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.
Saturday, June 16, 2007
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.
Sunday, June 11, 2006
Last Sunday I called up moto-buddy Manfred (he of the ’02 Triumph Sprint ST) about oh-eight-hundred to see if he was up for a ride, rousing him out of deep sleep. He mumbled something in the affirmative, and then commendably turned up at my place within the hour despite his having hit the hay only a few hours beforehand. We had seven hours before I was due back to fulfill an afternoon promise of social behaviour with the missus, which when you take out an hour for lunch and sundry photo stops, left us about six hours for saddle time.Manfred squinted at the map through bloodshot eyes. “How far can we ride in six hours?” he asked. “I reckon about 360 kay emm,” I answered. This seemed as good a guess as any; I never seem to average more than about 60 kph in the Alps. (In the end we clocked up exactly 362 kilometers – that’s 225 miles to you – proving the formula valid yet again.) We eyeballed the map for a few moments and then picked a point that looked about 180 km away, tracing a gloved finger over a promising route, keeping as close as possible to the squiggly lines.
Departing Lindau at the far eastern corner of Lake Constance (where I live) our Ausflug (out-flight, or excursion) took us on a northeasterly line, skirting the northern edge of the Bavarian Alps. We skipped and dipped along the ridgeline of the mountains-that-are-not-yet-the-Alps for about 100 km before turning due south through an alpine valley as charming as you would expect, the road snaking its way through the grassy pastures and tiny villages that lie between the towering crests.
Winding our way up the Oberjoch, our first pass of the day, our momentum was hampered by the line of auto traffic and the strictly enforced no-passing rule. The Polezei can often be found standing roadside on a high turnout with a view to the hairpins below, scoping for the ne’er-do-well biker who might audaciously overtake. I’ve had occasion to deal with the police here (that’s another story) and have always found them to be polite, friendly and helpful – but the rules aren’t negotiable like they sometimes are in California. You’re not likely to worm your way out of a ticket here if you’re well and truly caught, whereas in California I’ve parleyed my way out of several tickets with the friendly staff of the CHP.
About the time I was getting completely frustrated grinding along in the traffic and was contemplating whether to bust a (criminal) move, we came around a corner near the top and – lo and behold – there were in fact two officers peering over the rim as expected. One of the officers looked a lot like Claudia Schiffer, and our snail’s pace gave me plenty of time to gaze and wonder what a fella has to do to end up in her handcuffs. Ahem.
The traffic thinned at the top of the Oberjoch as the day-trippers in their cages arrived at their destination parking lots, and we transient two-wheelers all upped the pace substantially as we lunged downhill into the Tannheimer Tal. The mighty GS was in its element, torque-surfing headlong over the remaining ridges of Bavaria and onward into the Austrian Alps. The weather was stunningly clear and temps ranged between slightly-chilly-in-the-shade mid-50’s up on the passes and a quite summerish mid-70’s down in the sunny valleys.
If I were to guess, by taking the small fraction of real estate we covered and multiplying it by the whole, I’d say there must have been over 100,000 motorcyclists in the Alps on Sunday. We couldn’t have seen fewer than 2000 during our ride – it was just one after the other going opposite, swarms parked up at every pass and restaurant, and in our own direction we frequently found ourselves part of a larger group of anywhere from five to twenty other riders who just happened to bunch up for awhile. Insane or what? Until you’ve seen it I don’t think you can imagine it. Unless machine control precludes it, almost everyone waves or nods at each other, making sure you know you’re part of the Brotherhood of the Wheel.
Every conceivable machine is on the road. About every fourth one is a BMW, and more than half of those GS’s of post-’93 vintage. You’ve got your occasional Gold Wings with open face helmets and boom microphones, your abundant sportbike guys in colorful leathers, and mostly you’ve got countless middle-aged sport-tourists (like me) decked top to bottom in Cordura that’s still festooned with last year’s bug splatters. You also see plenty of everything else, including step-through über-scooters, custom streetfighters, fringey cruisers and beater enduros with milk crates strapped on the back. Anything with two wheels is on, but sport-touring is the real name of the game for the vast majority, the bikes ranging from the sportier end of the spectrum – say a ZX-9 with a small tankbag – to bikes that are endowed by their creator with the ST title (like Manfred’s Trumpet), up to larger more touring-oriented bikes that don’t shy away from the odd peg grinding, like your humble reporter’s GS. I can’t think of a more apt category for the GS than sport-tourer. I’ve no problem keeping up with the fast group on anything but the fastest of straights, of which there are damn few here in the land of twisty tarmac.
Speaking of grinding pegs, I spent the ride enjoying having some slip with my almost-gone rear Metzler Tourance. One nice thing about the Metzlers is that they are very predictable when they are almost off, quite willing to spin up like a GP bike in a friendly way, so I was having a laugh goosing the throttle in the hairpins to skootch the back wheel around the corner, catching grip and launching forward as I took the lean angle out. For one whole passo I was being followed – or was it pursued? – by a guy on a Beull, which is a superb cornering machine. I hope he enjoyed watching my back tire slide as much as I enjoyed beating him out of every corner. First I had to beat him into the corner by braking later – those GS brakes and the anti-dive front end rule – and then, even though I didn’t have the usual level of confidence to go full lean at normal speed, I could instead finish turning faster using this GP technique. He’d come up close in the first half of the corner as I’d tiptoe in, but I’d get done with my one-eighty sooner and put some space between us on the hundred-yard dash to the next bend. It was more fun than a soccer riot.
But riding on a fading tire has it’s downside, too, and I had a few moments in sandy and gravelly corners that reminded me to be very careful if I wanted to continue my streak of not having laid a bike down since 1988. Last time I put one down I was on board a 1982 Suzuki G450L, a nasty little early-80’s vertical twin that was about as cool as penny loafers. I knew next to nothing about riding and managed to plop over in the dusty center island on Miramar Road at just under 4 mph. I tore my favorite white 501’s (hey it was the ‘80’s) and broke my thumb – which required a cast to the elbow – but the worst part was having humiliated myself in front of some of my co-workers who were watching from their car in the line of traffic I was trying to sneak past. The only other time I’d ever laid one down I was 16 and determined to find the performance limits of a Puch Maxi moped while wearing a tank-top, shorts and flip flops. Sometimes looking back I can’t believe I ever lived long enough to reproduce. Anyhow, new Michelin Pilot Road tires are on order and will be installed by the end of the month. Meantime, I’m tiptoeing around and constantly reminding myself not to panic when the back slips a bit unheeded.
To finish off a particularly superb day of riding, I arrived home and found some friends of ours had dropped by for coffee and cake while I was gone, and everyone was in high spirits. To celebrate our good moods, we all piled into a car and drove to a nearby Biergarten which is perfectly situated at a grass-strip airport next to a well-traveled motorcycle road. Oh, throw me in the briar patch! There’s nothing like dinner and a tall Hefeweizen while enjoying the activities of a country airstrip and watching a fair portion of the rest of the 100,000 come by to cap a day of riding. Not to mention gawking at all the good looking girls and yummy mummys who were there…
That’s the Reidman’s latest rant! Life is good! Now get out and RIDE!
About the time I was getting completely frustrated grinding along in the traffic and was contemplating whether to bust a (criminal) move, we came around a corner near the top and – lo and behold – there were in fact two officers peering over the rim as expected. One of the officers looked a lot like Claudia Schiffer, and our snail’s pace gave me plenty of time to gaze and wonder what a fella has to do to end up in her handcuffs. Ahem.
The traffic thinned at the top of the Oberjoch as the day-trippers in their cages arrived at their destination parking lots, and we transient two-wheelers all upped the pace substantially as we lunged downhill into the Tannheimer Tal. The mighty GS was in its element, torque-surfing headlong over the remaining ridges of Bavaria and onward into the Austrian Alps. The weather was stunningly clear and temps ranged between slightly-chilly-in-the-shade mid-50’s up on the passes and a quite summerish mid-70’s down in the sunny valleys.
If I were to guess, by taking the small fraction of real estate we covered and multiplying it by the whole, I’d say there must have been over 100,000 motorcyclists in the Alps on Sunday. We couldn’t have seen fewer than 2000 during our ride – it was just one after the other going opposite, swarms parked up at every pass and restaurant, and in our own direction we frequently found ourselves part of a larger group of anywhere from five to twenty other riders who just happened to bunch up for awhile. Insane or what? Until you’ve seen it I don’t think you can imagine it. Unless machine control precludes it, almost everyone waves or nods at each other, making sure you know you’re part of the Brotherhood of the Wheel.Every conceivable machine is on the road. About every fourth one is a BMW, and more than half of those GS’s of post-’93 vintage. You’ve got your occasional Gold Wings with open face helmets and boom microphones, your abundant sportbike guys in colorful leathers, and mostly you’ve got countless middle-aged sport-tourists (like me) decked top to bottom in Cordura that’s still festooned with last year’s bug splatters. You also see plenty of everything else, including step-through über-scooters, custom streetfighters, fringey cruisers and beater enduros with milk crates strapped on the back. Anything with two wheels is on, but sport-touring is the real name of the game for the vast majority, the bikes ranging from the sportier end of the spectrum – say a ZX-9 with a small tankbag – to bikes that are endowed by their creator with the ST title (like Manfred’s Trumpet), up to larger more touring-oriented bikes that don’t shy away from the odd peg grinding, like your humble reporter’s GS. I can’t think of a more apt category for the GS than sport-tourer. I’ve no problem keeping up with the fast group on anything but the fastest of straights, of which there are damn few here in the land of twisty tarmac.
Speaking of grinding pegs, I spent the ride enjoying having some slip with my almost-gone rear Metzler Tourance. One nice thing about the Metzlers is that they are very predictable when they are almost off, quite willing to spin up like a GP bike in a friendly way, so I was having a laugh goosing the throttle in the hairpins to skootch the back wheel around the corner, catching grip and launching forward as I took the lean angle out. For one whole passo I was being followed – or was it pursued? – by a guy on a Beull, which is a superb cornering machine. I hope he enjoyed watching my back tire slide as much as I enjoyed beating him out of every corner. First I had to beat him into the corner by braking later – those GS brakes and the anti-dive front end rule – and then, even though I didn’t have the usual level of confidence to go full lean at normal speed, I could instead finish turning faster using this GP technique. He’d come up close in the first half of the corner as I’d tiptoe in, but I’d get done with my one-eighty sooner and put some space between us on the hundred-yard dash to the next bend. It was more fun than a soccer riot.
But riding on a fading tire has it’s downside, too, and I had a few moments in sandy and gravelly corners that reminded me to be very careful if I wanted to continue my streak of not having laid a bike down since 1988. Last time I put one down I was on board a 1982 Suzuki G450L, a nasty little early-80’s vertical twin that was about as cool as penny loafers. I knew next to nothing about riding and managed to plop over in the dusty center island on Miramar Road at just under 4 mph. I tore my favorite white 501’s (hey it was the ‘80’s) and broke my thumb – which required a cast to the elbow – but the worst part was having humiliated myself in front of some of my co-workers who were watching from their car in the line of traffic I was trying to sneak past. The only other time I’d ever laid one down I was 16 and determined to find the performance limits of a Puch Maxi moped while wearing a tank-top, shorts and flip flops. Sometimes looking back I can’t believe I ever lived long enough to reproduce. Anyhow, new Michelin Pilot Road tires are on order and will be installed by the end of the month. Meantime, I’m tiptoeing around and constantly reminding myself not to panic when the back slips a bit unheeded.
To finish off a particularly superb day of riding, I arrived home and found some friends of ours had dropped by for coffee and cake while I was gone, and everyone was in high spirits. To celebrate our good moods, we all piled into a car and drove to a nearby Biergarten which is perfectly situated at a grass-strip airport next to a well-traveled motorcycle road. Oh, throw me in the briar patch! There’s nothing like dinner and a tall Hefeweizen while enjoying the activities of a country airstrip and watching a fair portion of the rest of the 100,000 come by to cap a day of riding. Not to mention gawking at all the good looking girls and yummy mummys who were there…
That’s the Reidman’s latest rant! Life is good! Now get out and RIDE!
Monday, April 4, 2005
Back to the Future - another boxer comes my way
Feast yer eyes on the attached fotos, my moto-brethren.
I'm about 90% sure that this bike will scratch all my itches, and if nothing else it'd be nothing less than a good investment. It's an immaculate '02 1150GS with 20,000 km on the clock. It’s sitting at the local dealer called Schek, (not Shrek, mind) and they want €8900, but I reckon it could be mine for €8500. I’ll barter more for them to throw in a Schuberth S-1 and a shop warranty than for absolute lowest price.
It's got a tall Ermax screen, a re-upholstered 'comfort' seat (which is really cushy) and BMW touring bags. Previous owner bought it from Schek and obviously took excellent care of it. Aside from some scuff marks on the luggage, it's totally cherry. Not a scratch.
What's the downside? It's an '02 so means that it has only one spark plug per jug, and thus the same surging problems as the RT. But what the hell, I tell myself, I'll be riding so seldom on the Autobahn, and if I am I'll just leave it in fifth and rev it up, like I used to do on the RT.
Tomorrow I'm headed to the Triumph dealer, but I think he'll be lucky to sell me a jacket and helmet at this point. I don't think the Trumpet can compete with the mighty Bavarian on points like:
Safety (ABS, servo-brakes, anti-dive front end)
Comfort (the seat is obviously good for all-dayers, whereas a common road-tester gripe on the Tiger is that you get a numb bum in about two hours)
Resale value (well, duh)
Toss in shaft drive and the contest is pretty much over before it began.
Maybe it's just too goddam much bike for these little winding backroads. I know the F650GS would suffice, but the nagging question I have about the little one-lunger is will it satisfy? I don’t wonder about the 1150 satisfying me, but I keep wondering if I’ll soon wish I wasn’t having to wheel around 600 lbs of iron when I just wanted to go scampering.
Your comments are welcome -- its' not too late to change my mind completely. Lemme know whatcha think. Pronto! REIDMAN/out
I'm about 90% sure that this bike will scratch all my itches, and if nothing else it'd be nothing less than a good investment. It's an immaculate '02 1150GS with 20,000 km on the clock. It’s sitting at the local dealer called Schek, (not Shrek, mind) and they want €8900, but I reckon it could be mine for €8500. I’ll barter more for them to throw in a Schuberth S-1 and a shop warranty than for absolute lowest price.
It's got a tall Ermax screen, a re-upholstered 'comfort' seat (which is really cushy) and BMW touring bags. Previous owner bought it from Schek and obviously took excellent care of it. Aside from some scuff marks on the luggage, it's totally cherry. Not a scratch.
What's the downside? It's an '02 so means that it has only one spark plug per jug, and thus the same surging problems as the RT. But what the hell, I tell myself, I'll be riding so seldom on the Autobahn, and if I am I'll just leave it in fifth and rev it up, like I used to do on the RT.
Tomorrow I'm headed to the Triumph dealer, but I think he'll be lucky to sell me a jacket and helmet at this point. I don't think the Trumpet can compete with the mighty Bavarian on points like:
Safety (ABS, servo-brakes, anti-dive front end)
Comfort (the seat is obviously good for all-dayers, whereas a common road-tester gripe on the Tiger is that you get a numb bum in about two hours)
Resale value (well, duh)
Toss in shaft drive and the contest is pretty much over before it began.
Maybe it's just too goddam much bike for these little winding backroads. I know the F650GS would suffice, but the nagging question I have about the little one-lunger is will it satisfy? I don’t wonder about the 1150 satisfying me, but I keep wondering if I’ll soon wish I wasn’t having to wheel around 600 lbs of iron when I just wanted to go scampering.
Your comments are welcome -- its' not too late to change my mind completely. Lemme know whatcha think. Pronto! REIDMAN/out
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