All year I've been itching for a long...or even long-ish...ride.
What's become an annual early March pilgrimage to Bisbee Arizona's Return of the Turkey Vultures festival, to which only Larry Haruska agreed to ride with me this year, was cancelled by my premature return flight to Michigan.
Laurel's surgery and COVID-19 shut my riding down completely for most of the spring.
Eventually, I was able to get out for the occasional short ride.
In early June, Paul Chuey traveled from his ranch in the Texas hill country to southern Ohio, where he and Kathy have an apartment close to her job at the Cincinnati Conservatory. My work calendar was empty for Friday the 19th, so I scheduled it for a long-overdue day off, and marked the entire subsequent week "Possible PTO". A best case scenario was riding down on Friday, hanging with Paul for the weekend, then spending a few days carving the twistiest roads I could find in Kentucky, West Virginia, and Pennsylvania.
But as the date approached, the forecast was basically hot and muggy interrupted by frequent rain and thunderstorms.
In other words, the usual reasons I rarely tour this time of year.
I scaled back my expectations, hoping for just a single day worth playing semi-serious moto-hooky.
On Wednesday the 17th I got an email from Mike Feekart, which ended with:
What's become an annual early March pilgrimage to Bisbee Arizona's Return of the Turkey Vultures festival, to which only Larry Haruska agreed to ride with me this year, was cancelled by my premature return flight to Michigan.
Laurel's surgery and COVID-19 shut my riding down completely for most of the spring.
Eventually, I was able to get out for the occasional short ride.
In early June, Paul Chuey traveled from his ranch in the Texas hill country to southern Ohio, where he and Kathy have an apartment close to her job at the Cincinnati Conservatory. My work calendar was empty for Friday the 19th, so I scheduled it for a long-overdue day off, and marked the entire subsequent week "Possible PTO". A best case scenario was riding down on Friday, hanging with Paul for the weekend, then spending a few days carving the twistiest roads I could find in Kentucky, West Virginia, and Pennsylvania.
But as the date approached, the forecast was basically hot and muggy interrupted by frequent rain and thunderstorms.
In other words, the usual reasons I rarely tour this time of year.
I scaled back my expectations, hoping for just a single day worth playing semi-serious moto-hooky.
On Wednesday the 17th I got an email from Mike Feekart, which ended with:
My hemi-cohort of fans will know I rode West with Mike in 2013, where on the first day out he bagged his first, and I my first officially recognized, Saddlesore 1000 award. You can read about that trip over in the Motorcycles, mostly tab, if you scroll down to where it says Return to Malfunction Junction.
As it turns out (spoiler alert) it wasn't our last joint visit to that place.
Before I could reply, Mike retracted his suggestion.
As it turns out (spoiler alert) it wasn't our last joint visit to that place.
Before I could reply, Mike retracted his suggestion.
I didn't get back to him until Friday.
Not sure if I ever mentioned I first met Mike at Fine Beer Club. Also worth noting is that Mike is retired, hence my nonchalance in inviting him on a Wednesday excursion.
He replied promptly.
He replied promptly.
He pondered the possibilities and followed up later that evening.
It was both impolite and unwise of me to leave it there for the next few days, under the one-sided and unwarranted assumption that we both understood Wednesday to be definite. On Tuesday afternoon I shot off a quick
I'd been following the weather forecast and Wednesday's outlook had only been getting better, but just to be sure I took a glance.
When I arrived a couple minutes late, delayed by construction on M-24, Mike was already there, his Yamaha FJR1300 parked exactly where I'd have parked my BMW R1100RS had I arrived first.
As I pulled off my helmet he handed me a folded map.
"What's this?" I asked.
"You left it at my house last time you were there."
On closer inspection I saw it was a promotional brochure for Ogallala, Nebraska. I laughed.
It was only while writing this that I realized he'd just handed me a cursed object.
I dropped the brochure into my saddlebag, peeled off my riding jacket, and settled into a seat at one of the small patio tables. It was right about then my phone decided I was no longer potentially driving (during which times it thoughtfully puts itself into Do Not Disturb mode) and buzzed that I had a message.
As I pulled off my helmet he handed me a folded map.
"What's this?" I asked.
"You left it at my house last time you were there."
On closer inspection I saw it was a promotional brochure for Ogallala, Nebraska. I laughed.
It was only while writing this that I realized he'd just handed me a cursed object.
I dropped the brochure into my saddlebag, peeled off my riding jacket, and settled into a seat at one of the small patio tables. It was right about then my phone decided I was no longer potentially driving (during which times it thoughtfully puts itself into Do Not Disturb mode) and buzzed that I had a message.
I peered through the window into the restaurant. "I suppose we could get a seat inside easy enough..."
But he was OK with remaining outside, keeping on his mesh Joe Rocket jacket, the effective ventilation of which is what had made his ride up from Pontiac a bit chilly.
I was glad he was amenable to remaining at the patio table; I'd been looking forward to it, didn't really want to go inside, and thought it a perfect morning to dine al fresco.
Our bemasked waitress took our coffee orders. I could have ordered food too, but Mike needed time to consider a menu he'd never seen before.
"I'm partial to a veggie omelette, added jalapeno and pepperoncini," I recommended, "And I love the hash browns. But there's a lot to choose from."
He elected eggs with a side of sausage gravy, a decision which unfortunately haunted him all day.
My comment on how much I liked the rich blue color of his FJR lead him to explain his negative experiences with silver metallic paint -- which describes all of my currently functional Michigan vehicles, including my Giant bicycle. This in turn evolved into a general discussion of the paint colors of cars we'd owned, as opposed to the colors we'd prefer to have owned. He'd really wanted a yellow Corvette but I thought the green one he'd ended up with was gorgeous. I described how so many of the cars I'd owned had been some variant of beige, the last such being the Bash-O-Matic 9, a 1990 BMW 735i that I'd bought cheap with 248,000 miles on the odometer, and had tried but failed to get to 300k before it became too time consuming a project to keep running. I really did like the car though, color and maintenance challenges notwithstanding, and it surely must have been the best thing on the block when it was new.
One topic of very brief discussion was a Sonny Landreth CD he'd loaned me months earlier and which I'd put on my list to bring with me this morning, but had forgotten anyway. I considered swinging back by the house to grab it -- the detour would have been almost insignificant -- but there were a number of good reasons not to.
Turns out it would have been quite unnecessary.
* * *
The first leg of our ride covered the same stretch of Heights Road on which I took my very first ride on a BMW motorcycle, my father's R90S, back in 1977.
I pointed out my childhood home to Mike as we rode by.
But he was OK with remaining outside, keeping on his mesh Joe Rocket jacket, the effective ventilation of which is what had made his ride up from Pontiac a bit chilly.
I was glad he was amenable to remaining at the patio table; I'd been looking forward to it, didn't really want to go inside, and thought it a perfect morning to dine al fresco.
Our bemasked waitress took our coffee orders. I could have ordered food too, but Mike needed time to consider a menu he'd never seen before.
"I'm partial to a veggie omelette, added jalapeno and pepperoncini," I recommended, "And I love the hash browns. But there's a lot to choose from."
He elected eggs with a side of sausage gravy, a decision which unfortunately haunted him all day.
My comment on how much I liked the rich blue color of his FJR lead him to explain his negative experiences with silver metallic paint -- which describes all of my currently functional Michigan vehicles, including my Giant bicycle. This in turn evolved into a general discussion of the paint colors of cars we'd owned, as opposed to the colors we'd prefer to have owned. He'd really wanted a yellow Corvette but I thought the green one he'd ended up with was gorgeous. I described how so many of the cars I'd owned had been some variant of beige, the last such being the Bash-O-Matic 9, a 1990 BMW 735i that I'd bought cheap with 248,000 miles on the odometer, and had tried but failed to get to 300k before it became too time consuming a project to keep running. I really did like the car though, color and maintenance challenges notwithstanding, and it surely must have been the best thing on the block when it was new.
One topic of very brief discussion was a Sonny Landreth CD he'd loaned me months earlier and which I'd put on my list to bring with me this morning, but had forgotten anyway. I considered swinging back by the house to grab it -- the detour would have been almost insignificant -- but there were a number of good reasons not to.
Turns out it would have been quite unnecessary.
* * *
The first leg of our ride covered the same stretch of Heights Road on which I took my very first ride on a BMW motorcycle, my father's R90S, back in 1977.
I pointed out my childhood home to Mike as we rode by.
From there we continued west on a route I've long been refining that strings together curvy area backroads and avoids grinding through downtown Fenton and Linden.
The weather was perfect.
Traffic was heavier than I would have preferred (which is to say, any at all), but I was amazed when it evaporated just before the curves on Clarkston Road west of Estes Road; I almost never get those curves to myself, especially if I'm on my bike. Other curves often opened up at just the right time, as opposed to the all too frequent syndrome of someone pulling out in front of me just before the curves, evidently yet inexplicably assuming I am going to be in their way, and then trolling along at 5-10 mph under the speed limit. In other cases I'd just hang back, riding along at...5-10 mph under the speed limit...on the straightaways, so I could enjoy the curves in a sporting fashion despite the traffic ahead of me.
Just west of US-127 near Dewitt I reached the end of my memorized route. From this point on I was riding roads I'd rarely, if ever, been on. Things went mostly as I'd plotted out in advance and was executing via a hand-written route sheet in the map case of my Thirtysomething-year-old Chase Harper tank bag.
The bag's main zipper had finally failed completely the previous year on the way to the Forest City Motorrad Club's rally in Ontario, and I'd been considering having it replaced. But when I checked the interwebs I found the same model bag, with some improvements, is still in production, so I'd ordered one. It would be on my front porch when I got home. In the meantime I didn't actually need the cargo capacity of the bag's top compartment -- I wasn't carrying rain gear and my saddlebags were almost empty -- and the map case, to which I've mounted a compass, was fully functional.
Traffic was heavier than I would have preferred (which is to say, any at all), but I was amazed when it evaporated just before the curves on Clarkston Road west of Estes Road; I almost never get those curves to myself, especially if I'm on my bike. Other curves often opened up at just the right time, as opposed to the all too frequent syndrome of someone pulling out in front of me just before the curves, evidently yet inexplicably assuming I am going to be in their way, and then trolling along at 5-10 mph under the speed limit. In other cases I'd just hang back, riding along at...5-10 mph under the speed limit...on the straightaways, so I could enjoy the curves in a sporting fashion despite the traffic ahead of me.
Just west of US-127 near Dewitt I reached the end of my memorized route. From this point on I was riding roads I'd rarely, if ever, been on. Things went mostly as I'd plotted out in advance and was executing via a hand-written route sheet in the map case of my Thirtysomething-year-old Chase Harper tank bag.
The bag's main zipper had finally failed completely the previous year on the way to the Forest City Motorrad Club's rally in Ontario, and I'd been considering having it replaced. But when I checked the interwebs I found the same model bag, with some improvements, is still in production, so I'd ordered one. It would be on my front porch when I got home. In the meantime I didn't actually need the cargo capacity of the bag's top compartment -- I wasn't carrying rain gear and my saddlebags were almost empty -- and the map case, to which I've mounted a compass, was fully functional.
We don't need no stinking GPS.
My route included a smattering of decent curves, and a few that might have been decent if they hadn't been cluttered with driveways, on roads that would increasingly present no alternative to my least favorite topology: flat and straight. I had to wing it on a detour past a bridge out, south of Maple Rapids, which was no surprise because Googlemaps had indeed shown it as closed "during certain times of day".
And then we were at the Alma Brewing Co. which was, as I knew it would be, closed.
Mike and I took a bio break at the nearest gas station, and then I checked Googlemaps for other reasonably nearby brewery options. Those which weren't permanently and regrettably closed were not scheduled to open any sooner than Alma Brewing, so we agreed it made perfect sense to ride up to Clare, have a deliciously unhealthy pastry at Cops & Doughnuts, and then return to Alma by which time the brewery would be open.
After I determined there were no backroads worth riding between our present location and Cops & Doughnuts, we headed for US-127 and swung onto the northbound entrance ramp.
FLASHBACK: June 9, 2013. Ogallala, Nebraska.
The weather was perfect.
I accelerated like a rocket along the ramp to westbound I-80 on my BMW K1300S, a brand new motorcycle powered by a state-of-the-art 1300cc inline four cylinder liquid cooled fuel injected dual overhead camshaft engine. Behind me Mike Feekart was trying to keep up by wringing the guts out of his BMW R1100RT, a motorcycle built in the previous century powered by an 1100cc opposed twin air/oil cooled fuel injected engine with what is almost a single overhead camshaft design.
At some point I checked the mirror and Mike wasn't there.
It was ten miles to the next exit, and ten miles back, and I found Mike about a hundred yards past the end of the ramp, his bike stone dead on the shoulder.
We pushed it back up the ramp and he coasted down to the gas station just off the interchange. I walked back and rode Therese up the ramp with my hazard flashers on, though if I recall correctly no other traffic encountered me during this exhilaratingly flagrant moving violation.
After a limited diagnosis I had only one suspicion, that his ignition trigger had quit, which is a common failure mode on these machines. Without a replacement part we were hosed, so Mike ended up calling AAA and having his bike transported to Denver where he hung with an old friend until the machine was repaired, whereupon he caught up with me at my dad's house in South Fork, Colorado.
BACK TO SCENE
The weather was perfect.
Mike accelerated like a rocket along the ramp to northbound US-127 on his Yamaha FJR1300, a four year old motorcycle powered by a state-of-the-art 1300cc inline four cylinder liquid cooled fuel injected dual overhead camshaft engine. Behind him I was trying to keep up by wringing the guts out of my BMW R1100RS, a motorcycle built in the previous century powered by an 1100cc opposed twin air/oil cooled fuel injected engine with what is almost a single overhead camshaft design.
Nada 3's power output abruptly decreased by exactly 50%.
I thought to myself, "There goes a left hand exhaust valve."
FLASHBACK: May 20, 2019. Thamesville, Ontario.
The weather was perfect.
I was riding home from the Forest City Motorrad Club's annual Alphabet Rally. On Longwoods Road a few kilometers east of town I swung out to pass a pickup truck towing a travel trailer.
I was just past his front bumper when Nada 3's power output abruptly decreased by exactly 50%.
It was all I could do to stay ahead of the truck at that point, and as soon as I felt safe to make the maneuver I signaled for a right turn and swung on to the gravel shoulder. As I rolled to a stop the engine died completely.
I'd been having such a nice day.
I pushed the start button, and with some reluctance and a fair amount of throttle manipulation the motor coughed back to life, then died again. After a few tries I could get her to remain running, but she was clearly very sick.
At least she wasn't making horrible noises.
With considerable difficulty I kept the motor running well enough to resume forward motion, and rode along the shoulder with my hazard flashers on.
Lots of traffic passed me, most probably thinking the guy who'd passed them kilometers earlier finally got what was coming to him.
I rolled to another dead stick landing at the Esso station at the main crossroads downtown. Pulled out my tool kit. Figured out pretty quickly the right hand cylinder wasn't making power. Considered whether it was a good idea (probably not) to continue running the motor at all, let alone to ride the machine.
I decided what the hell and did it anyway.
I found I could keep up with traffic well enough, staying on roads with speed limits no higher than 100 kph. Launching from a stop was difficult, but I never did stall while trying.
Once back in the USA via the Walpole-Algonac ferry I considered calling AAA and getting a transport for the remainder of what was nearly 80 miles of limp home mode. But I never much like the idea of transporting my bikes, for any reason, even when it makes more sense than riding. And by then I'd figured out how to deal with it, performance had not further deteriorated, and I relished the idea of making it home under my own power.
Once home I pulled the right hand cylinder head. Both exhaust valves had chipped.
My route included a smattering of decent curves, and a few that might have been decent if they hadn't been cluttered with driveways, on roads that would increasingly present no alternative to my least favorite topology: flat and straight. I had to wing it on a detour past a bridge out, south of Maple Rapids, which was no surprise because Googlemaps had indeed shown it as closed "during certain times of day".
And then we were at the Alma Brewing Co. which was, as I knew it would be, closed.
Mike and I took a bio break at the nearest gas station, and then I checked Googlemaps for other reasonably nearby brewery options. Those which weren't permanently and regrettably closed were not scheduled to open any sooner than Alma Brewing, so we agreed it made perfect sense to ride up to Clare, have a deliciously unhealthy pastry at Cops & Doughnuts, and then return to Alma by which time the brewery would be open.
After I determined there were no backroads worth riding between our present location and Cops & Doughnuts, we headed for US-127 and swung onto the northbound entrance ramp.
FLASHBACK: June 9, 2013. Ogallala, Nebraska.
The weather was perfect.
I accelerated like a rocket along the ramp to westbound I-80 on my BMW K1300S, a brand new motorcycle powered by a state-of-the-art 1300cc inline four cylinder liquid cooled fuel injected dual overhead camshaft engine. Behind me Mike Feekart was trying to keep up by wringing the guts out of his BMW R1100RT, a motorcycle built in the previous century powered by an 1100cc opposed twin air/oil cooled fuel injected engine with what is almost a single overhead camshaft design.
At some point I checked the mirror and Mike wasn't there.
It was ten miles to the next exit, and ten miles back, and I found Mike about a hundred yards past the end of the ramp, his bike stone dead on the shoulder.
We pushed it back up the ramp and he coasted down to the gas station just off the interchange. I walked back and rode Therese up the ramp with my hazard flashers on, though if I recall correctly no other traffic encountered me during this exhilaratingly flagrant moving violation.
After a limited diagnosis I had only one suspicion, that his ignition trigger had quit, which is a common failure mode on these machines. Without a replacement part we were hosed, so Mike ended up calling AAA and having his bike transported to Denver where he hung with an old friend until the machine was repaired, whereupon he caught up with me at my dad's house in South Fork, Colorado.
BACK TO SCENE
The weather was perfect.
Mike accelerated like a rocket along the ramp to northbound US-127 on his Yamaha FJR1300, a four year old motorcycle powered by a state-of-the-art 1300cc inline four cylinder liquid cooled fuel injected dual overhead camshaft engine. Behind him I was trying to keep up by wringing the guts out of my BMW R1100RS, a motorcycle built in the previous century powered by an 1100cc opposed twin air/oil cooled fuel injected engine with what is almost a single overhead camshaft design.
Nada 3's power output abruptly decreased by exactly 50%.
I thought to myself, "There goes a left hand exhaust valve."
FLASHBACK: May 20, 2019. Thamesville, Ontario.
The weather was perfect.
I was riding home from the Forest City Motorrad Club's annual Alphabet Rally. On Longwoods Road a few kilometers east of town I swung out to pass a pickup truck towing a travel trailer.
I was just past his front bumper when Nada 3's power output abruptly decreased by exactly 50%.
It was all I could do to stay ahead of the truck at that point, and as soon as I felt safe to make the maneuver I signaled for a right turn and swung on to the gravel shoulder. As I rolled to a stop the engine died completely.
I'd been having such a nice day.
I pushed the start button, and with some reluctance and a fair amount of throttle manipulation the motor coughed back to life, then died again. After a few tries I could get her to remain running, but she was clearly very sick.
At least she wasn't making horrible noises.
With considerable difficulty I kept the motor running well enough to resume forward motion, and rode along the shoulder with my hazard flashers on.
Lots of traffic passed me, most probably thinking the guy who'd passed them kilometers earlier finally got what was coming to him.
I rolled to another dead stick landing at the Esso station at the main crossroads downtown. Pulled out my tool kit. Figured out pretty quickly the right hand cylinder wasn't making power. Considered whether it was a good idea (probably not) to continue running the motor at all, let alone to ride the machine.
I decided what the hell and did it anyway.
I found I could keep up with traffic well enough, staying on roads with speed limits no higher than 100 kph. Launching from a stop was difficult, but I never did stall while trying.
Once back in the USA via the Walpole-Algonac ferry I considered calling AAA and getting a transport for the remainder of what was nearly 80 miles of limp home mode. But I never much like the idea of transporting my bikes, for any reason, even when it makes more sense than riding. And by then I'd figured out how to deal with it, performance had not further deteriorated, and I relished the idea of making it home under my own power.
Once home I pulled the right hand cylinder head. Both exhaust valves had chipped.
I took the head to BMW of Detroit where Don said, "This is not a rare problem on these bikes." He couldn't really pin it on any specific cause, but suspected poor gasoline quality.
Certainly a possibility. I make it a point to buy "Top Tier" fuel, and regularly spike it with Techron fuel system cleaner, but frankly I didn't know anything about the quality of most of the fuels I'd bought while in Canada. And there's no doubt this engine is prone to detonation; 93 octane is essential during the warmer months, though I'll run ethanol-free 90 octane, when I can get it, in the spring and fall.
I considered doing the entire valve job myself but figured I was better off letting Don do it. The replacement valves and guides had to come from Germany, so it wasn't a fast turnaround, but by mid-June Nada 3 was back on the road.
While awaiting the refurbished head I'd nursed a hope that the occasional misfires, roughness, and "surging" behavior that had been growing steadily more annoying over the past couple of years were due to a cracked valve that had finally failed completely, and new valves would be the cure.
Alas, there was no improvement on that score. I'd been suspecting a failing fuel injector before the valves went, and I was now back to that suspicion.
BACK TO SCENE
At some point Mike checked the mirror and I wasn't where I should have been. I think that was about the time I signaled for a right turn and swung on to the paved shoulder.
But recalling the previous year's experience, I quickly realized I'd be able to maintain the speed limit -- barely -- and decided what the hell. I checked over my shoulder, signaled left, and pulled back into the right lane. I considered turning on my hazard flashers, but since I was moving with traffic there was no real reason to.
Mike had reeled himself back by then, and running beside me signed, "OK?"
I shook my head and pointed at the motor.
We were coming up on the next exit and the obvious thing for me to do would have been to take it.
But I was thinking, screw it, I want that doughnut.
What Mike was thinking, I still wonder.
Another mile on I saw "Clare 30 miles" and thought better of continuing that quest. Unfortunately the next exit was another 8 miles, but they passed with no change to the status quo. At the top of the ramp I carefully managed a left turn and crossed over to the southbound side, then pulled into McDonalds. As I rolled to a stop the engine died completely. I dismounted and explained to Mike what I figured was wrong.
He suggested calling AAA.
"I'd rather wait at the brewery," I said.
I checked Googlemaps and found the backroad route I'd rejected for our northbound jaunt. I limped back to Alma with Mike following.
We were twenty minutes early. We took seats at a sidewalk table and Mike called Clancy to let her know the situation while I dashed off a text to Laurel and called AAA, which process took until opening time.
How long the wait would be, we didn't know; I'd get a text when the driver was on the way.
At that point my mission was to drink plenty of craft beer.
My riding day was done.
FLASHBACK: June 17, 2013. West Nowhere, New Mexico.
The weather was perfect.
Larry, Mike, and I had spent much of the day riding south on the Coronado Trail from Alpine, Arizona. South of Clifton and Morenci we'd cut east and then headed back north toward our intended destination of Socorro, New Mexico.
We stopped at a roadside park where Larry and I slung hammocks, and after a while Mike decided to ride on because he was confident Larry and I would catch up. Some time later Larry and I rolled up the hammocks and resumed riding.
Larry accelerated like a rocket north along US-180 on his wife's BMW K1200GT Dave, a somewhat dated motorcycle powered by a no longer state-of-the-art 1200cc inline four cylinder liquid cooled fuel injected dual overhead camshaft engine. Behind him I had no trouble keeping up on my BMW K1300S Princess Therese, a brand new motorcycle powered by the bigger, newer, and better version of Dave's engine.
Then the BRAKE FAILURE warning lit up.
I hadn't noticed any problem with the brakes, but I tested them. Perfect as always. I continued to ride with extra caution, assuming the possibility of total brake failure at any moment, for several miles. I was no longer keeping up with Larry, who'd long since disappeared ahead of me.
Coming upon a pull out area I decided to stop and check things out. Visual inspection revealed absolutely nothing. I got back on, pushed the start button, and
click
I'd been having such a nice day.
I tried a few more times but click is all that happened.
At some point Larry checked the mirror and I wasn't there. He swung around and rode back to what he thoughtfully noted was mile marker 26. We tried pushing and bump starting. Not an easy bike to push, not an easy bike to bump start, especially at 6000 feet elevation. One attempt was successful and off I went, but the motor was barely running and when I turned around to come back uphill she died, and that was it.
After Larry caught his breath he rode on to find Mike, who with more passenger saddle room on his R1100RT came back and ferried me up to the next crossroads, where a general store/restaurant existed. I called BMW Roadside Assistance, which process took quite a while due to the remoteness of my location.
How long the wait would be, we didn't know; I'd find out when the driver arrived.
Long before then Larry headed back to Tal-Wi-Wi lodge near Alpine, and Mike rode on to Albuquerque to get us a room as close as possible to Sandia BMW.
My riding day was done.
BACK TO SCENE
By the time Larry from Alma Towing arrived I'd enjoyed a Train Wreck, selected partly because I prefer amber ales but mostly because of its 8.2% ABV content, and two Highlander Scottish style ales which at 5.2% ABV were also quite effective at elevating my level of intoxication. They were all quite excellent. I'd also had a "spicy chicken" sandwich, which didn't actually register as spicy to my notoriously insensitive palate, but did cure my growing peckishness. Mike stopped drinking hours before I did (which wasn't until the transport arrived), and declined a meal as his breakfast hadn't settled well.
The transporter was a crude but entirely satisfactory and dedicated motorcycle trailer behind a pickup. I rode Nada 3 up the ramp onto the low deck and not quite into the wheel clamp which is where the engine stalled. I had to restart to finish getting the wheel into the cradle, which automatically toggled forward and was quite secure by itself. Four tie down straps almost seemed like overkill.
For the first time that day I slipped my helmet over my Bose noise-cancelling ear buds. I punched up one of my rock goddess playlists and climbed on the back of the FJR.
The pillion saddle was comfortable and the grab rail, while not as good as the rail on any BMW I've ever owned, was acceptable with two different modes.
We rode over to US-127 and headed south.
Unsurprisingly, the active noise cancellation of the Bose unit, while generally excellent, was unable to properly deal with the chaotic wind noise generated by the combination of Mike's helmet and the FJR's barn door fairing. I use the term "barn door" with more appreciation than derision; the aerodynamics of the "sport" fairings on all my BMWs have been problematic at best.
But they sure do look good.
To overcome the wow and flutter of the Bose system's inability to predict the future, I cranked up the iPod's volume to an almost painfully loud level.
FLASHBACK: June 24, 2020. Alma Brewing Company.
Mike asked, "If you had to choose, would your choice be blindness, or deafness?"
"Wow, that's really hard," I replied.
I knew what he was getting at. Mike and I are both huge music lovers. I've much enjoyed sitting at his place, without exception enjoying libations of the very highest quality, while he spins actual, and I'm not kidding, vinyl LPs.
But to answer his question I had to admit I'd clearly chosen "deafness", since all my favorite hobbies (riding motorcycles, performing and listening to loud rock music) are designed to destroy my hearing.
BACK TO SCENE
I had no idea they'd built a wind farm along the US-127 corridor.
And as a wind energy advocate since junior high, I really do try to pay attention to such things.
So my ignorance is only yet more proof of how easy our transition to a post-fossil fuel future could be, if entrenched powers weren't doing everything possible to prevent it purely in the interests of their own short term profits.
I can understand why locals, perhaps, might not like having these giant turbines dominating the skyline. I can appreciate a natural and uninterrupted tree line, or a rather less natural farmscape. I'd surely prefer not to see turbines installed on the iconic mountain ranges I love to ride among.
But I've got to say, and I say this as a native Michigander, I'm sick of looking at flat expanses of farmland.
I was elated watching those pinwheels rotating with stately grace in the afternoon sunshine.
Not just because the weather was perfect and I had one absolutely incredible buzz on and I was listening to my favorite music and I was riding a motorcycle but I didn't have to even think about all the stuff you need to do to stay alive while riding a motorcycle because I had complete confidence in Mike's skill as a rider.
No, I was elated in part because I was seeing the potential we might yet, as a nation, as a civilization, do what's necessary to repair and preserve our environment. Perhaps we'll even do it before it's too late.
And I'll offer something to those who might not like these behemoths towering over the flat fields: the towers will someday be gone.
With intelligent investments in the appropriate (cough electrical storage) technologies and infrastructure and a relentless pursuit of efficiency over waste, we can find a better way forward.
When they reach the end of their useful life, they'll be taken down and (to the extent possible) recycled.
And we'll be back to all the flat boring farmland you could ever want.
All we have to do is what's right for most of us.
Instead of what's obscenely profitable for a few.
EPILOGUE
At home I was able to grab Mike's Sonny Landreth CD from my car's console.
Just had to close that loop for anyone who's read this far.
He praised my skill as a pillion rider, which was nice to hear. I'd been trying my best to make myself undetectable.
When I checked Nada 3's motor, I was very surprised to find it was not the left cylinder than had zero compression, but the right. Again.
Certainly a possibility. I make it a point to buy "Top Tier" fuel, and regularly spike it with Techron fuel system cleaner, but frankly I didn't know anything about the quality of most of the fuels I'd bought while in Canada. And there's no doubt this engine is prone to detonation; 93 octane is essential during the warmer months, though I'll run ethanol-free 90 octane, when I can get it, in the spring and fall.
I considered doing the entire valve job myself but figured I was better off letting Don do it. The replacement valves and guides had to come from Germany, so it wasn't a fast turnaround, but by mid-June Nada 3 was back on the road.
While awaiting the refurbished head I'd nursed a hope that the occasional misfires, roughness, and "surging" behavior that had been growing steadily more annoying over the past couple of years were due to a cracked valve that had finally failed completely, and new valves would be the cure.
Alas, there was no improvement on that score. I'd been suspecting a failing fuel injector before the valves went, and I was now back to that suspicion.
BACK TO SCENE
At some point Mike checked the mirror and I wasn't where I should have been. I think that was about the time I signaled for a right turn and swung on to the paved shoulder.
But recalling the previous year's experience, I quickly realized I'd be able to maintain the speed limit -- barely -- and decided what the hell. I checked over my shoulder, signaled left, and pulled back into the right lane. I considered turning on my hazard flashers, but since I was moving with traffic there was no real reason to.
Mike had reeled himself back by then, and running beside me signed, "OK?"
I shook my head and pointed at the motor.
We were coming up on the next exit and the obvious thing for me to do would have been to take it.
But I was thinking, screw it, I want that doughnut.
What Mike was thinking, I still wonder.
Another mile on I saw "Clare 30 miles" and thought better of continuing that quest. Unfortunately the next exit was another 8 miles, but they passed with no change to the status quo. At the top of the ramp I carefully managed a left turn and crossed over to the southbound side, then pulled into McDonalds. As I rolled to a stop the engine died completely. I dismounted and explained to Mike what I figured was wrong.
He suggested calling AAA.
"I'd rather wait at the brewery," I said.
I checked Googlemaps and found the backroad route I'd rejected for our northbound jaunt. I limped back to Alma with Mike following.
We were twenty minutes early. We took seats at a sidewalk table and Mike called Clancy to let her know the situation while I dashed off a text to Laurel and called AAA, which process took until opening time.
How long the wait would be, we didn't know; I'd get a text when the driver was on the way.
At that point my mission was to drink plenty of craft beer.
My riding day was done.
FLASHBACK: June 17, 2013. West Nowhere, New Mexico.
The weather was perfect.
Larry, Mike, and I had spent much of the day riding south on the Coronado Trail from Alpine, Arizona. South of Clifton and Morenci we'd cut east and then headed back north toward our intended destination of Socorro, New Mexico.
We stopped at a roadside park where Larry and I slung hammocks, and after a while Mike decided to ride on because he was confident Larry and I would catch up. Some time later Larry and I rolled up the hammocks and resumed riding.
Larry accelerated like a rocket north along US-180 on his wife's BMW K1200GT Dave, a somewhat dated motorcycle powered by a no longer state-of-the-art 1200cc inline four cylinder liquid cooled fuel injected dual overhead camshaft engine. Behind him I had no trouble keeping up on my BMW K1300S Princess Therese, a brand new motorcycle powered by the bigger, newer, and better version of Dave's engine.
Then the BRAKE FAILURE warning lit up.
I hadn't noticed any problem with the brakes, but I tested them. Perfect as always. I continued to ride with extra caution, assuming the possibility of total brake failure at any moment, for several miles. I was no longer keeping up with Larry, who'd long since disappeared ahead of me.
Coming upon a pull out area I decided to stop and check things out. Visual inspection revealed absolutely nothing. I got back on, pushed the start button, and
click
I'd been having such a nice day.
I tried a few more times but click is all that happened.
At some point Larry checked the mirror and I wasn't there. He swung around and rode back to what he thoughtfully noted was mile marker 26. We tried pushing and bump starting. Not an easy bike to push, not an easy bike to bump start, especially at 6000 feet elevation. One attempt was successful and off I went, but the motor was barely running and when I turned around to come back uphill she died, and that was it.
After Larry caught his breath he rode on to find Mike, who with more passenger saddle room on his R1100RT came back and ferried me up to the next crossroads, where a general store/restaurant existed. I called BMW Roadside Assistance, which process took quite a while due to the remoteness of my location.
How long the wait would be, we didn't know; I'd find out when the driver arrived.
Long before then Larry headed back to Tal-Wi-Wi lodge near Alpine, and Mike rode on to Albuquerque to get us a room as close as possible to Sandia BMW.
My riding day was done.
BACK TO SCENE
By the time Larry from Alma Towing arrived I'd enjoyed a Train Wreck, selected partly because I prefer amber ales but mostly because of its 8.2% ABV content, and two Highlander Scottish style ales which at 5.2% ABV were also quite effective at elevating my level of intoxication. They were all quite excellent. I'd also had a "spicy chicken" sandwich, which didn't actually register as spicy to my notoriously insensitive palate, but did cure my growing peckishness. Mike stopped drinking hours before I did (which wasn't until the transport arrived), and declined a meal as his breakfast hadn't settled well.
The transporter was a crude but entirely satisfactory and dedicated motorcycle trailer behind a pickup. I rode Nada 3 up the ramp onto the low deck and not quite into the wheel clamp which is where the engine stalled. I had to restart to finish getting the wheel into the cradle, which automatically toggled forward and was quite secure by itself. Four tie down straps almost seemed like overkill.
For the first time that day I slipped my helmet over my Bose noise-cancelling ear buds. I punched up one of my rock goddess playlists and climbed on the back of the FJR.
The pillion saddle was comfortable and the grab rail, while not as good as the rail on any BMW I've ever owned, was acceptable with two different modes.
We rode over to US-127 and headed south.
Unsurprisingly, the active noise cancellation of the Bose unit, while generally excellent, was unable to properly deal with the chaotic wind noise generated by the combination of Mike's helmet and the FJR's barn door fairing. I use the term "barn door" with more appreciation than derision; the aerodynamics of the "sport" fairings on all my BMWs have been problematic at best.
But they sure do look good.
To overcome the wow and flutter of the Bose system's inability to predict the future, I cranked up the iPod's volume to an almost painfully loud level.
FLASHBACK: June 24, 2020. Alma Brewing Company.
Mike asked, "If you had to choose, would your choice be blindness, or deafness?"
"Wow, that's really hard," I replied.
I knew what he was getting at. Mike and I are both huge music lovers. I've much enjoyed sitting at his place, without exception enjoying libations of the very highest quality, while he spins actual, and I'm not kidding, vinyl LPs.
But to answer his question I had to admit I'd clearly chosen "deafness", since all my favorite hobbies (riding motorcycles, performing and listening to loud rock music) are designed to destroy my hearing.
BACK TO SCENE
I had no idea they'd built a wind farm along the US-127 corridor.
And as a wind energy advocate since junior high, I really do try to pay attention to such things.
So my ignorance is only yet more proof of how easy our transition to a post-fossil fuel future could be, if entrenched powers weren't doing everything possible to prevent it purely in the interests of their own short term profits.
I can understand why locals, perhaps, might not like having these giant turbines dominating the skyline. I can appreciate a natural and uninterrupted tree line, or a rather less natural farmscape. I'd surely prefer not to see turbines installed on the iconic mountain ranges I love to ride among.
But I've got to say, and I say this as a native Michigander, I'm sick of looking at flat expanses of farmland.
I was elated watching those pinwheels rotating with stately grace in the afternoon sunshine.
Not just because the weather was perfect and I had one absolutely incredible buzz on and I was listening to my favorite music and I was riding a motorcycle but I didn't have to even think about all the stuff you need to do to stay alive while riding a motorcycle because I had complete confidence in Mike's skill as a rider.
No, I was elated in part because I was seeing the potential we might yet, as a nation, as a civilization, do what's necessary to repair and preserve our environment. Perhaps we'll even do it before it's too late.
And I'll offer something to those who might not like these behemoths towering over the flat fields: the towers will someday be gone.
With intelligent investments in the appropriate (cough electrical storage) technologies and infrastructure and a relentless pursuit of efficiency over waste, we can find a better way forward.
When they reach the end of their useful life, they'll be taken down and (to the extent possible) recycled.
And we'll be back to all the flat boring farmland you could ever want.
All we have to do is what's right for most of us.
Instead of what's obscenely profitable for a few.
EPILOGUE
At home I was able to grab Mike's Sonny Landreth CD from my car's console.
Just had to close that loop for anyone who's read this far.
He praised my skill as a pillion rider, which was nice to hear. I'd been trying my best to make myself undetectable.
When I checked Nada 3's motor, I was very surprised to find it was not the left cylinder than had zero compression, but the right. Again.
I'd been suspecting a failing fuel injector before the valves went, and I was now back to that suspicion.
John Perry Dancoe
Lake Orion, Michigan
2020-06-28
John Perry Dancoe
Lake Orion, Michigan
2020-06-28
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