Arthur Jacobson: Motorcycles

Tue, 25 Oct 2005 16:40:52 GMT

October 25, 2005 @ 8:53

Comparos and Shootouts

Like most motorcyclists I read a number of motorcycle magazines. The postal service brings four to my mailbox each month and I regularly visit bike sites on line. I subscribe to Motorcycle Online and visit a variety of special interest sites as well.

The motorcycle press is especially valued during the hot stove riding season, when many of us across the country are snowbound and the bike mags become our wish books and dream books.

(Not so true for those of us here in the desert southwest where we ride all year long, but they still feed our fantasies about bikes we’d like to own and places we’d like to ride if only most of the country weren’t buried up to its collective hips in snow.)

I love the latest reports on and comparisons of exotic machinery I’ll never own, or wouldn’t suit my riding style if I did own. I even like to read about gadgets like GPSs that would tell me, as I ground out miles on I-40 that yes, by God, I was still on I-40.

All of this is fun, but the hard truth is that for many of us these magazines are only the stuff that dreams are made on. For the most part they are not real-world useful.

Example: MO recently did a five bike "Comparo" of ‘sport-touring’ bikes with prices from $12,498 to over twenty grand. It was fun reading but I really needed that as much as a moose needs a hat rack.

If my 1990 K75 is stolen, run over by a nitwit who can’t park a truck, or lost in a flood, garage fire, or other disaster I’ll need to replace it with a good used bike. 20 grand new? Fugedaboutit.

Here’s what we need, motorcycle journalist guys:

Regular reviews and comparisons of used bikes in various classes broken down by age groups. What’s out there I might replace my touring K bike with that’s, say, in the 1999-2000 model year? Reliability records, service costs, parts availability, reasonable prices, road tests.

One last word. New bike costs have kept up with inflation, but for many riders wages have not. More of us need to buy used if we are going to keep doing what we love. The motorcycle press could help.

Thu, 06 Oct 2005 16:48:23 GMT

October 6, 2005 @ 9:10 am

BMW f800s

Finally! Official pictures and details of BMW’s new 800 cc bike are up on a number of internet motorcycle sites. The new bike, in the aggressively sporty "s" series, is going to delight canyon-carving beemer fans. Older riders, who were hoping for a mid-weight two-cylinder touring mount are going to be disappointed.

I’m disappointed, but I’m not angry or annoyed. I had hoped for one more new Beemer before my long-distance touring days were done, but my wife and I have two perfectly adequate touring mounts in the carport: My 1990 K75 and her ’03 F650cs.

They’re better than good, they are just right for the sort of motoring I did when I started riding BMWs forty years ago: Days of leisurely touring that ended around a camp fire.

Wed, 05 Oct 2005 12:22:44 GMT

October 5, 2005 @ 5:16 am

Invisibility

Except during major road trips I don’t ride at night, but on the road I often ghost away from my motel in the pre-dawn dark and slip along a small town main street to the interstate. I like the lonely dark punctuated by flashing stoplights and the occasional watchful cop car nosing out of a side street.

There is no traffic, and even on the interstate your only company is an occasional long haul trucker. The lights in your speedometer cluster are cheerful, and the long throw of your headlight is a bright rope pulling you through the night. Headlights approaching you are seen minutes before they arrive and the red taillight ahead of you is a goal you may never reach.

Because I’m a bright, constantly moving, light at the center of the empty dark seeing and being seen are hardly a problem. Night riding on busy urban streets is. I’ve become increasingly aware of how nearly invisible motorcycles can be as the result of a work schedule that has kept me on city streets well after dark.

In a line of traffic, whether it’s yours or the stream of lights coming toward you, a motorcycle with only a tail light and a head light is virtually invisible. I’m a rider and I’m certainly more conscious of other bikes than the drivers of the cars around me. (Ain’t that the truth, gang! Even at high noon they don’t see us.) At night a single tail light disappears in the cluster of tail lights in the traffic ahead of you. The approaching headlight of a motorcycle gets lost in the glare of headlights at different distances in front of you.

The rider not wearing a helmet is even worse off. His or her presence in the traffic stream can come, too late, as a complete surprise. Riding bareheaded in city traffic may be cool when it’s hot; it may look cool when you get where you’re going; it’s like having a cloak of invisibility.

For years I’ve thought that wearing a reflector vest looked incredibly dorky. Maybe it does, but I no longer give a… well you get the idea. I’d rather be a visible dork than an invisible accident statistic. And I’ve been assured by folks who have seen me on the road that it really does make a difference.

Wed, 28 Sep 2005 20:20:56 GMT

Riding Safe

Isn’t it odd that when we write about the motorcycle life we find it so easy to use an adjective to modify a verb.

I have always tried to "ride safe," paying particular attention my riding gear. When I started riding forty-five years ago about all we had for protection was leather for road rash and layers of sweaters for warmth. Well, sweaters and newspapers.

Folk wisdom held that if you got stuck in cold weather you could pad yourself with newspapers inside your jacket and pants. The problem with that is that if you had already gotten chilled all the newspapers did was to make you bulky. Electrically heated riding suits were unheard of.

Rain gear? We had some, but it was frequently bulky rubberized stuff that didn’t breathe, so you got just as wet from the inside out as you did from the outside in. I remember the almost boundless joy with which I received my first Belstaff jacket, an English contribution to motorcycling that more than made up for ‘reliable Lucas electrics.’

Belstaff was the best riding and rain gear I ever owned and I still have one of the older jackets. Belstaff continues in business, by the way.

(I’m sure Lucas’s reputation was not so well justified as we all believed but it was fun to refer to ‘the prince of darkness’ and the motto on the Lucas coat of Arms: Never Go Out After Dark)

I’m prompted to these recollections by the fact that we continue to have temperatures in or near triple digits, and I have succumbed to the climate. I have given up all protective gear except helmet and gloves; no jacket, no fancy euro-style riding suit, no ventilated "Joe Rocket" gear. I’m riding around town in devil-may-care t-shirts.

He Wasn’t Wearing a Helmet

Sometime in the past two weeks the Star printed a short notice of the death of a local motorcyclist, who was killed by an automobile. I can’t find the piece on line, so my recollection of the details is sketchy. I do remember ‘killed’ and ‘wasn’t wearing a helmet.’

That old refrain again. What else wasn’t he wearing? He wasn’t wearing a bra; he wasn’t wearing a seal skin hat; he wasn’t wearing golf shoes; he wasn’t wearing a tuxedo; there’s a lot of stuff he wasn’t wearing. Was not wearing it contributory to his death?

The helmet reference would only be pertinent if he died of injuries that wearing a helmet would have prevented. If not, then the old ‘no helmet’ refrain is just another way of blaming the victim.

Mon, 26 Sep 2005 17:17:57 GMT

September 26, 2005 @ 9:04 am

Spooky Tooth Cycles

There’s a long article in today’s Arizona Daily Star about a local mo-ped builder, Roland Bosma. It’s a good piece, written by Tina Velez, and you can read it here. Giving you the link is just a little courtesy and the only reason I mention it is that it is a courtesy the Star seldom extends to its readers. Tina knew there was a web site because she mentions it. I guess the editors were afraid we’d jump to it and not return to the ad-cluttered pages of the Star.

I googled Spooky Tooth and found the Spooky Tooth web site, here. Now that’s pretty interesting. Go ahead and visit…you might dig the band, and I don’t care if you leave the blog. But come back, because this is the link for Spooky Tooth Cycles.

That’s a pretty goth look, but basically full of good stuff about the bikes. Once you’ve poked around there for a while you’ll probably find a little rat in a white sporty car. Click it and go here.

Wasn't that fun?

Wed, 07 Sep 2005 17:28:03 GMT

September 7, 2005 @ 9:50 am

Blessed Singleness

First, a disclaimer: Where motorcycles are concerned it’s "freedom hall." Whatever floats your boat or turns your crank is what’s right for you and ain’t nobody going to tell you different.

That said, let me go on to say that it seems to me that motorcycles have gotten too damn big, too damn heavy and way too expensive. There is something about huge luxo-tourers like the BMW K1200 LT that misses the point.

The point is that your ride should be super-maneuverable; easy to push, park, and pick up. It should be as much fun on crowded city commutes as it is on inter-city super slab runs. And has it struck anyone that if your scoot needs a hydraulic center stand something is not quite right?

My local Triumph store has been doing a brisk business in the retro Bonneviles, T-100s and Speedmasters. Compared to today’s giants these bikes are pretty small, but they are as big as all the bikes we used to call ‘big.’

My guess is that maybe more and more people are finding out that sometime less really is more.

I’ve become addicted to my BMW F650CS, a single-cylinder bike with more displacement, horsepower, and mechanical sophistication than many of the "big" bikes I started riding. It gives great gas mileage (60 mpg) will cruise all day at 75 to 80 and is super maneuverable.

It’s a kick to ride.

Wed, 31 Aug 2005 17:46:45 GMT

August 31, 2005 @ 10:41 am

I am going to duck out of the office later today for a quick look, again, at Triumph motorcycles. My last exploration was truly an eye-opener: I was flat-footed on the bikes I was interested in and the biggest of them, the Rocket III, simply floated up off the sidestand. They have a Triumph America on the floor and I’m going to throw a leg over it.

My only question would be how comfortable on long rides the forward position of the brake and gear shift pedal would be.

Thu, 25 Aug 2005 15:13:10 GMT

RIDING WITH THE FAT OLD MEN

I have been riding with the fat old men. Their bellies lunge aggressively over their belt bands like boulders hanging balanced over a cliff's edge. They wear blue jeans suspended from bright red galluses as broad as four fingers of a thin man's hands. For real comfort 'overhauls' are the informal uniform of the day.

The fat old men are sixty-something to seventy-something. They have knuckles scarred by slipping wrenches, and small patches of white skin where burns have healed from rubbing against red hot exhaust headers. They were too anxious to get the work done to let their motorcycles cool; too eager to get back on the road.

The fat old men do not walk to breakfast with their riding companions unless the cafe is across the street. The fat old men are genial companions around a campfire, or at a breakfast table, but they leave the congeniality of group walks to their younger, merely plump, riding buddies and their buddies' comfortable wives.

The fat old men will ride the hundred yards to breakfast and load up for the day with buttered pancakes, fried eggs, rashers of bacon, home-fried potatoes and biscuits. If there is a slice of orange garnishing the plate they will ignore it and wash breakfast down with coffee laced with cream. I have known them, on occasion, to drink a red beer or two...beer and tomato juice...as a corrective to the previous evening's tire kicking session.

These are not soft men. Their bellies are as hard as a table top; the kind of belly you see on construction workers who have spent their lives leaning on jack hammers. This is not the middle-aged guy's gut and flabby love handles. My fat old men do not have love handles, they are as free of such overhangs as a cement sewer pipe.

These men require motorcycles as substantial as their breakfasts, huge touring machines that the trade knows as "luxo-tourers." The fat old men have serious riding business to undertake and they need proper tools for the work.

Not for the fat old men some younger guy's "crotch rocket," which is nothing but a citified version of an honest racing motorcycle. They don't want to go a hundred miles an hour crouched over their gas tanks like a monkey making love to a watermelon, although they admire these motorcycles and will talk flatteringly about them with their owners.

What my guys want is to go hundreds of miles hour after hour after hour… and for that these substantial men want substantial comfort. Huge engines, special seats, windshields and fairings, power adjustable gas shock absorbers, radios and tape players, and of course radar detectors.

The fat old men have served their country, been blown out of their tanks, jumped out of their bombers, held dying friends in their arms. They understand shell shock, battle fatigue, and post traumatic stress syndrome and have gone on charity rides to help comrades who suffered from those ailments. They are not scornful of modern psychology.

But they have, themselves, simply sucked up their problems and got on with their lives. Some few of them are old enough to have had to "deal with depression," but that depression was the sort where pop was out of work and their mamas made sister's blouses out of gaily printed flour sacks.

So here we are ready to ride for a weekend on winding mountain roads. Big men on huge motorcycles. These motorcycles may weigh close to half a ton "wet." That is, with full gas tanks and topped-up radiators. Yet they ride out of the parking lot, pull a graceful U-turn on a narrow two lane country road, and purr off for a day of canyon carving with a lightness and grace that shames the rest of us who have to paddle our lighter bikes around the parking lot and off onto the road.

Understand what's going on here. The fat old men have ridden 600 miles on a Friday to spend Saturday with friends riding 300 hundred miles on hairpin curves and badly banked blacktop roads. On Sunday they will ride six hundred miles home. This is not "long distance riding." This is a pleasant weekend jaunt.

Take a look at their triple-extra-large T-shirts, the souvenirs and records of the riding by which they define themselves. "The Iron Butt"...a thousand miles in a day; "Fifty CC" which means they have ridden coast to coast in fifty hours; "The Four Corners" a ride around the four corners of the United States; and the relatively mild "Three Flags" run- from Mexico to Canada over a weekend.

That's riding. A sixty mile ride with your buds to a tavern just ain't in it.

Not that the fat old men are judgmental, they think all motorcyclists should do their thing, they just want to do more of it than some other folks. And for the most of it the fat old men can ride rings around the rest of us.

My wife, Katherine, and I are puttering up the New Mexican curves bound for the town Reserve, New Mexico, and a sentimental return to Uncle Bill's Bar, when we are passed by the fat old men, who whisper by us, dip into the curve ahead just letting their foot pegs touch the road, and are gone.

There is not the briefest flicker of their brake lights to betray a second thought about what they were doing or the speed at which they were doing it.

The town of Reserve is the center of ranching activity for the area and the bar is the social hub of the town. On a non-weekend day you can hear an exhaustive analysis of what is wrong with the BLM, sandal-wearing environmentalists, and the idiots who want to re-introduce wolves where sensible men are trying to make a living raising cattle.

The bar's souvenir T-shirt shows a cowboy and his horse taking a companionable piss together. It is not clear what they are companionably pissing on.

On the weekends the bar is a destination of choice for clubs of Harley-Davidson riders and a scattering of Japanese motorcycles worked to look like Harleys. These are not biker gang people, just young guys and their wives or girlfriends. They are not as dangerous as they look, despite the leather and tattoos, but they would be disappointed if they thought you weren't just a bit apprehensive.

You know, they're going to have a goat roast and you're the goat. That sort of thing.

When Katherine and I hit town the fat old men were well ahead of us, strolling up and down a line of some twenty or more bikes parked in front of Uncle Bill's. It would be wrong to suggest that there was anything ponderous about their progress; their stomachs did not precede them in any way that suggested the swaying trunks of elephants.

Rather, there was something stately and grand about the way they walked along the line of motorcycles… a convocation of bishops discussing difficult issues of theology on a stroll through the cloisters.

Some riders come out of the bar for a smoke and walk over to where the fat old men were examining their motorcycles. Nice day for a ride…where y'all from…those your Goldwings?…how do you like the Harley belt drive…the random stock phrases one scooter person asks another to get a conversation going, set a tone.

It's pretty clear from a kind of swaggering body language that the young guys, the ones with the thin-lipped Appalachian girlfriends, are sort of sorry for the fat old men. The fat old men have to wear protective riding suits, big heavy helmets, ride huge "safe" motorcycles. The fat old men are not riding free in the wind, bare chested, with their halter topped girlfriends pressing their breasts against them.

The fat old men, who have been blown out of their tanks, jumped out of their bombers, and ridden their motorcycles into (and out of) ditches avoiding idiots passing in the wrong lane; these fat old men don't much give a rat's ass what anyone thinks.

And it's right here that the conflict between the old bulls and the young bulls arises. It's head butting, antler locking time, and one of the fat old men says something like,

"That's a good looking scoot. Chrome's nice. Must have cost you a fortune."

The young bull paws the ground with pride. "Yeah, thanks. I ride a lot. Like the scoot to stand out."

"That's a 1999, isn't it. Interesting engine mods made that year to fix the generator problems," says the fat old man, leaning over to check the odometer.

Whoa, what is this? The old fat guy knows something about scoots. Is this a put-down? Is he knocking my ride?

"Goldwing's the same year. Didn't do much to the bike that year, but I've tinkered a few changes just for comfort. Getting old is hell." And then comes the killer head butt, the sand in the sandbag:

"How many miles ya got?"

"Damn near 16 thousand…live to ride, ride to live, bro. How about you?"

"Well, coming up the hill here I just turned 140 thousand. Good to talk. Keep the rubber side down… but guess I' better get going, I'm supposed to be in Denver tonight."

The fat old man waved and turned to walk back to his Wing. Just before he shrugged into the top half of his riding suit you could read the back of his T-shirt:

YOU DON'T STOP RIDING BECAUSE YOU GET OLD, YOU GET OLD BECAUSE YOU STOP RIDING.

The fat old men are not saints. Inside the fat old men are the brash young guys with the go to hell attitudes who were blown out of their tanks or who jumped out of their bombers.

The fat old man wrenched the Wing upright and hip-swung the big tourer into the intersection, where he pulled a near lock-to-lock figure eight, waved goodbye and went on his way.

Mon, 02 May 2005 00:54:58 GMT

Heavy Metal

Well, maybe...but these BMW K75s were the biggest bikes
we saw in and around Lisbon

Wed, 02 Feb 2005 14:00:45 GMT

Cautionary Note

I learned a chilly lesson when I walked away from my bike with my electric vest still plugged into the accessory jack on the bike. I ripped loose the connection and made the vest heat free. It’s a good idea to be sure you have enough warm clothing to get by without your electric heat source. What made the ride even possible were my heated grips, hippo hands, extra shirts and an extra jacket liner.

Half way home I managed to repair the connection, but still had no heat. Can you say "Blown Fuse?" It’s a good idea to carry extras.

Tue, 01 Feb 2005 18:00:30 GMT

Blogging Again At The Old Stand

I rode home from Death Valley yesterday and spent most of what was left of the day cleaning up camping gear. I did the ride home from DV in two segments: Death Valley to Wickenberg, Arizona…400 miles; then Wickenberg to Tucson 175 miles.

Readers who live in parts of the country where temperatures are in the single digits will snort derisively when I mention that when I started home yesterday the temperature was 39 degrees. Practically spring-like for riders in Boston. Still, with the electrics dead on my riding gear, I courted hypothermia and had to soak in a hot tub to stop shivering. Wind chill at 80 mph, dontcha know. Oh, what a tough boy am I!

I’ll be posting a number of different comments in Motorcycles, starting later today.

Technical Question.

Is there any way I can post to this Radio blog by e-mail? I’ll be away most of April and would like to keep up the blog... All offers of help apreciated.

Sat, 22 Jan 2005 09:37:30 GMT

Feeling Old at 1:55 AM

At its heart aging is a series of gallant defenses against an attacking force of disabilities. It is a succession of retreats to more easily defended positions, each strategic withdrawal leaving some part of what we are on the field.

Hence, medication becomes the chemical equivalent of natural good health, eyeglasses and magnifiers replace our youthful vision, walking replaces running, and a gratefully received nap makes up for that lost luxury: eight hours of uninterrupted sleep.

Much the same sort of thing happens with our principles. We may still have them, but the number we are willing to defend with the passionate intensity of youth decreases with age. Too little time remains, so although we know the right we are not willing to spend the time defending it.

What the hell, it probably doesn't matter anyway.

Death Valley

I’m getting ready for the ride to Death Valley. I write those words in no balefully metaphorical mood… I’m literally getting ready to ride to Death Valley, California.

Every year, In January, motorcyclists from all over the Southwest ride to Death Valley for a weekend of camping. While other riders are sitting snowbound and yearning for the open road those of us who live along the southern marches of our country ‘go ridin.’

I’ve changed the oil and filter in the K75 BMW, checked my camping gear to make sure I have all my tent pegs, dried up a batch of Beef jerky, and figured out a variation of my regular route.

I have two rules about motorcycle rallies. The first is that if you don’t camp, you ain’t there. Day visits from a local motel are out. The second is that you polish your bike at the start of the run and don’t do that again until you’re home. Compulsive bike polishing is a new guy’s game. Don’t waste your time, it’s sure to rain tomorrow.

I’ll take off next Thursday, ghosting out of town in the dark. We’ve been having a lot of winter rain here in the desert, but if it’s raining when I roll out of bed I’ll just put on my rain gear and be gone.

"Live to Ride, Ride to Live?" You bet.

Fri, 14 Jan 2005 19:28:39 GMT

Hippo Hands

I’m always cold. When folks are riding around in their shirt sleeves I’m the guy in the group who is well jacketed. However, because I’m always cold I’m always warm on the bike. Part of the secret is my electric vest, which I never leave for a trip without. Another part of the secret is that I never head out for a long trip without at least some silk long johns and a silk turtle neck .

Silk is the perfect add on to a riding wardrobe. It takes nearly no space in you saddle bags since it seems infinitely compressible. You can wash it, roll it dry in a towel and be ready to wear it again in the morning if needed. What we’re taking about here is the first miracle fiber and something all riders should give some thought to.

(A plug: Take a look at this site: WinterSilks)

For years I’ve used a set of handlebar muffs.. the sort we knew as "hippo hands."The ones on my K75 were made for me locally here in Tucson. They are water proof and with heated grips let you ride in perfect ‘toasty-digit’ comfort untill you’re ready to shut down for the day, or the road starts to glaze over…in which case you are, by definition, ready to shut down for the day.

I thought finding hippos for our BMW F650CS would be a lost cause until I found this site: Hippo Hands. They sell custom made hippo hands for lots of BMW models, including the F650. Hallelujah! Can’t wait to get a pair.

Wed, 15 Dec 2004 16:19:15 GMT

Joy Joy Joy

The Hot Eye wishes all its friends and readers, all residents of the blogosphere who may happen this way, and even the occasional grump… A Merry Christmas! Or, if that is not the appropriate holiday, a happy Hanukah and a good Kwanza.

We have been busy around here tying up loose ends for our holiday get-away. We have produced a veritable Gordian Knot of tied up loose ends and are ready to take off. Well, drive off anyway.

We are pretty happy to see this year disappear in the rear view mirror filled, as it has been, with both political stress and the challenges of family illness. We thought long and hard about choices for getting over it all. On the one hand there was psychotherapy for the next year. On the other hand there was getting out of town, over to San Diego, and onto a Holiday Cruise. We chose the cruise.

After today the Hot Eye will go dark (as they say in the theatre) until a day or two after Christmas... after which it will return to mislead the youth, teach false gods, and make the worse appear the better cause.

If blog withdrawal gets to be more than I can bear I might try a post from sea on the Blogger version of The Pellham Report. But don’t count on it.

Tue, 07 Dec 2004 00:26:59 GMT

Riding Naked

The latest thing in the moto-world is riding naked. Hold on, there, not what you think.

It’s the motorcycles that are naked, not the riders. In the dear dead days beyond recall a naked bike was simply one that wasn’t laden with saddle bags, sissy bars (remember them?) or windshield. A plain vanilla, unadorned motorcycle.

This didn’t necessarily mean that there was no body work. It did mean that there was no full fairing, but fenders were generous and while the engine and other necessary bits and pieces were exposed they did get a measure of protection tucked in under the gas tank, and from the rider’s legs.

But recently the "styling cues" are intended to express the underlying mechanicals and the macho, industrial toughness of the machines. The cues are lots of exposed girder work, so that the bike more nearly resembles the interior of an industrial loft. You ride a skeleton without a skin, and through that skeleton you see whatever pieces of the engine: airbox, generator, radiator hoses, etc. etc. are hung off the engine case.

In itself, there’s nothing wrong with this. Hey, whatever floats your boat. Different strokes for different folks, und so weiter. But ride one of these babies for two hours in the rain, perhaps hit a mile or three of gravel road, and you are doomed to four hours of bike cleaning before you can go to the Saturday night profiling gig at the local hangout. Take a look at the 2005 BMW R1200GS—there are more fins, nooks, and crannies, more ledges and deeply recessed (but still exposed) notches and bolt holes than you might imagine. Until you start to dig mud out of them.

People laughed at the Honda Pacific Coast, but it was covered with body work and you could clean it in about twenty minutes.