What? do you guys have writers' block?

[JToole]

Stories! Let's see some stories!

Lance?

Allan?

Dean?

Frank?

[Dallara]

What kind of story do you want, JD?

(And please don't say to finish the NR-500 saga... I am not up for that one right now)

I have a few, and I know Dave, Dean, and many others do, too. Help me out here, though... Let me know what type you want to see first.

Thanks!

Allan (Dallara)

[JToole]

It always reads best when it is what you feel like writing.

In the spirit of the new Cafe here, how about some stories about rabbel-rousing back in the day...

...or is THIS the day? :p

Hell, guys, let it pour! We fought hard to get a place where you can write a story and not be picked apart about it. It would be a shame to not use it!:cool:

[Deans BMW]

Jeff, I don't have the writing talent that the other guys have , but I suspect strongly there are some fun adventures lurking .

I used to teach flying at the St Petersburg/Clearwater Airport in Florida in 1968. At the time I had a Triumph TR4A with wires, bright red with a white rag top, also had a '68 BSA 650 Lightning, also red. Had unlimited access to a Piper 260B Comanche. To say the least, LOTS of nubile and willing sweet young things. I remember the first time joining the "Mile High Club" when we finally came up for ait at about 6,500 ft AGL, I was so far out over the Gulf of Mexico that all I could see was water in any direction. As you pilots know, that any single engined aircraft goes on automatic rough when out site of land. From then on when enjoying the delights of the MHC, one eye was always on the look out.
The sweet young things loved the M/C, Triumph , Piper combo. It almost made their undies dissapear before a word was said.

[geechie]

You sir, are indeed a curmudgeon. In the finest sense of the word.

George

[BobFV1]

one eye was always on the look out.

And old one eye was always in the cockpit!

[Lance1150]

Thoughts on motorcycling…
By Lance1150

Of bats and night air
Had the urge to slip on my jacket and helmet and hit the road... I was only a few miles from home but felt that "night time is coming" sense of being on a long trip... passed fields of onions and alfalfa with sprinklers going on some of the fields, and had that wonderful temperature shift that only motorcyclists get to experience full force... ahhhhh... hot to chilly in a heartbeat. A little rabbit did a quick dash and dance in front of me, escaping with a sideways leap into the shadows.... I smiled and just listened to the low rumble as my headlight lit the way, reaching to the top of each little rise in the road then falling into the shadow beyond.... I stopped on a vacant stretch of dead-end road and practiced some slow speed turn arounds... getting better even after 5 minutes practice... back into the darkness and to a bat that flitted through my headlight beam, as nimble and black as my Roadster, scuffing the sidewalls of his leathery wings in the night air....

... and headed home, just loping along... thinking of stars and motorcycles, and the sound of the wind.

It's nice to get out for a bit, even if it's just around the block.

Tomorrow I'm off to the coast... two and a half hours to La Jolla (Near San Diego), to sit with the seagulls and the sound of the ocean for a while..... ahhhh.

Our bikes are passports.... to places that sooth the soul.
Black 03' Roadster, So. Calif.


In the air

It’s in the air, the thing that calls me out. Helmets and throttles, foot clicking up then down, orchestrated with a left hand that calls out the tempo, right hand keeping up, singing along. And the choir, filling in, notes that sound just right, hum of the wind, low bass notes in the background like a hundred dancers.

And too dramatic, such words, for white lines passing fast, and pavement under tires, or words that don’t do justice; words that can’t speak the feeling, words like ‘freedom’ that try, or ‘solitude’, like moonscape words ‘magnificent desolation’, that seem to fit, even when it’s rocks and dust.

Those of us who know, don’t need words, we lead a band that plays for us, but lets us sing.



The Rock Store

My typical weekend ride often takes me to places familiar. This Sunday was typical; I took the 50+ mile ride, to finally turn off the freeway and head toward the ocean. Up Malibu Cyn. Rd. to Mullholland, where invariably motorcyclists are evident at all four corners of the intersection, going to or coming from the beach down Malibu Cyn. or off on one of the many twisty roads that are to be found in either direction on Mullholland.

I headed west for several miles of winding mountain road with a stop at a popular local destination, The Rock Store. Motorcycles decorate the shoulder of the road several hundred feet before and after the place, while lines of bikes neatly wedge themselves into metallic rows of chrome and color in front of the old stone building.

As with most gatherings of the motorcycle faithful there are all sorts. The canyon racers on every make and model that sports a radical bent forward head-first reaching for foot-wide handlebar look... and each rider decked out in leathers and riding boots and tinted face shields that make them more robotic than human, which is understandable since such machines require you forget about mortality, at least for the afternoon.

And the classic bikes, and their classic owners, bragging that "everything is stock", and happy with their antique, and their skinny tires and flat seats and the attention they invariably receive.

Of course the Harley guys are there, swarming in their sameness, and pointing out this part and that that sets them apart, although not too far apart, the bikes like their owners have an aura, one gotten either on purpose or by osmosis from the marketing of this community of bad boys and hard asses with their 'I don't give a rat's ass' mantra... but, like New York, where there's at least one rat for every human, it seems that there's one Harley for every wanna-be bad boy... and that's ok, it seems to make them happy... and after all, any group of guys that can convince women to ride with them wearing a tight leather vest with nothing underneath unzipped at least half way, has my vote.

Then there's the guys on BMW's... there's usually not many, and the rider is usually off drinking a beer or eating a hamburger, not posing with his ride... he seems to come and go like the morning fogs along the coast, quietly, without fanfare... more a part of the roads and curves he's riding than a machine bent on subduing them...

I had a root beer... and drove away from the crowd as I had come in... hardly noticed, then, twisted the throttle and listened to the sweet mechanical whine of this motor up near the red line... then back again, where I belonged... disappearing with a quiet rumble around that shaded turn where the oak trees cast shadows, and to the sunlight beyond which lights the next curve, out there where the ocean sends a cool breeze to guide me.

[Lance1150]

In the shop window


I was hooked when I saw my first BMW in the shop window, (eek, 30 years ago). It sat there so mysterious, so powerful, calling out to be ridden. I got it... but life soon intervened.

I had a period of years when I found myself too busy, too distracted, too whatever... family, kids...

The bike became a fixture in the garage, the battery went dead... I was doing 'other' things.

I even moved the neglected motorcycle outside, where it sat in the weather... wasting away.

Luckily, over time, I saw the agony of this machine... and what I'd done to it... and got new tires, a new battery, did a little tune-up, and was surprised when she roared to life... there in the dirt next to the vegetable garden.

I took better care of that motorcycle after that... but didn't feel a passion for it. I don't know why... I think life was still too hectic, and I didn't recognize my salvation in that machine. So it sat, washed and waxed from time to time... ridden here and there... and covered up... away from the dust, back in the garage, and in the back of my mind.

Years passed...

Then two years ago, on a whim... I went back to that old shop... where my eyes had lit up so many years ago... just to look, and to see what bike sat in that spot, where mine had sat so long ago.

And there it was... so mysterious, so powerful, calling out to be ridden. I bought it having never ridden it, having never heard her engine purr.... and the surprise of that sound, when I sat on her the day I drove it away, was amazing...

And now, almost 30,000 miles later... there is a passion for that machine that overpowers me... the call of the wild, wanderlust... new horizons, or old ones, that seem new.

I know this bike will never find a dusty corner... and the battery will never go dead from lack of use... and the smile I have just looking at this machine won't dim.

I'm not sure of the appeal... why some of us love these machines... why our souls are touched by soft lines, hard turns, and the growl of a motor... but whatever it is, I have been touched... and feel liberated somehow, from the ordinary.




A ghost in the machine


Einstein famously said, after trying to find proof and logic in the workings of the cosmos, that "... there's a ghost in the machine..."

He realized that something very strange was going on, something that he never could get a handle on, and which perhaps is beyond 'explanation'.

I was thinking of this sort of realization as I scrolled down the subject list on the message board... seems that most of our time here is spent in discussing the hobby of 'fiddling' with our machines. Modifying this or that, and never really finishing the job... and ultimately it seems, moving on to the next machine, and another 'project'.

I have a completely different perspective on my motorcycle... mine is pretty much the way I got it (with the addition of fisheye mirrors, BMW valve caps, BMW rear wheel tire cap, a BMW logo over the holes under my license plate, and most recently a small set of easy to remove saddlebags)... and I have no desire to add or subtract anything else.

My motorcycle is a magic carpet of sorts, that's why I have it... (Although I truly appreciate the beauty of it, and think of it as the most wonderful piece of art I own)... but it's for taking me places, in a way that no other sort of transportation can... I was telling my daughters about the Spanish Broom plants along the roadside coming back from the beach while we drove in my car... and I told them they had a nice smell, but we couldn't smell them. Last week, on my motorcycle, on that same road, I was treated to the lovely aroma of them along the several mile ride to the ocean... little things like the smell of the world around us, the crisp clearness of the world without a windshield, and the tingle of our skin as the temperature changes are unique to motorcycle riding....

I long for the day when I can pick up and GO.... a long trip with some paper to write down my adventures and a camera... 'that' is the joy of motorcycling for me...

I find less and less interest in carbon fiber parts, exhaust modifications, and the prospect of moving on to a new motorcycle.

My first, and only other motorcycle was a BMW... I'm a fan and don't picture myself loving another motorcycle the way I have my BMWs.

Anyway, rambling I guess.... but I 'feel' that ghost in the machine, and don't mind that I can't explain it. To me the 'machine' is perfection as is... and the ghost within is what I paid for.

I suspect that most of us have a bit of both... the hobby of fiddling with these 'machines', and the sense of something very special within them... I hope most of you have more of the latter than the former.




An hour alone


The following was one hour, today

It was cloudy today, the kind that threaten thunderstorms and flash floods, out there beyond the desert floor, looming over mountains not too distant.

I pointed the motorcycle in that direction, to the east, an orange sun low behind me. Along familiar fields of green, and those freshly plowed where bags of onions sat, filled, ready to be loaded in waiting trucks before darkness arrived. Some sprinklers on upturned dirt went astray and tried to water me, as I veered right.

I could only hear the wind, faintly, my engine lost in the coming night, silent like white lines passing. My eye met the eye of a red-tailed hawk atop a power pole, and he watched me pass, thinking perhaps I'd scare up some mouse, as I rumbled by. I turned the throttle, there alone, with the road like some runway, and visions of Tom Cruise, heading to the 'danger zone', the speedometer touching 110 before I settled back down, back to a rumble not a blur, where I could spend some time with the bats that darted past.

Mourning doves, a group of six or eight, took flight, and one, confused I guess, went my way, looking me in the eye briefly, his life passing before him I'm sure.

I made a slow turn and pointed west, the last breath of the sun exhaled slowly behind gray clouds outlined in silver trim. Headlights pointing home, again, headlights like me, looking out, past the darkness, out there where we can be alone, with the alphalpha and the onions, dirt fields and sprinklers, bats and hawks and mourning doves... alone like thunder storms and lightning, that seem to long for something, beyond the clouds.

[Lance1150]

To those of you new to motorcycling....


So you just bought your first motorcycle


Some will ask you 'why' you ride.

Tell them what you will, about the thrill of going fast, the closeness with the world around you as you hang on, unencumbered by glass and metal, inches away from roadside flowers, or catastrophe.

But realize something, about the person asking you 'why'; you had a yearning they did not, you saw those machines and 'knew' you were meant to join in. They probably can't understand, not until or unless they have that yearning.

Give them a ride, maybe that will speak to them, maybe not. Some are meant to ride, some to be driven. Some passengers LOVE what we love, but can't feel what we feel without sitting up front.

So congratulations! You've got a motorcycle!

Heed the words of those who remind you of your fragility, your mortality, they are right... listen to that voice, but make sure yours speaks louder, the quiet voice inside you, that only you hear, and those driving by, waving, hear....

... and twist that throttle from time to time, not throwing caution to the wind, but launching your very soul into it, full speed, and smiling.




The same ride

I took the same ride tonight, one that leads east, where the houses thin, and the fields are alive. Mars is close they say, and I drove fast and far, where city lights only tint the horizon, hoping a sliver moon and night light stars would point out the red planet from where it hides up there; and stopped along a gravel shoulder, that went black without my headlight, and announced the quiet as I took off my helmet.

A soft blur through plastic visor revealed itself to me, as the swish and click of sprinklers irrigating alfalfa whispered in the dark and sent a haze to soften distant lights in the fog of them. Headlights approached from the road ahead that seemed to grow pavement in the lights, then return to nothingness as taillights fade. I expected some coyote or rattlesnake there, my boots in dirt where I might root if a sprinkler went astray. And took one last look, where that star might have been a little red, and over my shoulder at the big dipper, and toward the road I knew was there, in the darkness, where headlights chase roads that seem to grow pavement in the night air, from sprinklers gone astray, or the magic of elves or motorcycles.

I took the same ride tonight, one that leads east, where the houses thin, and the fields are alive.



Motorcycle dreams…

A story for one of our ‘other’ board comrades…

.... she looked at the motorcycle and smiled, her hair was loose and windblown, her eyes reflected the chrome above the headlight. She said nothing as she came closer, her hand moved to the zipper on her leather vest, she unzipped the supple black vest without looking, exposing a bright tattoo above her left breast. The blue and white of the artwork pulled my eye to it, momentarily, then back to her eyes, then to her chest... I recognized the tattoo, the BMW logo, and strained to read the name across it, in red. Her lips moved and I watched each muscle of them as they puckered and formed a 'P', then closed my eyes briefly and just listened to her as she said my name. "Patrick" she whispered, her hand reaching to my head, rubbing the dome of it as if she were making a wish, pulling a cigar from my front jacket pocket, putting the end in her mouth and her biting it off, her lips moving again as she whispered "Patrick"... Her hand moved down across my chest and lower to my belt, then across to the pocket of my leather pants, and into my front pocket. She caressed the lighter in my pocket before pulling it slowly out, then flicked the small wheel with her pale finger sending a flame beneath the tender Cuban leaves.....

Buzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz... the alarm next to the bed rocked me awake, pulling me from her.... I reached out and slapped the top of the clock too hard, sending it to the floor, and lay back, rubbing my eyes, thinking of her. I hated the damn prison, the routine, these dreams that seemed to haunt me... and walked to the garage and to my motorcycle. I lingered there, taking in the curves of her, my eyes settling on the logo there on the oil cooler, and closed my eyes, and saw it again, that logo, her breasts, my name... and wished Lance had made the story longer; and hated him for taking her away, for sending me off to work... the bastard.

(For Patrick)

The End

[Lance1150]

P.S. I don't claim to be some literary wonder, as you can tell if you read this stuff, but I like to write, and all this stuff was written a while back when I was excited about sharing some writing with other writers, until an uproar on the 'other' board poo-pooed a writer's area... I haven't written much motorcycle related stuff since... so don't worry, this will probably do it for me for a year or so...



Thoughts on motorcycling…

History

My story…. I know, who cares, but I figured I’d memorialize my motorcycling history, because… well, I’m just reminiscing, and thought I’d reminisce on paper.

High School

My best friend had a red Honda 50. I used to ride on the back, and sometimes get to ride it myself; no helmet, T-shirt, going as fast as the little Honda would go. I imagine ‘that’ was the beginning of my love of motorcycles.


The Army

I don’t recall what brought me to the BMW store, it was close to home and I was visiting my mom for the weekend; I was stationed in Yuma Arizona, about four hours from home. I really wasn’t shopping around for a motorcycle, but when I looked in that shop window, and saw it, I needed it.

It was a new BMW R75/5; it had a strange sideways kick-starter that seemed really cool at the time. The gas tank seemed HUGE back then and had straight sides making it impossible to hug the tank with your knees, but this wasn’t meant as a racer, it was a cruiser; this was 1973. I crashed that bike on the freeway near Palm Springs, at 90mph, the bike, along with me, survived with pretty minor damage. The truck driver that pulled over and came up to me afterward was paler than I was and said, “I never thought you’d get up after that”. It’s a longer story than I’ll get into here, but it was the bike’s fault, the frame was too short and the front-end got light at high speed with a tail wind. BMW fixed that little problem in later models. The repaired motorcycle and I crashed again; in the hills near San Diego on a windy road on a particular turn that it turns out was banked the wrong way and was notorious for crashes. I was going into the deadly turn a bit too fast and scraped the side stand, then made the mistake of quickly letting off the throttle and trying to sit the bike up a bit. I didn’t realize the torque effect of the old opposed twin would add just enough extra ‘sit up’ to send me off the road, over some boulders, (which luckily sent me flying), as the bike smashed head on into an oak tree down the embankment. I on the other hand landed in a soft cushion of oak leaf litter beneath the tree, unharmed. That was the end of that motorcycle and began a four-year hiatus from motorcycles for me.


Later…

1978 found me visiting the same motorcycle shop where I’d gotten the R75/5. I was amazed by the R75/7 sitting there. It was so modern, so sleek; it even looked fast on its center stand. It was black like my other bike and seemed to be a reincarnated spirit calling out to me, the bike had my name on it, and with some creative entries on the credit application I got the bike.

Life intervenes…

I don’t know what happened exactly, well maybe I do. It was a new job, getting married, kids, buying a house, putting in a pool, another kid, elementary school, vacations, taking pictures, being tired, buying STUFF, marriage troubles, getting hurt at work, divorce, money problems, tragedy…. I guess that was enough.

Whatever it was, that motorcycle had several batteries go dead as it sat neglected in the garage (for years), was moved outside near the garden when the garage got too cluttered (and sat there for ages), and it nearly died there. Then, a revelation, looking at the cobwebs and the flat tires, that I’d keep that motorcycle forever, that it meant something to me, that it represented what I had forgotten, or at least pushed aside. So I got a battery, changed the oil, replaced the BMW logos on the side of the gas tank that had faded in the sun, washed it, waxed it, tuned it, got tires, and fired it up! It came to life, ignoring the years of neglect, and purred, and smiled… and forgave me. Despite my redemption, the bike sat (and sits) mostly covered up, rarely driven, and loved, but ignored.


Fast forward

2003. Revelation #2. I took a trip to the old motorcycle shop, the one that had held the two other motorcycles I’d owned, just to ‘look around’. I was having a money crunch (a chronic state it seems) and had just bought my daughter a new car, and wouldn’t qualify for another loan, so I was safe ‘just looking’.

There it was. Black, shining, sleek, a rocket compared to anything I’d owned, and beautiful. A BMW R1150R, Roadster. My heart was fluttering as I walked around it, eyeing every curve, thinking to myself that this wasn’t just a machine, it was art, a perfect sculpture, with an engine. The girl at the counter remembered me, even though I hadn’t been in the shop for many years. She even pulled a 3X5 card from an old file box under the counter and said, “Lance right? You have the R75/7”. “Yep” I said, amazed at the twenty-five year old card, and at her ability to remember me. She began a low-pressure sales talk that included information on BMW’s promotion where they make the first five payments, and concluded by reminding me this was probably the last black one in the country. My head was spinning, I sooooooooo wanted to own this motorcycle, I had never ridden one of them, hadn’t even heard one running, but already ‘knew’ the motorcycle, just by standing next to her.

With nothing to lose, and not wanting to abandon ‘my’ motorcycle there, I filled out a quick credit application. It took a phone call to a real person after submitting the application over the computer, and it seemed like Laurie, the BMW shop salesperson, was trying to do a little convincing to the voice at the other end, but in the end, she said, “Ok, you’ve got a motorcycle”.

The odometer on my 1978 R75/7 stopped working at about 12,000 miles. I think it was the snow, or the garden sprinklers, or the hot desert sun for years on end; but 12,000 miles was pretty close, I had REALLY ignored that bike. I knew that this motorcycle would be different; I knew ‘I’ was different. Today it’s about 6 ½ months since I got the Roadster, and I have over 14,000 miles on it. This motorcycle won’t be ignored, it cries out to be ridden; it won’t let itself be ignored.

So that’s my story, not very exciting, but full of drama, for me. I’ve gotten back something I’d lost, the passion for motorcycles I had at the beginning, when I first looked in that shop window.



Signs unfamiliar

Into the night, where roads edge the dark like arrows. Three quarter moon won’t be ignored, and follows me South where warm air meets pockets of chill surprising me. I feel that I should break loose, take the road to where it meets another, and another, until the signs are unfamiliar. Adventure is out there, just beyond here, just beyond that hill, leaving the moon at my back. I’ve seen this sign, the road home is there, and it calls me in tonight, leaving adventure for a dream, and another moon.

[Lance1150]

Just noticed I put this stuff in a 'non-motorcycling' topic area.... hummm. Do we want only non-motorcycle related writing here?


:omg:

[Deans BMW]

Lance, don't sweat it.

[DarthRider]

Lance, I've only had time to read the first several but...neat stuff!
I'll read the rest when I get this 3 1/2 day annual sales meeting that starts tomorrow out of the way.
In the meantime, if you haven't looked in at Site Suggestions & Critique>A Couple of Suggestions, you might take a peek.
Then let us know what you think. We need you involved in shaping this one for sure!
And keep posting, it will help us see what kind of structure would work best for..."Moto-Lit!

Dave

[Deans BMW]

Lance, I just finished reading all your stories. I have to say that I really enjoyed them, in fact they connected. I think that as I have become older, 63 next March, my emotions whell up closer to the surface with less resistance than in the past. I remember buying my first BMW as clear as day. I had been riding some type of motorized two wheeled vehicle since grade school, 4th or 5th grade. So that summer day in 1972 in Kerrville, Texas after having prolly a dozen or so motorcycles by then. Some where I found a pic of a Blue Toaster Tank R75/5 short wheel base, just like yours other than mine was blue , the faster color, of course. There was a dealer in San Antonio, called them and yes they had a Blue Beemer just like the pic I had. My wife and I drove over, saw the bike and bought it, again never hearing it run much less trying it out. My first ride on it was the ride home from San Antonio to Kerrville. WOW, unbeliveable, the torque was just amazing, I still remember just how narrow the bike was with its toaster tank. That was the start of the unrelenting drug addicted like hold that BMW has had on me to this day. Every BMW motorcycle that I have actually bought for myself have been without either riding or hearing it run. I love riding my ST and on the other hand I can't wait to run the upcomming R1200S at Bonneville. The last 4 years have been a rebirth in the imersion of Beemerdome. The Roadster website and then the disapointment of what happened to that site, the excitement of helping to get this site started, being welcomed back to SJBMW with open arms then reading your post has brought in full force back to that first ride on that beautiful blue R75/5 Toaster.

[socalrob]

Lance,

Very much enjoyed your stories. The ride to the Rock Store was dead on, and I liked your stories about riding in the desert. I've always liked the wide open spaces of the Antelope Valley. In the mid '80's I did alot of survey work out there. My favorite part of a hot summer day was anytime after about 5 pm, when the sunlight took on that late afternoon glow, the temperatures became bearable, and the quiet was so complete.

Havn't been out there in awhile, but I used to love breakfast/lunch at the Tall Pines Cafe on Sierra Hwy (or there abouts), especially before it was surrounded by houses. It was a true hole in the wall place, with great helpings of eggs, chicken fried steak, gravy & potatoes. I might need to ride out there, this is makin me hungry.

I hope you continue to write here, you have a real talant. I also hope, along with others here, that this site very much becomes a home for rider writers (maybe we could call the forum "riding writing"). I think it is something that could really differentiate this site from others, & feed the souls of us all.

Rob

[geechie]

Lance,


...so don't worry, this will probably do it for me for a year or so...

That would be a mistake.

George

[Bones]

Lance,
Hey, thank you. That is some really good writing, and I think it underscores why a writer's forum will be a really great section.

The Rock Store was excellent. I really enjoyed it. At Motorcycle Dreams...OMG...I was reading along and when I realized what was what, I lost it. Fantastic. What a hoot.

Keep writing, even if you have to save it for when the Board is complete and we have a real writer's forum.

Great stuff.

Jeff