5569 Miles: The Resurrection, The Hunt, and The Flight, Chapter 1
The Resurrection
In 1998 I bought a 1994 Harley-Davidson Wide Glide and made a 8,355 mile trip through the Western US on a work-related project that took me six weeks to complete (see 8355 Miles: A Motorcycle Ride Through the West). I never sat on that bike again until the following Spring when I planned to sell it, thinking that I had ridden every mile out of me that I could. I was wrong.
Many people will tell you that riding a motorcycle and experiencing that feeling that is inexplicable to others is a life-long addiction. You can't rid yourself of it. You will never be cured. If there were such a thing, I would have to go to meetings every month, take my turn around the circle, stand up, and say, "My name is Dale. I'm a motorcycle addict." Following that, I would hear hundreds of thousands of others mumble in return, "Hi, Dale." There were brief times when I would be without an iron horse in the garage, having sworn that I was finished and having sold every vestige of motorcycle equipment I could find. This spontaneous act to rid myself of any reminder of this obsession always cost me money. Soon I would be driving down the road in a cage and pass a pack of bikers either coming or going. Like Ramar of the Jungle, very faintly I would hear drums starting to pound in the distant corridors of my mind. Day by day and week by week as I denied that I was ever going to ride again, the incessant thumping increased. It would beat during the day, and it would mount in volume at night. Eventually it was as if I was sitting next to Ringo Starr while he was doing a drum solo. The drums would roll at deafening volume like a a drum corps of teenagers hammering on upside down, white, plastic, paint buckets in Times Square. But only I could hear it. It always stopped when I gazed upon another iron horse with my name on the ownership title.
The Hunt
I had owned many motorcycle brands. But for years I had heard about BMWs. After hearing my many complaints about my Harley being passed by Winnebagos as I went up mountains, people began urging me to look at a BMW. I was also ready for something that would not require hearing aids in a few more years. Looking through the classifieds, I saw a BMW K1100RS advertised up in Grand Haven, Michigan. So one day I moseyed up there to take a test ride on a bike I had only read about. I will never forget that experience. I rode the Harley up for one of my last rides on it. The BMW rested in the category of a sport touring bike. A good choice. I was feeling a lot of miles coming up. It had more of a forward sitting position, meaning that instead of sitting back on the Harley like it was a LA-Z-BOY, one leaned forward with the upper part of his body's weight resting on the hands and wrists as he held the bars. That seemed agreeable. At first. My initial impression was that THIS was a remarkably engineered machine as I careened around back roads. The engine quietly hummed its own distinct sound. Everything was tight, QUIET, and smooth. Incredible acceleration fired it like a jet, as opposed to the Harley twin cylinder engine that rumbled off the line like a nursing home bus by comparison. When I returned from the test ride, I left shaking my head, wondering why I had not been told more forcefully about a BMW in the past. But when I sat back down on the Harley and fired it up, I descended into a state of bewilderment when I pulled away from that man's house. I suddenly became aware that my arms, the bars, and the bike were shaking violently and making a thunderous noise compared to the whisper quiet BMW. It suddenly sounded to me as if the Harley was coming apart. As I drove away, I actually had the feeling of embarrassment that I had been so stupid to put $13,000 into a Harley when a demonstrably superb machine like that BMW was virtually ignored by me and most other motorcyclists.
The BMW K1100RS
Anyway, I was now on the war path for a BMW K1100RS. I found one online in Chicago - a 1996, black and silver Special Edition with ABS. I went down to Chicago and rode that thing home to Michigan in freezing temperatures in April. It was a miserable ride of 190 miles with Linda following me in our warm car. In May, Linda and I took that Beemer to Myrtle Beach, South Carolina, through Kentucky and Tennessee, for a Spring Break vacation and came back through the Outer Banks of North Carolina (Nagshead and Okrakoke), up through Norfolk, Virginia, and into Washington D.C. It was a ride that lingers in my mind even today. From Washington, we whisked back to Holland, Michigan in a single day. Overall, I was very pleased with that K11RS in general. But after that trip to Myrtle Beach, this bike gave me the same feeling I nearly always have sooner or later. My bane in motorcycle ownership is that I never seem to be satisfied. I am always looking over my shoulder for something better. Most motorcyclists are inflicted with this curse. It is inexplicable. But it is something you just know. So I started looking for a better mouse trap within three or four months. (See Never Satisfied and Always Looking) That K11 could fly, but it was one of the most uncomfortable bikes I had ever ridden. For one, I was still trying to get used to that lean-forward position. On that long trip to South Carolina and home, leaning forward on those wrists was like doing pushups on your hands for 2,000 miles. My wrists and shoulders had chronic aches, even at night. I couldn't wait till I got off of it. In addition, every time I came to an abrupt stop, Linda would fly forward as if she was sitting on ball bearings, and because there was no back rest per se for her, the poor soul suffered quietly while she leaned on my back, just hoping I would get her home quickly and safely. I know we both quietly came to the same conclusions as we approached home that this thing had to go.
The BMW K1200RS
So I began to read about the BMW K1200RS (which the man from whom I had bought the K1100RS had bought after he sold his bike to me), a supposedly vastly superior and much discussed improvement on the K1100RS. Sometimes finding a particular model of BMW to test ride is not easy. There are not near as many BMW dealers as there are Harley-Davdson dealers for one. Although there is a network of knowledgeable and dedicated cadre of BMW riders, you usually have to travel to find the BMW you want. A knowing BMW enthusiast is aware that there is a place where you can find them all day long. It is on the Internet at The Internet BMW Riders Motorcycle Marketplace. Until I was able to actually find one, the only thing I was able to do was READ about the K12RS. From all the reviews and specs I read, I came to the conclusion that the K12RS was a much better ride than the K11RS, and I determined that we needed to make the change. Now...where to find it?
FoundIn February of 2000, I finally spotted on the BMW Riders Motorcycle Marketplace the K1200RS that looked like the bike I usually purchased. It was well farkled with accessories. Thousands of dollars of extra add-ons. It was yellow with black and white checked decals on the sides. ABS brakes, PIAA lights, a tank bag, a Russell All-Day-Long seat with a backrest for my loyal passenger, large, water-proof, hard bags, and many more extras. It had about 10,000 miles on the clock and was in….EL PASO, TEXAS. I called the owner who was in his 60‘s and found out he was a motorcycle safety instructor who was as obsessed as I was. He had several bikes in his garage and needed to get rid of this one. I took some time to study some pictures he sent me, and finally I decided to make the commitment after having talked to his secretary who told me he cared for all his vehicles immaculately and that he was as honest as the day was long.
Linda and I had discussed doing another Spring Break trip and using some frequent flyer miles to do so. But we wanted to go to Florida. So our plan was to buy that bike in El Paso, take it to Florida, and then come home.
So we made a deal on the phone. I sent the owner $13,500 by check, and he promised to hold the bike for me until I got there in a couple of weeks. Now think about this for a moment.I have often wondered about why I did this and what it could have meant. I sent $13,500 to a perfect stranger who was over 1600 miles away without ever having met him or seeing the bike I purchased other than some pictures he emailed me. I hadn't even ridden a BMW K1200RS yet. I made my decision based entirely on what I had extensively read and from my impression of him on the phone and the private conversation I had with his secretary that he knew nothing about. I have found motorcycle people to be trustworthy people. Anyone who pays the kind of money he did for that K1200RS when it was new, has a good reputation with his secretary, and is a motorcycle safety instructor is more than a good risk.
Flight To Texas
Cashing in mileage for tickets, Linda and I left Grand Rapids, Michigan, on the morning of March 1, 2000. We hopped to Cincinnati and then Dallas. From there we took a night flight over to El Paso. I will never forget the feelings that swarmed over me as I looked down into the blackness of Central and West Texas. There was nothing down there. It looked foreboding as I realized that the next night I would be riding back under that blanket of black. It is when you actually travel on the roads below you in West Texas you understand why you don't see a light. Riding on I-10, it is 881 miles across the state of Texas. From Dallas to El Paso is almost 650 miles by car. As you go west from Dallas, civilization continually diminishes into more and more arid country where it is vast, lonely, barren, flat, mountainous, and very dark at night. It is a long, long way.
This part of the world that was beneath me had been once owned by Old Mexico until 1848 when the Treaty of Hildalgo ceded present-day west Texas to the Rio Grande River, New Mexico, Arizona, California, Nevada, Utah, most of Colorado, and part of Wyoming to the United States after the war with Mexico. The northern third of Mexico had suddenly become the southwestern quarter of the United States. We did pay Mexico a measly $15 million for it, however. Hence, many people regard the Mexican War as a straightforward land-grab on the part of the United States. It probably helps to explain many of the problems we see in that area today, especially along our southern border, and the talk that eventually that area will all be back in Mexican hands in time. As you approach El Paso, you begin to descend into the Chihauhaun Desert, the most arid part of the state. This was formerly Apache and Comanche country about 150 years ago. Sometimes West Texas is referred to as Big Bend Country. Non-Texans think Texas is all desert, cactus, tumbleweeds, and wild west scenery. If that is what you want to see, then Big Bend Country is where you will see it. It is often said that "if west Texas is the front porch of the West, then it is a hell of a long way to the mailbox." Today, Hispanics fill in the area around the Rio Grand River, which is the line between the US and Mexico.
No light for two hours made the flight seem inordinately long. Then, out of nowhere, a spectacular sight appeared. Brilliant and far-flung lights like Los Angeles suddenly burst into view. It was El Paso. Linda and I took a shuttle to a Holiday Inn when the plane landed and hoped that the man who had our $13,500 would show up the next morning as he had promised.
In 1998 I bought a 1994 Harley-Davidson Wide Glide and made a 8,355 mile trip through the Western US on a work-related project that took me six weeks to complete (see 8355 Miles: A Motorcycle Ride Through the West). I never sat on that bike again until the following Spring when I planned to sell it, thinking that I had ridden every mile out of me that I could. I was wrong.
Many people will tell you that riding a motorcycle and experiencing that feeling that is inexplicable to others is a life-long addiction. You can't rid yourself of it. You will never be cured. If there were such a thing, I would have to go to meetings every month, take my turn around the circle, stand up, and say, "My name is Dale. I'm a motorcycle addict." Following that, I would hear hundreds of thousands of others mumble in return, "Hi, Dale." There were brief times when I would be without an iron horse in the garage, having sworn that I was finished and having sold every vestige of motorcycle equipment I could find. This spontaneous act to rid myself of any reminder of this obsession always cost me money. Soon I would be driving down the road in a cage and pass a pack of bikers either coming or going. Like Ramar of the Jungle, very faintly I would hear drums starting to pound in the distant corridors of my mind. Day by day and week by week as I denied that I was ever going to ride again, the incessant thumping increased. It would beat during the day, and it would mount in volume at night. Eventually it was as if I was sitting next to Ringo Starr while he was doing a drum solo. The drums would roll at deafening volume like a a drum corps of teenagers hammering on upside down, white, plastic, paint buckets in Times Square. But only I could hear it. It always stopped when I gazed upon another iron horse with my name on the ownership title.
The Hunt
I had owned many motorcycle brands. But for years I had heard about BMWs. After hearing my many complaints about my Harley being passed by Winnebagos as I went up mountains, people began urging me to look at a BMW. I was also ready for something that would not require hearing aids in a few more years. Looking through the classifieds, I saw a BMW K1100RS advertised up in Grand Haven, Michigan. So one day I moseyed up there to take a test ride on a bike I had only read about. I will never forget that experience. I rode the Harley up for one of my last rides on it. The BMW rested in the category of a sport touring bike. A good choice. I was feeling a lot of miles coming up. It had more of a forward sitting position, meaning that instead of sitting back on the Harley like it was a LA-Z-BOY, one leaned forward with the upper part of his body's weight resting on the hands and wrists as he held the bars. That seemed agreeable. At first. My initial impression was that THIS was a remarkably engineered machine as I careened around back roads. The engine quietly hummed its own distinct sound. Everything was tight, QUIET, and smooth. Incredible acceleration fired it like a jet, as opposed to the Harley twin cylinder engine that rumbled off the line like a nursing home bus by comparison. When I returned from the test ride, I left shaking my head, wondering why I had not been told more forcefully about a BMW in the past. But when I sat back down on the Harley and fired it up, I descended into a state of bewilderment when I pulled away from that man's house. I suddenly became aware that my arms, the bars, and the bike were shaking violently and making a thunderous noise compared to the whisper quiet BMW. It suddenly sounded to me as if the Harley was coming apart. As I drove away, I actually had the feeling of embarrassment that I had been so stupid to put $13,000 into a Harley when a demonstrably superb machine like that BMW was virtually ignored by me and most other motorcyclists.
The BMW K1100RS
Anyway, I was now on the war path for a BMW K1100RS. I found one online in Chicago - a 1996, black and silver Special Edition with ABS. I went down to Chicago and rode that thing home to Michigan in freezing temperatures in April. It was a miserable ride of 190 miles with Linda following me in our warm car. In May, Linda and I took that Beemer to Myrtle Beach, South Carolina, through Kentucky and Tennessee, for a Spring Break vacation and came back through the Outer Banks of North Carolina (Nagshead and Okrakoke), up through Norfolk, Virginia, and into Washington D.C. It was a ride that lingers in my mind even today. From Washington, we whisked back to Holland, Michigan in a single day. Overall, I was very pleased with that K11RS in general. But after that trip to Myrtle Beach, this bike gave me the same feeling I nearly always have sooner or later. My bane in motorcycle ownership is that I never seem to be satisfied. I am always looking over my shoulder for something better. Most motorcyclists are inflicted with this curse. It is inexplicable. But it is something you just know. So I started looking for a better mouse trap within three or four months. (See Never Satisfied and Always Looking) That K11 could fly, but it was one of the most uncomfortable bikes I had ever ridden. For one, I was still trying to get used to that lean-forward position. On that long trip to South Carolina and home, leaning forward on those wrists was like doing pushups on your hands for 2,000 miles. My wrists and shoulders had chronic aches, even at night. I couldn't wait till I got off of it. In addition, every time I came to an abrupt stop, Linda would fly forward as if she was sitting on ball bearings, and because there was no back rest per se for her, the poor soul suffered quietly while she leaned on my back, just hoping I would get her home quickly and safely. I know we both quietly came to the same conclusions as we approached home that this thing had to go.
The BMW K1200RS
So I began to read about the BMW K1200RS (which the man from whom I had bought the K1100RS had bought after he sold his bike to me), a supposedly vastly superior and much discussed improvement on the K1100RS. Sometimes finding a particular model of BMW to test ride is not easy. There are not near as many BMW dealers as there are Harley-Davdson dealers for one. Although there is a network of knowledgeable and dedicated cadre of BMW riders, you usually have to travel to find the BMW you want. A knowing BMW enthusiast is aware that there is a place where you can find them all day long. It is on the Internet at The Internet BMW Riders Motorcycle Marketplace. Until I was able to actually find one, the only thing I was able to do was READ about the K12RS. From all the reviews and specs I read, I came to the conclusion that the K12RS was a much better ride than the K11RS, and I determined that we needed to make the change. Now...where to find it?
FoundIn February of 2000, I finally spotted on the BMW Riders Motorcycle Marketplace the K1200RS that looked like the bike I usually purchased. It was well farkled with accessories. Thousands of dollars of extra add-ons. It was yellow with black and white checked decals on the sides. ABS brakes, PIAA lights, a tank bag, a Russell All-Day-Long seat with a backrest for my loyal passenger, large, water-proof, hard bags, and many more extras. It had about 10,000 miles on the clock and was in….EL PASO, TEXAS. I called the owner who was in his 60‘s and found out he was a motorcycle safety instructor who was as obsessed as I was. He had several bikes in his garage and needed to get rid of this one. I took some time to study some pictures he sent me, and finally I decided to make the commitment after having talked to his secretary who told me he cared for all his vehicles immaculately and that he was as honest as the day was long.
Linda and I had discussed doing another Spring Break trip and using some frequent flyer miles to do so. But we wanted to go to Florida. So our plan was to buy that bike in El Paso, take it to Florida, and then come home.
So we made a deal on the phone. I sent the owner $13,500 by check, and he promised to hold the bike for me until I got there in a couple of weeks. Now think about this for a moment.I have often wondered about why I did this and what it could have meant. I sent $13,500 to a perfect stranger who was over 1600 miles away without ever having met him or seeing the bike I purchased other than some pictures he emailed me. I hadn't even ridden a BMW K1200RS yet. I made my decision based entirely on what I had extensively read and from my impression of him on the phone and the private conversation I had with his secretary that he knew nothing about. I have found motorcycle people to be trustworthy people. Anyone who pays the kind of money he did for that K1200RS when it was new, has a good reputation with his secretary, and is a motorcycle safety instructor is more than a good risk.
Flight To Texas
Cashing in mileage for tickets, Linda and I left Grand Rapids, Michigan, on the morning of March 1, 2000. We hopped to Cincinnati and then Dallas. From there we took a night flight over to El Paso. I will never forget the feelings that swarmed over me as I looked down into the blackness of Central and West Texas. There was nothing down there. It looked foreboding as I realized that the next night I would be riding back under that blanket of black. It is when you actually travel on the roads below you in West Texas you understand why you don't see a light. Riding on I-10, it is 881 miles across the state of Texas. From Dallas to El Paso is almost 650 miles by car. As you go west from Dallas, civilization continually diminishes into more and more arid country where it is vast, lonely, barren, flat, mountainous, and very dark at night. It is a long, long way.
This part of the world that was beneath me had been once owned by Old Mexico until 1848 when the Treaty of Hildalgo ceded present-day west Texas to the Rio Grande River, New Mexico, Arizona, California, Nevada, Utah, most of Colorado, and part of Wyoming to the United States after the war with Mexico. The northern third of Mexico had suddenly become the southwestern quarter of the United States. We did pay Mexico a measly $15 million for it, however. Hence, many people regard the Mexican War as a straightforward land-grab on the part of the United States. It probably helps to explain many of the problems we see in that area today, especially along our southern border, and the talk that eventually that area will all be back in Mexican hands in time. As you approach El Paso, you begin to descend into the Chihauhaun Desert, the most arid part of the state. This was formerly Apache and Comanche country about 150 years ago. Sometimes West Texas is referred to as Big Bend Country. Non-Texans think Texas is all desert, cactus, tumbleweeds, and wild west scenery. If that is what you want to see, then Big Bend Country is where you will see it. It is often said that "if west Texas is the front porch of the West, then it is a hell of a long way to the mailbox." Today, Hispanics fill in the area around the Rio Grand River, which is the line between the US and Mexico.
No light for two hours made the flight seem inordinately long. Then, out of nowhere, a spectacular sight appeared. Brilliant and far-flung lights like Los Angeles suddenly burst into view. It was El Paso. Linda and I took a shuttle to a Holiday Inn when the plane landed and hoped that the man who had our $13,500 would show up the next morning as he had promised.