So, here’s the story of going to the BMW Days in Garmisch last Saturday:
Gerd and Timo, two guys I know from Ravensburg, arrive at my house (a half-hour late) about 9:30 to ride to Garmish for the big BMW Motorrad Days show. It's a huge show, draws more than 30,000 guests over 3 days. It's got everything for adventure bikers, especially if you ride a Beemer.
Gerd, 47, has decades of riding experience on a dozen or more bikes, has been to BMW off-road school, and rides a stock silver 2002 1150GS. He’s in the fast group.
Timo, 29, has only had his license for a couple of years. At first he rode alongside his dad on a gentle CB500, but he's recently bought a 1991 Yamaha 750 Super Ténéré enduro-adventure bike, which he’s outfitted with extra-large Givi side cases.
I've been looking forward to the trip all week, and have been designated the leader owing to my knowledge of the BMW show and the routes between here and there, and the fact that I'm the guy with the GPS. I'm under orders to make the trip interesting, with lots of backroads and mountains. I've pre-programmed a course which will take about 3 hours and give us some variety of roads.
But now I'm sitting on my porch watching the rain, having doubts. It's been raining and drizzling all morning and there hasn’t been much letup in sight – or in the forecast – so I keep asking myself, Why go? I could go tomorrow with sunshine in the forecast. But then Gerd and Timo show up, and, despite having gotten lost on the way to my house, they are pumped, fast-talking about their convoluted adventure thus far, all enthusiastic about continuing, claiming that it’s not all that wet out there, well at least not everywhere, and the forecast for later looks good, so c'mon, let’s just go. Okay, I say, putting aside my doubts. Let’s go.
First off, we ride to the nearest gas station in Neuravensburg where we tank up and I top up a slow-leaking front tire (bad valve?).
Before saddling up, I gather with the boys and say, “Pre-launch safety briefing for a group ride, anyone?” Gerd says, “Go ahead.” Timo looking surprised, says, “Okay.” So I say, “Alright, rule number one, ride your own bike, don’t ride mine. I’m going to pass cars and ride a bit over the legal limit. Don’t ride over your head. Pass only when you feel it’s safe. If you fall behind, don’t sweat it, I’ll wait for you on the straights and I’ll never make a navigational turn before I’m sure everyone is in sight. Any questions? No? Good. Ride safe, gents, okay? Don’t crash.”
I toss on my helmet and gloves and lead them out the driveway and on our merry way through small villages and secret backways, avoiding Saturday traffic and several train crossings.
Before saddling up, I gather with the boys and say, “Pre-launch safety briefing for a group ride, anyone?” Gerd says, “Go ahead.” Timo looking surprised, says, “Okay.” So I say, “Alright, rule number one, ride your own bike, don’t ride mine. I’m going to pass cars and ride a bit over the legal limit. Don’t ride over your head. Pass only when you feel it’s safe. If you fall behind, don’t sweat it, I’ll wait for you on the straights and I’ll never make a navigational turn before I’m sure everyone is in sight. Any questions? No? Good. Ride safe, gents, okay? Don’t crash.”
I toss on my helmet and gloves and lead them out the driveway and on our merry way through small villages and secret backways, avoiding Saturday traffic and several train crossings.
About twelve minutes later we're on the long straightaway that takes us up the ‘Rorach’, a winding stretch of the Deutsche Alpen Strasse that is our local version of the tight-side-o’-Palomar. The serpentine pavement climbs up the mountain through a dark and damp forest with numbered hairpins, where it ends up near the town of Lindenburg. It's still drizzling and the road is actually wet, not just damp, there's water running across in centimeter-deep streams here and there.
As we enter the first big sweeper, we all make a nice high-speed pass on a giant slow-moving tractor just before the no-passing zone begins, a zone that continues the whole five km to the top. There are two or three signs on each side of the road so you dont miss them, No Passing.
Two turns later we come upon the back end of a slow-moving parade of three cars behind a driving school car with a scared looking teenage girl going wide-eyed round the corners at a crawl. I hate to do it to her, but when the way ahead is clear for 200 meters, I whack the throttle open and charge past. As I do, I imagine her instructor telling her to stay calm, stay calm, yes the motorcycle is breaking the law by passing, but don’t let it ruin your concentration.
Two turns later we come upon the back end of a slow-moving parade of three cars behind a driving school car with a scared looking teenage girl going wide-eyed round the corners at a crawl. I hate to do it to her, but when the way ahead is clear for 200 meters, I whack the throttle open and charge past. As I do, I imagine her instructor telling her to stay calm, stay calm, yes the motorcycle is breaking the law by passing, but don’t let it ruin your concentration.
After the next hairpin, I see Gerd coming along in my mirrors, so I know he's made the pass, making me feel relieved that I'm not the only scofflaw in our group. Now it's time for shy Timo to man up and join us. Gerd and I continue for a couple of corners at normal speed, then gradually ride slower and slower waiting for Timo's lamp to show in our mirrors.
Finally, about three minutes later we arrive at the top of the mountain, where there's a half-mile straight-and-level segment. We close our throttles and start coasting down to a walking pace, waiting, watching the mirrors. We coast. And we coast. We sneak a little first gear to keep from tipping over. Finally, we put our feet down and stop, nose-to-tail and a bit to the right. We wait. And we wait. The next thing round that corner in the mirror had better be a bike.
It’s not.
And it’s not the driving school car. It's a family wagon which rolls to a stop alongside me, window going down. I know what she’s going to say before she speaks.
And it’s not the driving school car. It's a family wagon which rolls to a stop alongside me, window going down. I know what she’s going to say before she speaks.
“Are you waiting for your colleague?” she asks in German. I nod. “He crashed back there in a corner. But he appears to be unhurt!” I shout back to Gerd behind me, “Er ist gesturtzt!” (He’s crashed!) We thank the folks in the car, and the man getting out of another car that’s also stopped, and make the U-ey to go find the lad. It's a tense three minutes back down the curves as fast as we can go in the wet.
About halfway down the mountain we see Timo standing (good sign!) next to his bike. The bike is upright (also good!) and parked on the fog line painted at the edge of the right lane. There’s no breakdown lane or off-pavement area; the mossy hill intersects the driving lane at a 30-degree angle. We roll past him and whip around to park behind him, emergency blinkers on. (Thanks, BMW). I dismount and ask the obvious first question, “You okay?” and begin to check him over for injuries he might be unaware of if he's in shock. His gear has apparently done its job and he reports no injuries save an aching toe. The right padded elbow of his jacket is torn, and his right knee pad is a bit scuffed.
Somehow, he explains, he lost grip with his skinny rear tire when he tried to pass the driving school car after a hard right-hand corner. Seems he hit the gas, the bike swapped ends, and...splat. The bike spun its back wheel around to the right and fell on its left side, sending Timo sprawling off toward the right side of the lane, the bike's back wheel pointed uphill.
The left-side mirror is shattered and the windscreen's snapped off, but otherwise there’s little to tell his bike had a fall, just a little road rash on the bottom corner of the left-side Givi box and the left handguard. There’s a splash of gasoline showing rainbows on the wet pavement where some gas vented from his freshly topped-off tank. Hell, I’ve done worse in my own driveway.
The left-side mirror is shattered and the windscreen's snapped off, but otherwise there’s little to tell his bike had a fall, just a little road rash on the bottom corner of the left-side Givi box and the left handguard. There’s a splash of gasoline showing rainbows on the wet pavement where some gas vented from his freshly topped-off tank. Hell, I’ve done worse in my own driveway.
It's pretty clear that Timo's adrenaline is still spiking, but we get him calmed down enough to persuade him to re-mount for the ten minute ride to the Agip station in Lindenburg, where we can do a better assessment of rider and bike.
At the gas station we can see that there's little damage. The round mirror glass is a star-shattered mess stuck to its adhesive backing, but it peels away easily and goes in the trash bin in one piece. I get out my Gerber multitool and Gerd and I take turns sawing off the dangling plastic disc which once held the mirror and is now flopping loose on its stalk. There's nothing to do for the windscreen but chuck it. I get my tire valve and check his pressures, they’re okay. Really, other than a missing mirror, the bike’s mechanically okay to ride.
Timo is rattled, so Gerd and I do a lot of laughing and joking, easing him back from the narrow ledge of panic. “This your first accident?” I ask. “Yes,” he says, none too happy about it. Gerd and I laugh and high-five him. “You hear that Gerd? He just popped his cherry! First crash!” “And a cheap one too, by the look of it,” says Gerd. “I ever tell you about crashing in Australia
And so the stories come out, Gerd’s and my crashing histories and what they cost us, in bucks and bruises.
And so the stories come out, Gerd’s and my crashing histories and what they cost us, in bucks and bruises.
Timo suddenly decides that he wants to go home. Nobody challenges him on that idea. He’s probably a bit shell-shocked to be making the 400 km round-trip that's ahead of us, and his toe might be more hurt than he thinks. I've had those things happen after crashes. After my first scary crash (on my 1993 FJ 1200) I certainly didn't continue the group ride. I rode slowly home and sat in the garage staring at my damaged bike absorbing what all had gone wrong. And after Frieda knocked me down in Italy with her Audi (http://www.reidman-alps.blogspot.de/2007/07/curse-of-sabo.html) my foot hurt so bad an hour later that I could hardly walk.
We give Timo lots of back-pats and encouragement and send him on his way.
We give Timo lots of back-pats and encouragement and send him on his way.
As Gerd and I continue the trip, we find to our amusement that we are quite evenly matched for skills and speed, and both enjoy riding a bit on the naughty side. So while it's me leading most of the time, no matter who's leading, the leader never has to wonder what's going on behind him. And that, as you surely know, comrade, is one of life’s great pleasures – finding a good riding partner that doesn’t worry you whether you’re in front or behind.
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