Short Way Round

Originally published in On the Level, the magazine of the BMW Riders Association.

“I can’t believe we’re actually doing it!” The refrain rings out through the intercom as my wife, Meredith, and I get underway, echoing the famous words of Charley and Ewan as they begin their 18,000-mile odyssey in “Long Way Round”.

The difference, of course, is that we’re not going to Magadan. Instead, we’ll be riding 25 miles to the café for a cappuccino and a large, sugar-encrusted fat blob loosely identifiable as a pastry. It’s also unlikely that we’ll need to load the GS on a passing truck to ford a river that’s flush with snowmelt. I won’t be eating soup made of the gonads of range animals, but I do like sushi, which I’m pretty sure counts for something.

Call me a middling adventurer. There is a world in which I go to Ushuaia, ride through Central America, and transport my BMW GS in the bottom of a dugout canoe among unfriendly natives. But it’s also possible that I don’t live in that world anymore, since I am north of 60 years old and enjoy clean sheets and those funny little machines in hotel rooms with frisbees of coffee you put in the plastic filter. Those machines really are great, but I always double up the little discs to achieve the proper octane. But I digress.

Sure, I’ve toured New Zealand, Australia, the Alps, and much of the U.S. and Canada. But I have not crossed the Darien Gap or traversed war-torn nations. Nor do I have a lurid and breathtaking list of crashes—a form of braggadocio I’m happy to live without, though I do have a few garments with large scuffs that look like they could have occurred in one of those western movies where they drag the poor guy behind the horse before coating him with honey in anticipation of the fire ants.

Given my decades, there isn’t much time for me to become the next Ted Simon or Helge Pedersen. Besides, some recent MRIs revealed that the insides of my knees resemble finely chopped crabmeat from decades of running and bicycle racing. This causes me to move like the Tin Man in the “Wizard of Oz” and provides a near-constant temptation to remain horizontal.

I often read about Iron Butt riders, but I am not one of them. There are those who don’t feel they have taken a proper ride unless:

1. They have had to fight off sleep for six hours, the true measure of which is how many times they drift across the fog line before correcting course.
2. Their bladders ache and throb from being long denied a proper draining.
3. A variety of anatomical parts no long respond to inputs—particularly those in the nether regions, responsible for waste management and reproduction.
4. Three speeding tickets have been accrued.
5. At least two instances of questionable traction occur, causing the rear end to squirt sideways in a lurid and frightening fashion.
6. The low fuel indicator goes bright orange, then red, and finally the bike sputters to a stop as you coast into the gas station. Perfect!

Or not. Call me a wimp, but I’d rather have gas in the tank and maintain feeling in all my body parts. It’s a shortcoming I have. In my dotage I find I’m quite happy if:

1. I get home in time for a proper martini, with two olives and mixed in meticulous fashion using a stainless-steel container.
2. I’ve luxuriated at three rest stops with my riding buddies, thoroughly exhausting a vast mix of useless topics, like what caused the demise of four-into-four exhaust pipes, the day’s proper setting for heated grips, or the best ways to usher a large insect out of your helmet at speed. You know, important stuff.

Call me a champion of mediocrity. When it comes to riding shorter, or slower, or visiting more cafes in the course of the day, I end up on the top step of the podium every time. Ladies and gentlemen, we have a winner in the 50-mile-per-day contest! I may be a chronic underachiever, but at least I’m consistent.

Candy Ass

My father-in-law, may he rest in peace, prided himself on miserable adventures, spending a lot of time camping in the desert out of the back of his decrepit Toyota pickup. The truck, in turn, created an unexpected memorial by leaving sundry parts scattered across the highways of California, for decades. Sometimes, it ran for an entire day without a mechanical mishap. For him, an adventure wasn’t really an adventure unless it involved triple-digit temperatures, all the water (or red wine) had been exhausted, and the day culminated with a suitably long crawl through a dense thicket of poison oak. Bonus points if you pick up a few ticks along the way. Anything less than that was famously deemed “candy ass,” in his estimation. For instance, having a leakproof tent, a working stove, and (gasp!) a truck with a functioning air conditioner: total candy ass.

It was in this way that I fulfilled the historical obligation of all son-in-laws, which is to be a grave disappointment. I was, and have been for my entire life, a total candy ass.

Less is More

Yesterday, for instance, I rode 125 miles (round trip) for a hamburger at Alice’s Restaurant south of San Francisco. It seemed pretty adventurous by the time I got back. Oh and do I get extra credit for doing it on a 44-year-old BMW R100/7 with no wind protection? Probably not, but I thought I’d ask.

Usually I do this ride with my most reliable (read: retired) codger friends, Ken and John. The three of us can ride mid-week because, well, we have no life, and so don’t need to circulate among the great, unwashed hordes that descend on Alice’s on the weekends. We meet at my house at the humane time of 10:30 am. And do we leave promptly, given the hour? Of course not. We lean on our motorcycles for an hour discussing potential routes, reviewing last weekend’s Moto GP results, and admiring the 1969 Honda Z50 minibike leaned up in the corner of my garage, which may in fact be the most reliable of all the motorcycles I own. Oh and no riding day would be complete without a thorough review of our ailments and the latest manifestations of our osteoarthritis. All these critical activities take about an hour. At our age, it’s important not to rush anything.

Once underway, and in complete contrast to the morning’s glacial pace, John is suddenly putting the beans to his RT 1200, flying up the coast road at supra-legal speeds, and I’m working my ancient Slash 7 like a draft horse to keep up, sending the tachometer needle into regions it hasn’t visited since 1978 and wondering if we might be courting an event that would cause the suspension of my motorcycle safety instructor’s certification.

I’ve learned that if you keep your aspirations small, then everything seems epic. En route to Alice’s I’m unlikely to contract malaria, be flummoxed by any foreign tongue, need to calculate the exchange rate for Rupees, or have any need of a foreign embassy. I will, however, have to navigate the daunting array of 10 hamburgers on the menu, many of them named after motorcycle brands (Norton Burger, BMW Burger, etc.). I will also have to summon the energy to refill my coffee when the waitperson is otherwise occupied. These are the things, in my small and limited world, that concern and challenge me. But I meet them head on, and conquer them, in the way of all true explorers and conquistadors throughout history.

Despite our lethargy, once we’re underway the ride home along the ridgetops is lovely, with the oak-studded hills extending out to the ocean, which periodically reveals itself in the mists. I only find the Airhead’s false neutral between fourth and fifth four times, which I consider a superlative mechanical experience for a bike of its advanced age. By the time I get home there is no oil or gas leaking from any orifice, which is another sign of a good day, but I’ll check it again later with more time, a strong light, and a whiskey in hand. Things are often revealed under these more (less?) stringent conditions.

I still entertain notions of grander expeditions. But for now I’m much more likely to get dysentery at the local taqueria than along the Road of Bones. I could probably find a lake with some awesome leeches nearby, for bragging rights. But I don’t like leeches, so there’s that.  

Today I rode to the gym, and then to the hardware store, where I promptly forgot what essential workshop aid I was missing in the first place. Oh well. It was a ride. And frankly, I’m exhausted.