The other evening, I was surveying the wreckage that is otherwise known as my garage, and realized that those fun-loving folks in Munich have siphoned off a good portion of my lifetime earnings. Across the decades I have owned an airhead, an oilhead, a hexhead, and a waterhead. Plus an assortment of BMW automobiles. If you know of a detox program for Teutonic travelers, please write me, courtesy of this magazine. I need help.
All of this raises the question: What have we gained through the ages, besides debt and the avoirdupois around our midsections?
Since I am retired and have no life, it seemed a question worth examining in depth. Were we better off 40 years ago when we thought an EMU was a flightless bird and not a computerized guidance system for motorcycles? Or have things like cruise control and customizable ride modes brought is to the cusp of moto enlightenment?
When I was growing up, BMWs were in another stratosphere, like dating a supermodel. Back then my only hope of owning a motorcycle was to be the fourth owner of a bedraggled Japanese bike that may or may not have been running at the time I acquired it. In other words, a pile. And I owned a bunch of them. BMWs? Not so much. That was rarefied air.
But now that I own one, and have been alive since dwell meters and points files resided in the bottom of every toolbox, I am in a position to compare this technological march through time. Let us proceed.
First, the vitals: My 1978 R100/7 weighs 475 pounds, while my 2016 R1200GS weighs 525. Advantage, airhead. The airhead thrums along at 4000 rpm at 65 mph, while the 1200’s giant slugs go up and down at 3800 rpm. The Slash 7, in a fine state of fettle, makes 60 horsepower; the GS, 125 ponies. (And of course, the current 1250 makes another 10 horsepower on top of that.) Clearly, the newer bike will do a better job of lengthening your arms. While neither is going to out-run a box-stock Hayabusa, the GS will at least keep it in sight.
Of course, the numbers don’t tell the whole story. At moderate highway speeds, the ancient Beemer thrums along with a hypnotic rhythm that is arguably better than that of the modern but clattering GS. While the airhead’s horsepower is like a small push on the backside compared to that of the wasserboxer, the way it comes on is eminently pleasing, like slipping into a spa on a cool day. And anyway, my friend Reg Pridmore won two national championships on airheads in the ‘70s, so there you go. It was enough power for him. Maybe it’s a tossup.
Brakes: I’ve owned a lot of vintage motorcycles, and all of them had horrible binders, even with extensive fettling. It’s as if motorcycle companies employed a large group of brilliant and well-compensated engineers to make bikes go faster—and a morose, unhappy, and much smaller group of poorly compensated eggheads to work on the brakes. These folks may even have been excluded from the company lunchroom. People often tell me, “Vintage brakes are fine! You just need to plan ahead!” Sure, but when planning fails, I’d like a double disc up front, please.
Then there is the matter of ABS. I’ve taught motorcycle safety for years, a fact that has made me even more convinced of the value of this piece of techno-trickery, as I watch novice riders clamp down on the right lever like it’s one of those grip strengthener devices. I love my students, but they are begging for computer intervention, and I’m happy to see them get it. Squeeze, don’t grab! Advantage, GS.
Aesthetics: Here, the airhead wins hands down. Back in the ‘70s form and function were on the same trajectory, moving forward with synchronicity and a shared sense of purpose. With a few prominent exceptions, these facets of motorcycle design began an ugly and prolonged divorce in about 1980, which continues to this day. They’re still arguing. The Slash 7 has impeccable lines, even with the side cases installed. And I love the tough-as-nails, original Glasurit paint with its hand-drawn gold pinstripes. In contrast the GS, while eminently functional, is an ugly bird. Advantage, airhead.
Controls: The airhead’s turn signals are on the right instead of the left, which causes synapses in my meager brain to arc and die each time I change lanes. This may also have something to do with the fact that I can no longer perform single-digit mathematical equations.
The airhead also requires a choke every cold morning, while the GS has fuel injection and an array of ones and zeros to take care of engine management. But really, who cares? Back in the bad old days, when I was young, even cars had chokes. So I’m used to it. Plus, it’s kind of a litmus test for crusty old riders like me. Kids today think a choke is what happens when you eat too fast.
The GS has cruise control though, which I love and use constantly as a ticket avoidance device. I wish every one of my motorcycles had it. Maybe this category is a draw.
Tires: The wax-like substance that was used to create the tires of 1978 pales in comparison to even the worst and cheapest sale tire of today. I’ll take the modern gumball every time, thank you very much. And while tube-type tires make good sense on my 250 dirt bike, on a street bike, not so much. A suddenly flat tire on a twisty mountain four lane highway, while riding next to an 18-wheeler, is an experience I can do without. Don’t ask how I know this. Advantage, GS.
Maintenance: A while ago I learned the secret handshake of airhead owners everywhere: synchronizing those giant Bing carburetors by the “shorting method,” in which you use a long (and hopefully well insulated) screwdriver to short out the spark plug on one side, and then the other, making progressive adjustments to the cable tension to get the cylinders to drink the same amount of petrol on each power stroke. I actually love doing this—it’s like being part of a mysterious and clandestine society. And it works great. My bike ticks over in a calm and sensuous way at 950 rpm, without a hint of complaint. If it weren’t for the risk of overheating, I could listen to it for hours, which is a source of great concern for my wife Meredith, who thinks I’ve lost my mind. Also on the plus side, you can adjust the airhead’s valves on the side of the interstate, with the tools under the seat.
On the downside, the airhead has FOUR fluids that must be changed on a regular basis, compared to two on the wasserboxer. And there is the small matter of points: I’ve served my time (decades!) with files and feeler gauges. I’ll take electronic ignition any time. Set it and forget it. Still, it’s advantage, airhead.
Suspension: The airhead’s suspension has been endlessly tweaked with Gold Valves, Progressive shocks, spring rate alterations, yada yada. After all this, the suspension is now almost half as good as the single-shock-and-telelever setup on the GS. Plus, adjusting the suspension on the GS is a pleasing, two-button affair that affects compliance, preload, and traction control. I use it all the time, depending on whether I’m riding on dirt, wicking it up in the twisties, or touring with Meredith on the back.
The airhead, in contrast, requires crude blows of a hammer and drift to change the shock preload—a bunch of commotion involving flying metal chips that has a minimal effect at best. I’m also at the point in my life where I’m worried about shrinking, and I’m pretty sure that the airhead is contributing to a reduction in my six-foot overall height due to compression of lumbar vertebrae. Advantage, GS.
Transmission: Those Germans are good at so many things, but motorcycle gearboxes are not one of them (a fact that has always struck me as curious, since their cars shift like butter). The transmission on every BMW motorcycle I have owned is a box o’ rocks. (My oilhead, in fact, consumed second gear one day in a great and noisy affair, and I never plumbed the depths of the crankcase to find its remains. Instead, I sold the bike for parts and bought a Honda VFR in a fit of frustration.)
The airhead has at least one false neutral, between fourth and fifth, which can cause an elevated heart rate when you put in a call to the engine room while trying to merge in hectic Silicon Valley traffic and it’s answered with elevated rpms but no thrust. Hello!
The GS is no miracle, either. Putting it in first gear at a stop light causes enough of a shudder to register on the Richter scale or displace cervical vertebrae. Let’s call this one a draw.
The verdict: It’s funny—every time I ride the airhead, I think, “Wow, this is a really nice motorcycle!” And every time I ride the GS I think, “Wow, this is a really nice motorcycle!” Come to think of it, every motorcycle I’ve owned, harkening back to my rigid and greatly abused Briggs & Stratton minibike of 1971, has elicited a broad grin. I guess I just like motorcycles. It’s a thing.
So maybe it’s a tie. Which means, of course, that you’re more confused now than when you started this article. Let me just say: You’re welcome. Carry on.
Originally published in On the Level, the magazine of the BMW Riders Association.