
Only So Many Motorcycles Left to Live
When I was younger, time spread out before me like a desert highway, punctuated by dozens of future, imagined motorcycles, each one of them better than the last. Not so anymore.
Musings from one who writes, and rides…

When I was younger, time spread out before me like a desert highway, punctuated by dozens of future, imagined motorcycles, each one of them better than the last. Not so anymore.

Carburetors, like clutches and cables, have become the earmarks of antiquity. There will soon come a time when exactly no one will know how to adjust or service these devices. Carbs and clutches will seem as weird as a wall jack….

Imagine a couple hundred codgers on BMWs sleeping in the dirt, drinking beer and traversing California for three days. But no one knows where the next day’s ride will go until they arrive at camp each night….

My bikes display a lack of cleanliness that has the singular advantage of serving as a theft deterrent. “Hey Bob, this one is unlocked, but honestly, who would want it? If we’re going to risk arrest we might as well go for something clean. Let’s move on….”

Riding the interior roads of Maine is a little like one of those underground trains at the amusement park, where you go into dark and haunting interior spaces, then emerge in dazzling sunlight, the world resplendent and pure….

Just over the Santa Cruz mountains from my home on the Northern California coast, in the trendy little town of Los Gatos, there is a store that sells cupcakes. But twisty roads, it turns out, are not kind to cupcakes.

Confined to the house for much of the winter, I did what any reasonable person of a certain age would do: I bought another motorcycle.

Over the years I’ve done hundreds of oil changes, valve adjustments, brake bleeds, and tire swaps. I’ve hunted down and exterminated electrical gremlins, changed fork seals, built and trued spoke wheels, replaced bearings, flushed radiators, and even done nut-and-bolt restorations of vintage bikes. Sadly, along the way I’ve also rounded off a hardware store worth of bolt heads, dropped the errant washer down a spark plug hole, and smashed enough knuckles that my wife doesn’t even comment on the bloodbath anymore. This long and messy apprenticeship has elevated my stature from “incompetent” to merely “hamfisted.”
Originally published in On the Level, the magazine of the BMW Riders Association. What has been learned in 50 years of motorcycling? Unless you have experienced it, there is no way to know that a sunset is infinitely better from the seat of a motorcycle; or that the fine edge of traction exists in the…

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…