was sweating inside my helmet, wishing my jacket had a few more vents to open. The next minute the sky went black, the wind picked up, the temperature dropped and the floodgates opened. My jacket needed a new name: “Water-Vent.” In under three minutes I was about as wet as if I’d jumped in a swimming pool. Chilly too. Even if I’d had the waterproof liner (or a rain suit) with me there wasn’t time to find a place to pull over and change. My Tourmaster overpants are more or less waterproof, but not if the water is flowing in through the jacket and down the inside of the waist. I was soon squishing in my seat, feeling rivulets of cold water run down my legs.
Fortunately, I was only ten minutes from home. I went home and got dried off, hanging up my dripping clothes in the garage while my wife laughed. Half an hour later it was 72° in light rain, the clouds breaking up. I put on my cheap no-name waterproof jacket – cheap because it has no vents – and my waterproof Dianese trousers and hit the road again. Can’t waste a good summer day, so away I went. An hour later the streets were starting to dry and I was wishing for some vents to open. But at least I was dry.
Fast forward two riding seasons here, and I’ve learned a lot about changeable weather. I always ride with either a waterproof jacket or a packed rainsuit, ready for anything. Last July in Italy, riding again with Manfred, he on his Sprint ST, me on my R1150GS, I got to find out how ready I really was. It was once again a sweltering hot day and the cumulus clouds were building up to darken the sky. I was once again clad in my Air Vent jacket, vents open, feeling pretty smart about having such nice airflow keeping me cool while poor Manfred must be suffering in his expensive unvented Gore-Tex. As the fifty-caliber raindrops starting pelting down I pulled over under the eaves of a roadside residence, searching my mind for which side case held the rain jacket while three toothless old women pleaded with me from the doorway to come inside, “Signore, signore, oh signore…” I waved and smiled, determined to demonstrate my Boy Scout level of preparedness. Fear not, ladies, I’ll be dry-clad and underway in but a moment.
While I fumbled with the keys the wind shifted so that the eaves no longer offered any protection, creating some urgency to get my rubber rain coat on. This caused me to forget my careful packing job and I opened the wrong sidecase. The contents shifted, and I had to fight to smash everything back inside to get it closed. Correct sidecase finally located, I removed the never-been-opened rain coat and tried to get it on.
Problem – it was completely zippered and velcro’d closed, both up the front and at the sleeves. Clawing and ripping at the evil closures with wet fingers, I struggled to get it over my increasingly wet jacket, which was once again venting more water than air. Rain jacket finally on, I looked down at the sidecase lid which was flopped open perpendicular to the precipitation like a bucket. It was rapidly filling with rain, soaking my toilet kit and clean clothes. Fack! I struggled with closing the lid on all the shifted (and now wet) contents while the rain streamed down the crack between my helmet and collar.
I then tried putting on my waterproof winter gloves, and found that because of their fleecy lining they were almost impossible to pull on over wet hands. I think that’s when I started to cry. What should have taken one minute or less had now taken five and I was both rain- and sweat-soaked, frustrated and embarrassed. Thankfully, the old women had long since given up on me and gone back inside. I couldn’t see them anyway through my steamed up visor.
I got restarted and set off to find Manfred about a mile ahead standing dry under the canopy of a gas station, smirking in his Gore-Tex jacket. By the time I got there I was sweating through every single pore of my body, as the rubber over-jacket allows not a molecule of air to enter for any cooling effect whatsoever. It’s a well-known fact that if you’re ever cold you can put your gummy on and you’ll be warm in no time. But what about when you’re already warm and you put it on? Can you spell S-A-U-N-A? Jeez, I’d hate to spend as much money as Manfred did on a Gore-Tex jacket, and then be all comfortable and everything.
I’m in the market now for a new summer jacket to replace the old Air Vent, which has seen better days. I’m a tight bastard, so I flinch every time I glance at the price tag of a real Gore-Tex jacket. Ever the delusional, I have myself fairly convinced that I can buy a non-waterproof vented jacket and be smart enough not to be caught out again. Bet on it?
Tiger 1050 Test Ride
Who says global warming is such a bad thing? Here we are not even mid-January, and it’s 60° outside. Not an icicle or icy road in sight. To celebrate, I went out today and purposefully contributed a good dose of CO² to the atmosphere just to hedge against next winter. With my GS in mothballs for the winter, I took the opportunity book a test ride on one of the most exciting new machines of 2007.
The new Triumph Tiger 1050 certainly has my attention. On the surface it appears to be a cool competitor to the R1200GS, which I've always figured would be the next logical step up from my 2002 R1150GS. What I want when I upgrade is a lighter, more powerful machine with wheels that take sticky street rubber, as the odd size on the old GS seriously limits one’s options. Both the 1200GS, and now the new Tiger, would offer those advantages. Beyond those three gripes, there’s not much that I would change about the 1150GS.
There are lots of great machines on the market, but since I can only afford one machine at a time, it’s got to do a lot for me. Whatever bike I own must meet the mission requirements of (1) practicality, (2) comfort and (3) muscle.
I love the look of various sport-tourers – especially the old BMW R1100S and the new Triumph Sprint ST – but I guess I’ve gotten too old and cranky to buy one because I’m just not willing to ride in a semi-crouch, craning my neck to look up while popping ibuprofen for my joints. My three most recent bikes (Cagiva Gran Canyon, BMW R1150RT, BMW R1150GS) have all convinced me that sitting upright in a comfortable position doesn’t mean you can’t turn up the performance knob when desired. While there are loads of funky yet practical mid-sized scoots around (e.g., Aprilia Pegaso Strada) I want – nay, I need my beast to have cajones grande, you know, some fire in its engine room. I need torque, baby, heaps of it, or I just don’t feel, well, manly.
For me, the mission statement includes taking one big guy (me, 6'2", 205 lbs) and one tall wife (5'11", 135 lbs) on tour for a week every year, so that means a spacious seat, hard luggage, lots of legroom and bags of torque. It’s got to haul my twenty five pounds of books around on tiny farm roads when I commute to my teaching job, so that means a top box and a wide tiller for easy maneuvering at subsonic speeds. It’s also got the be fun for me to ride on the twisty alpine roads that are my playground, so it must be capable of more "spirited" riding and be able to keep up with – or ahead of – my fast friends. And as always when one buys a bike, there’s the very personal aspect of liking how it looks in the garage.
There aren't many machines which tick all those boxes for me, maybe a half dozen in all. [Read about my selection process in a previous article.] The R1150 GS only falls short in the "go real fast" area, which is a relatively minor issue given that outside of the Autobahn, the roads here impose their own limits with blind curves, mucky surfaces, tourist traffic and sneaky Polizei. On the GS, the posted limits tend to be only a smidge below my personal limits, so I’m seldom frustrated, like I am on a faster bike when I can use only a fraction of its potential without risking a ban. It’s one thing I like about the GS, not feeling frustrated.
While I would like to have a machine that could handle a trackday once or twice a year (which, honestly, I’m not sure I see the point of doing on the GS), it’d be foolish to buy a trackday bike which doesn’t do the other things well and then suffer for it the other 242 days of the riding season.
The new Tiger seems to check all the boxes – fast, (relatively) light, comfortable and tourable. The only gnat in the salad dressing might be the towering pillion provisions for my tallish wife. Inspired by some aftermarket streetfighter trend, they’ve swept the whole tail section up considerably – and in my mind, unnecessarily – slashing the spacious passenger accommodations of the old 955i. I’ll have to take a two-up test with the missus to see if this doesn’t rule out the new Tiger as my one-and-only bike.
My test ride lasted a mere 45 minutes, mostly on fast B-roads (like the fast parts of the Sunrise Highway to you San Diegans), so it’s far from comprehensive.
First thing you notice is that the ergonomics are quite comfy, in fact they feel almost identical to the R1200GS, but with the elbows closer in. Compared to the GS and other adventure tourers, the new Tiger feels small, like a three-quarter scale model. The seat is a broad but not plush. At all. I think some manufacturers make their stock seat a plank on purpose knowing they’ll upsell you on the “comfort seat” option. True to that notion, Triumph offers a higher version and a gel version. While I could sit comfortably for a couple of hours on the stocker, I’d want the gel seat for long days and for touring.
Starting is immediate and the sound at idle a pleasant baritone burble. Let out the clutch in first and the Tiger purrs effortlessly away from the curb. The fueling is excellent – much better than my GS, and even better than the R1200GS. You can let the clutch all the way out in first, roll on some throttle, and smoothly pull away. Niiiice. The gearbox scores ten out of ten. Nothing agricultural about it like most BMWs. The clutch pull is lighter than the old Tiger, and that’s good.
Once underway, it’s light and certainly more nimble than the old Tiger. There’s so much less bike that it feels like a naked bike. The instrument panel is set low, and unless you’re sitting well back, you need to dip your head considerably to glance at it. This won’t be a problem for youngsters, but after about 40 your eyes take longer – up to a couple of seconds – to refocus from such a change.
If you lean forward a little, there’s almost nothing in your peripheral vision. I had the sensation of flying down the road, just like when you dream your body can fly. There was none of the high instrument panel, windscreen, handguards and jutting cylinders in my vision which I'm accustomed to. Speaking of cylinders, my feet got noticeably cold. I’m so used to tucking them in behind the Boxer’s jugs, especially on cold days, that I forgot to wear warm socks.
There isn't a stitch of helmet turbulence from the screen, but that's because the wind is deflected much lower than your helmet; for me it was down around my upper chest.
The steering is so light, it’s almost flighty. Like a sports 600, you can change your line in a corner at will, do S-turns if you wish. You don’t so much make control inputs as think them. This is both good and bad. It feels super responsive but not at all planted. The new Tiger is agile like a wide receiver. It feels twitchy, almost frantic compared to the old one. I’m so used to shoving around a heavier bike that I was unnerved by the edginess of the Tiger. By contrast, the GS is overly stable, demanding more input. The 1150GS is sprightly like a tackle.
The motor is powerful and creamy, but unlike the electric-smooth power of an inline-four, some vibes creep out to give it some character, let you know it’s alive. It’s sneaky powerful, with heaps of smooth grunty torque that will blast you well past the speed limit in 2nd gear. I could see collecting a few tickets on this thing. Creeping through towns at 30 mph it feels like you’re going really slow, like you need to deploy the outriggers before you tip over.
Although they have good stopping power the brakes feel a bit wooden, especially the rear, but Triumph says it's all being fixed on later serial numbers and on the soon-to-come ABS models. (I think they’ve switched to the same system like on the Speed Triple, which is aces.)
Suspension is taut, and the forks are set up stiff to minimize dive. It’s not a plush ride like the GS, but it feels good, like it’s poised for a dash. I was on exceptionally good pavement, though, and didn’t make any adjustments. Some of the pavement around here – especially in the Austrian Alps – is crap. I doubt that the tautness of the Tiger’s suspension would be as pleasant on the ripples and overlaps. This is where the “supple” suspension and higher weight of the GS are an advantage.
Unlike the GS, the Tiger begs to be taken to the track, despite the upright riding position. It feels much closer to a sportbike than the GS ever will. In this way, it pummels both the 1150GS and the 1200GS.
Now that the Tiger has graduated from the Adventure category to the All-round category, I’m sure it’ll be a class leader. I’m not entirely ready to sell the GS for it, however. I’ve got at least one more riding season in the old Panzer yet. The good news is that I’ll keep my license intact longer on the GS even if I never do get a trackday out of it. But when I do decide to upgrade, my next bike may not be the R1200GS after all. The Trumpet doesn’t have the technology of the Beemer, but it’s got a huge advantage in the motor, the fueling and the gearbox. I’d have to make a much more serious comparison before I chose between the two.
I'll take another long test ride in the spring or summer. Watch this space.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)