Germans I Have Met

Africa 1979

"I think your motorcycle will be okay," said the wizened German RVer as we stood outside his Mercedes van parked in a Tunisian oasis. "You?" he paused,"you may not.You may break down out there." He shook his white stubbly chin at the vastness beyond the little oasis.

This was not a traveler who stood on ceremony, and he didn't allow politeness to come between him and his tongue. Such was my state of mind that I didn't snap back at him and go build my own camp fire. No, I sat down in the cold night sand and listened to his gravelly voice tell me about his own litany of previous Saharan crossings. "I always wanted my own home along," he said, implicitly turning his nose up at my self contained single cylinder Yamaha SR500. Everything I did seemed to engender the old man's ire. Looking back he must have got off on telling the young fool exactly where he was going wrong and how his Teutonic level of preparedness was the antidote to my fuzzy logistics.

I envied him his self contained world, his retirement checks that allowed him to wander his winters in North Africa. I had yet to meet the North American snowbird phenomenon of driving south to avoid snow; to find a European doing such a thing was a novelty for a sheltered youth like myself. I was on a massive adventure, testing my 21 summers of life. Secretly I also envied him his contentment- he wasn't heading east into Algeria and then south into the Sahara. In his dotage he was piddling the entire winter away in the safe, easy environs of Tozeur. I was scared and uncertain and I took his guff.

Call me co-dependant but I missed his sneers when finally I took off and headed out into the desert alone.

France 1978

I remember it as a hot summer, though in one's memory summers are always long and hot when one was young. I was riding down the Rhone Valley heading back to Italy after a year in England, spent bouncing between jobs, getting thrown out one last time from my step father's house and making friends with feckless motorcyclists who grew into middle aged respectability before ever I did. I was riding a red and black Moto Morini 350, an entirely unsuitable tourer, lightly loaded with panniers and a luggage rack, where up front it had clip-ons and a small bubble cockpit fairing, and the only means of starting was a kick starter. It was, in a world filled with chromed electric start Honda 400 Fours an oddity, a fast nimble oddity. I loved it.

The campground I pulled into that particular evening was dusty and crowded, we were all swathed in multi-colored nylon, riding, driving, pedalling, our vacations away. I fell in with a man sprawled comfortably in the shade of a tent adjoining his RV. He looked like a sheik, fanned, electrically, while his nubile young wife poured copious glasses of lemonade for him. I think he took pity on me and waved me in out of the sun and the dust.

It was a good place to sit. So I sat and listened as he laughed about the size of my tent and the dust in my camping spot. the lemonade was delicious.

"You like my hand?" he laughed, waving a grossly deformed crab claw in the air. I had been trying not to stare. The flesh of the thumb was gross and over sized, while the only finger on his hand was equally large and looked for all the world like a crab pincer with a delicate white nail growing on the tip.

"This hasn't stopped me from doing anything," he said. And he told me wild stories of dramas taking place in countries I had read about in the newspapers. He talked of fighting in the French Foreign Legion and pulled out black and white pictures of a man with a crab claw in military fatigues. It was terribly Beau Geste.

"I make good money," he laughed some more, breaking the romantic spell. "Still?" I stuttered.

"Oh yes," he said dreamily. "Lots, but I have no photographs of that part of it." And he winked.

I left the next morning, folding and loading my tent before he sauntered out of the RV into the shade tent and thrust a small cup of coffee into my hand. "Sure you don't want a life of adventure?" he asked. I shook my head. He scared me.

I never did figure if he was bluffing lying or bullshitting, but from time to time I wonder if he was opening a new door in my life through which I lacked the nerve to step.

Austria 1976

I had never been to Austria before but I liked what I saw. The mountains were out of the movies, stark backdrops to winding green valleys littered with pointy roofed homes, neatly cropped fields and smooth roads. It had been a long ride north from my home, and I was riding the first true motorcycle I had ever bought. This MV was like the Moto Morini,in that it was totally unsuitable, but because it preceded the Morini it was even less suitable to the tasks I set before it. Like the Morini, the MV Agusta 350 was a push rod twin, but with the cylinders set in parallel not in a Vee. I had hung bags off the back and because it was the motorcycle I had, it was the motorcycle I travelled with. It seemed to work out, perhaps because i knew no better. Nor had I ever heard of ipods, blue teeth or gps, so I neither missed them nor craved them.

My family was gathering near Innsbruck for some function I can't recall but I had promised to show up. I had no car so they were going to have to put up with my boy racer, fire engine red motorcycle.

All I had to do was get there. The long slow climb through the Alps was as much as fun as it could be, winding uphill on a motorcycle designed to be ridden on mountain roads. The ride down was even better as I had passed through customs (an arduous undertaking in those days for a badly dressed dirty young tramp) and the air got warmer the lower I got.

The MV ran just fine but I was young and worried and a long way from home so I fiddled excessively with the chain and got lots of oil on myself and ultimately on my clothes.

My step father had made a reservation for me at a guest house and by some miracle I found it. I remember a Heidi house with a pointed roof, big shutters thrown back from the windows and geraniums in window boxes underneath them. I climbed off the MV, slowly letting go of the clip on handlebars and gently propping the scarlet torpedo on its center stand, the only stand it had. The silence was deafening, because in addition to its other unsuitable characteristics, the MV had suffered at the hands of a previous owner who preferred a loud exhaust and he had gone out of his way to make this little 350cc loud.

The lady of the guest house came to the door, just another glorious vision of Austrian womanhood, a country populated by more than its share of beauties I found. She looked down at me leaning against her door jamb in the bright sunlight and said nothing. She looked down and up and down, and slowly, in a voice filled with disbelief: "Gruss Gott!" which is the traditional Austrian greeting, a catholic form of how-do-you-do that roughly translated means "God's Greetings!"

"Gruss Gott," I said back wearily, summoning up my modest amount of German to ask if she had my room. It had been along exciting day, my first crossing an international border on my own motorcycle. Her head nodded but her voice disagreed.

"Schmutzig!" she said indignantly. I was too dirty to cross her threshold and so, instead of Thor the god of thunder entering her impeccable home it was a small boy in his underwear who hobbled into the cool dark interior, clutching a large bundle of motorcycle clothing. Clothing that would mark him for the rest of his life.

My stepfather took this harmless story and seared it into my brain by introducing me everywhere as his schmutzig son, that summer and then explaining in excruciating depth how i got the exotic nickname. he was so mean its no surprise I ended up emigrating. And motorcycling, if that was what helped to piss him off.

Getting Waylaid

"Is that an old one, or a new one that looks like the old one?" The Dions clerk was sitting on a milk crate under the merciless neon lights of the gas station. Dions is a convenience store institution in the Keys, a chain of deep fryers located in the back of gas stations up and down the island chain famous for its cheap, tasty ( when fresh) chicken, a saving grace when the wife is having a girls night out with the book club. They had gone to the Tropic Cinema in Key West to check out the movie about the Jane Austen Book Club followed by dinner at a Taste of Greece.

It was a warm night on Summerland Key (my optional NewBonneville.com temperature gauge showed 82 degrees), and business as always in October was slow, so it was a perfect time to lean back and listen to his reminiscences about his old BSA 441 dirt bike from when he was a young somewhat careless young man.

"A lot of my buddies died on the streets, killed by turning cars, so I took the safe route, trail bikes and dirt racing." He smiled and the eager 20 year old peered out from behind his thick lenses and bushy mustache.

"I'm not sure why I'm still alive after all these years, an exaggerated fearfulness perhaps."

"You just got that? " a man gassing an enormous black pick up leaned across the bed and joined our conversation detailing the cubic capacity, the resemblance to the Norton Commando's capacity and all that.

"You run it in? How fast you got it going?" I knew I was facing a barrage of opinion about how to run in a Triumph so I popped my noggin into my new full face helmet (the type that flips up in front and makes it easy to put on with glasses). I reached to the headlight and turned on the key letting the engine purr a moment while i pulled on my gloves. My fried chicken was nestled in my newly installed top case and all was right with the world.

I had put two and a half gallons of 89 octane in the tank and that showed 43 mpg with 108 miles covered.

Back home I had a copy of that very silly boys movie Wild Hogs ( I watched the Jane Austen flick at the matinee...), and some left over candy from my afternoon off at the movies. And a warm, clicking Bonneville downstairs cooling under my house, ready for my commute in the morning.

Life is good again.

250 Miles Later

The first 45 miles were in traffic, the next 55 miles were slowly rolled over on Florida's Turnpike ( and very boring they were too). The rest were unrolled on the magic carpet of the Overseas Highway; they were the best miles.

"You're going to ride away?" they looked, as the English would say in horrible jargon, gobsmacked. "Most people put them in their pick up trucks."

"Why?" I asked,more than a little taken aback. Why wouldn't brand new owner want to ride as soon as possible?

"Nerves," they said, shrugging. Well, on that count I'm no superman, I've already learned the Bonneville is a smooth easy ride. It was no problem at all to engage with the relatively genteel mid week traffic on Fort Lauderdale's urban boulevards. Miami, the Latin half of the bi-city equation prefers to drive fast and take no prisoners, which is also okay if you know your machine and aren't hampered by running in requirements.

The ride home involved some mainland shopping for the patient wife, who was driving the Maxima home after dropping me off at Pure Triumph. We stopped by Whole Foods and Target and putzed around the malls and set our sights on home an hour before darkness was to descend.

We separated on Card Sound Road, my wife pulled away as she was not trying to baby a brand new engine and shortly after I passed the toll booth marking the northern edge of the Florida Keys the rain started. And the rain didn't stop, so I did, and I started the mighty struggle to swathe myself in nylon. Unfortunately I was in a lonely wooded stretch of the roadway and there were no unoccupied overhangs to lurk under while doing the huffing and puffing and zipping to get encased in the rain suit and over boots and over gloves. Eventually I was done and I took to the road again in that snug muffled world of protection against the elements.

The Bonneville ran perfectly of course, thrumming along at 55 or 60 miles per hour where possible and gently floating in fifth at 50 where the lower speed limit was in effect. I loved the ability to open the throttle just a bit and watch the cars disappear behind me as I zipped past them. By the time I reached Marathon it was ten pm, the rain had stopped and I was 155 miles into my tankful of gas and estimated I had another 12 to go before the reserve tank was drained. I stopped and pirouetted in reverse unwinding the layers of nylon and breathing the warm night air through every unfettered pore. I felt 23 again and "on the road."

Today its sunny and bright and clear and I took a quick run past my chores on Big Pine Key, after I opened a package that arrived yesterday, loaded with a luggage rack and thermometer and clock which I bolted on this morning. It was a good morning to enjoy a few modest "twisties" on a side road I happen to like. The bike takes turns as smoothly as it pulls past traffic and it's fun all round. As it should be.

Choices

I have never made a distinction between my Vespas and my other motorcycles. to me scooters are motorbikes as much as any other two wheeled propulsion I have owned, and the past two months of being Vespa-less, has been motorcycle-less.

When the wife laid down the law and said she was tired of Vespa Fort Lauderdale, and in the knowledge that I really do need a motorcycle to round out my workaday life, she set me on a path of casting around trying to figure out what to look for next.
The obvious choice was another scooter, perhaps a splendid Suzuki Burgman, in 400 or 650cc guise.

The trouble is I just can't get into their styling, feet forwards, and they are massive and plasticky and oh so practical. The 650 needs almost no maintenance at all, aside from an oil change and thats a wonderful thing. I like to ride upright, in control of the machine just as one does on a Vespa, so buzzing up and down the keys on a mobile lazy boy was a dubious proposition. Even after my wife admired the passenger accomodations.

She understood my reluctance to join the ranks of the two-wheeled sensibles.

I checked out the BMW range. Now these are motorcycles made for travel, and people who ride long distances ride BMWs. I don't and I have never owned one, which I guess is a little weird in light of my desire to rack up the miles. The image here like the Burgman is all wrong, even though Beemers traditionally have "sit-up-and-beg "riding positions. For one thing they are physically large machines, and down here in the Keys I want something nimble, easy to ride, but that is also capable of excursions. The other thing is that BMWs have always exuded a particular aura about their machines, they have quirks and have created a cult-like following and cults don't work for me. In the spirit of open mindedness (that was a strain for me) I test rode the new 800ST.

That was quite a nice machine. It comes complete with full fairing, easy access to the oil filter, belt drive and a smooth (for BMW!) six speed gearbox. It really wasnt a cult rider's BMW machine and acted quite normal. There were, even in the most fair minded analysis, problems.
The riding position is surprisingly sporty, almost cafe racerish, which fed my nostalgia thirst but did nothing good for my midriff, pressed into the bulbous tank, or my wrists, on which my ample avoir du poids rested. Also when I reached the floor on tippy toe my ankles banged squarely against the immoveable footpegs, creating the need for incessant pirouettes of the feet to stay upright.

The model shown cost an even $12,000 with an inadequate sized BMW topcase. Another lightly used 800 sans topcase was going at $11,000 and a brand new 800 costs $12,500. A lot of dough for a high revving six speed watercooled Rotax twin, with awkwardly placed bars and pegs.

A brief foray into the notion of an air cooled BMW twin died a death when the 850R in question was rubbish. A test ride on that sadly neglected bike confirmed the fact that when the seat is in the lowest position my testicles faced imminent and painful demise against the ever bulbous tank. Too high a price to pay, even used!

"You sound excited!" my wife remarked over the phone after I tested this beauty, and in my voice she heard happiness.

The Pure Triumph shop had a couple of Black Bonnevilles lightly used, and this used T100 now in their rental program, with 10,000 miles on the clock. They each had a few months warranty, but before I knew it the Blacks were gone and it was obvious the shop had no need to make a deal to sell the $6500 T100 I test rode.

The Triumph struck a nerve as I sat astride it with my feet reassuringly planted on the ground. The engine whirred quietly, meanwhile of vibrations I could detect none. Under way the take off was smooth, the controls smooth and the motorcycle was so light footed and easy it felt like a Vespa with gears. The bars and pegs combine to keep one in a traditional standard bike posture without excessive weight on wrists or bum, and control of the bike is enhanced by that fact. This isn't by any standards a cruiser. I felt at home immediately on the machine and was ready to throw it with abandon round corners. It was fun. I've read the reviews of world weary motorcycle "journalists" who restrict these easy to ride motorcycles to the curse of the beginner's bike or the returning old fart, but what they don't understand about the rare find like the Bonneville is, that the simple is also the fun to own and ride daily. My brief conversation with my wife expressed all this pent up emotion in just a few words. I was relieved to have found a worthy substitute for my wonderful Vespa.

"I can make you a smoking deal on a new green Bonneville," the voice of the devil came down the phone. "$5,999," Jeff went on and added up incidentals to get me out the door for $7700. Then I stuck on a center stand and some fork gaitors and I ordered a black rack from NewBonneville.com along with a clock and a temperature gauge ( the GTS has me used to those features!) and off we go. Another modern classic with tons of add-ons.

Of course I will "need" a tachometer, some bags for my commuting crap, a windscreen and on and on. Just like my beloved Vespa.

And now the choice has been made and it all seems so right, even that bloody final drive chain has an option if it gets too messy or too labor intensive! I spoke with Ozzy at Quiet Power drive and he was very reassuring about the quality of his belt drive systems.

If I had long legs and lots of gravel roads like Scooter in the Sticks I'd be looking at the Scrambler also with 900ccs, but lots more torque and modest off road capability...But this is me, short legged me, and I will be posing with my Bonneville.

The Other Highway One

Who would've thunk that riding a motorcycle mattered so much to me? I feel as though a boil has been lanced and a new sense of completion and contentment sweeps over me. My Bonneville. Harumph.

I am embarrassed from time to time about my attitude, that of a curmudgeon and I try not to slip into the belief that the good old days were actually better old days than today. But my Bonneville reminds me of one of my favorite cycles from years past, the Yamaha SR 500, a motorcycle that lacked an electric start and taught me to kick a big single into life. It had character in spades just like the modern Bonneville and it handled lightly and smoothly just like... oh, never mind. I have lots of crazy memories, especially of being cold, that come to mind.

I gave up my motorcycle willingly when I realised it was keeping me from spending time with my dog. Besides I was never too excited by that huge 1200cc Honda Goldwing. It was like riding a very large sewing machine, and if anyone ever asks you can be sure and tell them, on my authority, that 600 pound sewing machines do not corner very easily. I lost a lot of interest in motorcycles as the importers courted younger riders with impossibly fast machines that require a level of crouching that would leave me aching. I took to sailing, and kept myself cold on the waters of Northern California.

One evening my wife and I took the Goldwing up the coast for dinner at Duarte's tavern in the village of Pescadero, a 30 minute ride up Highway One (the other Highway One, the California state Highway celebrated in the bridges of big Sur). After dinner we walked through the village in the dying rays of the sun and window shopped the antique stores; junque stores, really, but yesterday's ironmongery is today's "collectible."

The ride home was a horror. We should have worn electric vests I'm sure, but after dinner we were immersed in bands of fog sweeping in off the beaches, we were cold and wet, my teeth chattered, the windshield was insufficient, only my feet were warm, nestled behind the flat water cooled cylinders.

"We should have taken the convertible," my wife ground out through chattering teeth as I maneuvered the mastodon across the gravel in our driveway. Next time we did.

A few years earlier California's coastal Highway One, known to Southern Californians as "The PCH" had nailed me again. I was riding the Pacific Coast Highway north from Santa Monica, completing a trip to Santa Cruz from my previous home in Fort Myers. I had bought a fully dressed Yamaha Maxim 650 to improve the quality of my tedious life in southwest Florida, and conceived the notion that life would be better in California once again.

It was a splendid trip, my shaft driven four cylinder 650 ran like a top, I listened to the radio as I rode, a grotesque first (and last) for me and I even took a tent and used it, most memorably on a star-lit night in the grasslands of the Oklahoma panhandle. A grizzled Harley rider shared the empty park campground and we sat and sipped and he looked at my rice burner and nodded thoughtfully. "She'll get you there," he said slowly, acting more like Sam Shepherd than the actor ever did in one of his own plays. I appreciated his approval.

The Other Highway One nailed me on the long ride north from San Luis Obispo. I was returning to my home in Santa Cruz and it was a sentimental journey, a return to my emigrant roots, a fresh start, a place to call home. And I wanted to return along the most famous, photographed road in the world, the twisting bridged path through Big Sur. In real life it's a Big Pain in the Ass as traffic is endless and slow.

My romantic visions of swinging along the Highway in a California blaze of sunlight were dashed by bad timing. I had to be in Santa Cruz tomorrow afternoon reading the news, and my new deadline meant I had to ride at night. Big Sur is over 100 miles long from Cambria to Carmel and there isn't a drop of gas along the way. At night the villages at either end are pretty much closed too so I filled a quart soda bottle with gas and sat it up in the pouch inside my huge windshield at the last open Seven Eleven in town. 20 miles into my overnight odyssey I poured the gas into the tank hoping there was no Mountain Dew residue, and took on the darkened road.

It was cold and damp. I've sailed the Big Sur coast a few times and I have frozen my ass on those overnight trips, but even though a sailboat travels at walking speed you can duck into the cabin, warm up and heat water. On the motorcycle I just kept going, wiping the moisture from my beard, trying to see the road ahead and watching as my speed slowed as my concentration faded.

finally, around midnight I was a popsicle and when the Julia Pfeiffer State Park hove into view I turned off the Highway. I remembered the park as a dirt open space with a trail head. That was then, this was 1992. The Park was clean and asphalted and there were restrooms and a bus shelter which was the perfect place to spread a sleeping bag and lay down and listen to the slowing of my chattering teeth.

Why do people think California is a tropical paradise? Florida is tropical, and paradise is a green Bonnie in a place where winter is the occasional cold front on a windy afternoon. Now I'm settled my rides are my adventures, and remembering all those chaotic plans and wild optimism is an activity kindled by the simple act of gripping the handlebars and taking off, corporeally to work, but spiritually down the highways of the past. That's why riding is so important to me.

My Bonneville

I have put 12 whole miles on my Goodwood Green Bonneville. What a ride! It was yet another rainy day, the skies filed with gloom and foreboding in that way that only Florida summer thunderstorms can fill the sky. In a flat state like Florida there's nothing to measure the castle in the air against, there are no mountain ranges, no forests to break up the skyline across the savanna of the Everglades, and the towers of downtown Fort Lauderdale look puny against the roiling castles in the sky that roll and reform, always more black, always promising a heavier cloudburst than went before.

In the sales office at Pure Triumph business was continuing as usual. An anxious motorcyclist perched in an uncomfortable chair across from a busy, debonair, successful salesman. A gleaming green Bonneville parked on the sales floor.

"Is that mine?" asks the motorcyclist, his voice fluting and tremulous as a schoolboy's waiting for punishment.

"Mmh-hmm," mumbles the debonair one shuffling papers. "Sign here, and here and initials for the DMV."

I could have signed away my kidneys in that moment had Jeff been a stereotypical south Florida surgeon in search of a donor. As it was he started writing slowly on a cardboard temporary tag.

I was staring at the gleaming green lump parked decorously in the shop window.

"Do you suppose I could go for a quick ride?"

"It's yours..."Jeff said with a slight note of puzzlement, he was dealing with a moron obviously. But lucky for him a moron armed with enough cash to pay for the lump.

I went out onto the showroom floor to get some relief from the paperwork and I stared in awe at this gleaming brand new speedometer with 0 miles on the clock.

A tall thin t-shirted firefighter (judging by his brand stamped on the cotton on his chest) was wandering around. He had white hair a white beard and he looked a like a professor of Economics looking for fun. He commutes 45 miles each way on freeways and wants Power."Nice huh," he said looking at the puny Classic Triumph. "Yes" I gulped, its mine." ("I'm its" would have been more accurate). He wanted a Tiger, the three cylinder "urban street fighter" which requires a very long inside leg, which he had.

He started showing me the modifications he wanted to make on a Street Triple he's thinking about. Then he started in on what I should do to the Bonneville, while all I could think was "Shit, I own this thing." Put on some bags and ride is what I want to do but he was rabbiting on about paintwork and headlight shapes and all that stuff. I got my wish, not the bags- the ride.

Out back Nuccio held the motorcycle out to me. "Don't worry about dirtying it," he smiled. "We haven't done the pre-delivery polish yet." He held a box of fork gaitors in his hand which he will install before I pick up the bike on Wednesday. I want to protect the fork sliders from the Keys' salt air. Plus the black rubber belows on the fork legs look retro and cool.

This bike oozes cool, which is a bit awkward as I don't. However in riding around urban Fort Lauderdale I learned a couple of things about it. It doesn't vibrate one bit at speeds up to 60 mph and car drivers won't stand a chance if I want to pull ahead. The engine is responsive and I feel totally comfortable and in control with my feet tucked under my hips and my arms in a totally natural position on the modest width handlebars.

I got back to the store with clouds still threatening, one compliment in my wake, one envious stare from an on duty cab driver ( my freedom on a work day or my gleaming ride I'm not sure), and no signs that this is not the perfect bike for me.

I am starting to feel better after all the heartache and searching the past few weeks. A lot better.