I was stranded at a gas station in Tres Piedras, New Mexico after a regulator failure on my Ducati 748. Just to set the scene, TP (as it’s affectionately known to locals) is a crossroads in the middle of Bumfuck, Nowhere. There’s a crumbling gas station, a dilapidated restaurant and that’s about it. The nearest “town” is Taos which is about 50 miles away. With no tools to properly troubleshoot a dead electrical system, I assumed it was my battery that had died. After locating/calling a Honda dealer in Taos, who just happen to have the oddball size my euro-scoot required, I settled into that that semi-conscience trance brought about by the need to pass a couple uneventful hours in an alien and boring place. So with my partially stripped Italian (Ducati likes to put the battery behind the right side fairing) sitting over in the corner of the lot, the excruciatingly slow passage of time began.In my somnambulate state, the first impression I had of the approaching thumper was of an insect buzzing around my ear. Then as it grew in volume, I knew that was no bug, but a motorcycle. I caught site of the yellow machine out near the horizon. Within a few moments a yellow DRZ400 pulled up to the pumps. Ahh, someone to talk to who would understand my plight and offer a sympathetic ear, maybe even a helpful hand. When his helmet came off, a young man of distinctly Asian heritage appeared. The first words that came out of his mouth had such a thick accent that it was obvious he wasn’t from around here.

After exchanging some cursory greetings, I soon discovered that his lack of language skills would make this communication difficult. But I’ve never been one to shy away from a challenge, especially if it means leaving boredom behind. His pronunciation was so bizarre at times that I had to have him repeat many of his utterances multiple times. I tried not to speak loudly as many are prone to do when encountering an alien, believing that volume makes up for comprehension. (Just watch Nicky Hayden ask for con-di-shun-er from an Italian shopkeeper in The Kentucky Kid) I tried to use the most common and simple words I could muster to try to keep the conversation going. Fortunately, he was quite patient with me and I think he wanted to have a chat as much as I did. Being all alone on a deserted stretch of road will do that to you.

Through a lot of repetition and sign language, we were able to comprehend just enough to keep the conversation lively, even with an occasional joke thrown in for good measure. I told him about my predicament and how I had spent the last week riding all over the southwest looking for the holy grail of sportbikers, the vacant twisty road. I mentioned that I intended to cover a couple thousand miles when all was said and ridden. Then he told me how much he admired my spirit of adventure.

After further questioning, I came to understand he had flown to LA from Japan. Rented this barely street worthy machine, used a bungee net to strap down the bulk of his necessities and had set off to cross the entire United States by himself. He had planned finish somewhere in Florida where he would rendezvous with friends who were going to spend their week at DisneyWorld. I told him my sense of adventure couldn’t hold a candle to the journey he’d undertaken.

After a bit more small talk, we posed for this self-timer special (sorry about the quality). As it became apparent that he needed to be on his way and that I was stranded for the time being, we said our good-byes and in an effort to share a little Moto-Americana with him, I admonished him to “keep the rubber side down”! This brought a very puzzled look to his face. I knew my reference would need further clarification, so I explained that I was wishing him luck at keeping his machine upright and the tires on the road. After a few extra hand gestures, his widening eyes told me the light bulb had illuminated.

In an effort to help remember this new farewell, he repeated “key-a-lubba-sy-dow”. His cliché accent gave the words a completely different feel which made me laugh heartily and in turn brought a big toothy grin to his face. I was certain he would be the center of attention at the next gathering of his fellow two-wheeled comrades back in Nippon. I bowed in acknowledgement of what I considered a very sincere effort, as well as the pleasure of his company. His continuing repetition of the phrase indicated he was also delighted with his newfound American expression.

He donned his helmet, mounted his Suzuki, thumbed the starter and took off for his next adventure under foreign skies. Best of luck my intrepid acquaintance…………

Now I’m not the most cultured soul, but I liked the idea of riding some great roads and combining it with some intellectual entertainment, so I was in. The other riders in the conversation all bowed out with a myriad of lame excuses. So Molly and I made plans to ride the backroads down south, camp in the mountains (we were both cheap) and spend a couple days watching traditional Elizabethan thespianship.

I decided to take my Suzuki Bandit 1200 since I needed to take camping gear and a few days worth of supplies. I would normally have preferred one of my sportier mounts but El Bandito Grande, can hold it’s own when the road starts changing elevation and direction, and is vastly more comfortable on the long straight stretches. Molly rode her Harley Springer Softail Classic. I’d give you the multi-letter designation, but I’ve never acquired the knowledge or desire to decipher it. Molly was a match for her bike: attractive, in a girl next door kinda way, but also a tomboy and a bit rough around the edges.

We rode down to Cedar Breaks and pitched our tent in the mountains about 20 miles outside of town on a great piece of convoluted pavement. This gave us the opportunity to enjoy some challenging riding to and from our scheduled showtimes. And getting away from the crowds at the festival was a welcome respite also.

When we awoke the day after our arrival, there were no plays to attend until the afternoon, so my first thought was “let’s torture some rubber for an hour or two”. Molly was the still sleepy and bowed out, so I took the bags off the Bandit and proceeded to do a little canyon scratching. Now, the Bandit’s no ballerina, but she can get leant reet o’er when necessary, and after several entertaining passes through winding bits, I headed back to camp.

Upon my arrival, Molly (who was a bit more lucid), asked if I wanted to try out her Harley for comparison. As I’ve stated before, I’m not one to turn down the opportunity to experience a different flavor, so I said “sure”. As she proceeded to give me a preflight briefing, I could tell from her marketing type description of the bike, that she expected me to be totally enamored by the experience. Likely believing this test ride would have me eschewing all other manufacturers for American iron.

As I mounted the beast, my first thought was how different the riding position was. It took me several tries to find the floorboards. They were a lot further forward than I had imagined. The bars were also higher and further back than anticipated, putting me in the chopper traditional ape-hangar pose. Not a feeling of comfort or control for my sporty tastes. As the engine rumbled to life, I noticed shaking the likes of which were almost disconcerting. The front wheel moving back and forth a couple inches at idle. Also, the mirrors were a blur until you revved the engine. And, if you’ve never experienced heel/toe shifting, you are in for one strange experience.

So I took off, riding quite gingerly for the first several miles. As my confidence grew I started pushing a little and discovered some additional concerns. As expected, the floorboards touched down quite early, limiting my pace substantially. While the engine pulled strongly, it ran out of revs fast. The suspension travel was so limited that even small bumps caused wallowing and bottoming. And the brakes required a seriously hefty squeeze to get the bike to slow with authority.

As I arrived back at base, the expectant look on Molly’s face hinted that she was waiting for me to start gushing about her choice of mounts. In a good news, bad news choice, I usually lead with the positive side. I complimented how far Harley had come from it’s days of noise, smoke, leaking and general unreliability. I also made mention of the motors torque and relative smoothness when underway. I noted that resale prices made it a good investment. Unfortunately, I couldn’t think of many compliments related to actual functionality, especially when compared several other brands I’ve sampled.

After my synopsis, which created a look of disbelief and likely a bit of increduality, I took a few steps back over to the Bandit. As I slung a leg over and pressed the starter button, a surprised Molly asked “Where are you going?”
“To get the taste of that Harley out of my mouth” was my reply.

Rhino

The ’77 Honda I rode was very similar to the ’69 original that took the world by storm, catapulting the Japanese motorcycle industry in general, and Honda specifically, to the forefront worldwide. A position they’ve yet to relinquish for more than 40 years. Before the CB750, the British ruled the big-bore market with Triumph, BSA and Norton comprising the lion’s share. Honda’s racing success in the ‘60’s showed the world that the Asians would be a force to be reckoned with, but the CB was the sledgehammer blow that dealt the fatal blow to the Limey’s. Motorcycling would never be the same.

While this bike was very cutting edge in it’s day, disc brake, electronic ignition, overhead valves, pointless ignition; on the day I rode it, it seemed pretty “old school”. While I’ve never had a chance to ride anything older than this, it was enough to ruin any nostalgia I might have had for those “good ole days”. Even though it did everything I asked of it just fine, my butt’s been recalibrated over the last 30 years and this machine had no real appeal. While I’m sure throwing a leg over this thing in ’69 was a revelation, today it’s barely adequate.

I will say I was surprised by a few things that I was expecting to be horrible. Brakes have come a long way, but the stoppers on the CB were good. Not stoppie good, but I tried some panic stops and wasn’t feeling like I was going to have trouble shedding speed if it became necessary. It was actually quite easy to nail some clutchless up-shift while accelerating away from lights. And, in general, the transmission was slick and it was a non-issue to select each gear. The motor made good power everywhere and even had some stonk on top. Although my virtually stock SV650 would waste this bike.

Other than hard starting, the only real complaint I had was the suspension. It was sacked and in need of new springs and fluid. Oh, and the stock stepped seat severely limited for-aft movement.

So I got to try a piece of history. And while educational, I’m pretty glad we are where we are today. The old king is basically dead, long live his fuel-injected, synthetic-oiled, radial tired great-grand children.

Rhino

Finally, pictorial proof of my two-wheeled predilection?

This is photo of my Mom and Dad on a Harley two years (1957) before I was born. So upon my discovery I queried Mom about the circumstance and insisted on additional details. Unfortunately, I found out it was a posed photo and they never moved an inch. Oh, well, I can’t blame DNA for my addiction. I guess I’ll just have to accept that I’m a victim of circumstance. Maybe they were thinking about the Harley during conception

 Mom told me her father, my grandfather, rode a motorcycle from his home in Michigan to Texas once. I’ll have to get some confirmation on this one. The search for moto-heritage continues.

 (Note the cigarette in Dad’s fist and the oh-so-appropriate foot gear of the times)

Rhino

ZMC

     I recently received a couple of emails from two of my old riding buddies and former members of the Zama Motorcycle Club (ZMC) of Camp Zama, Japan.  Both of these friends are getting “ripe” like yours truly; both are ready for retirement or fast approaching that time.  They are in their early sixties.  I just hit the big “70″ this month.  Time is definitely taking its toll on all of us.  Time!  There is only a finite amount of it in every life. 

     It’s a strange thing, but time doesn’t erase the camaraderie established during its passage.  That is something you all have to look forward to - the preservation of that gift you are benefiting from now called “camaraderie.”  It is developed during a lifetime of motorcycling and expanded with each biking experience you participate in during your biker’s life.  You don’t actually think of that gift as you are being endowed with it.  However, you will come to treasure it later.  We “has-beens who are still kickin’” can vouch for that fact. 

     Back to the e-mails from my friends . . . they have a common thread.  Time is passing and we are becoming more decrepit as it does so.  One of my buddies by the name of Jack has arthritus in his back and shoulders now which prevents him from working outside on the construction projects in which he used to participate.  He is limited to working indoors in an air-conditioned real estate office, which division of the construction and development company he established during his eight years with that particular firm.  The point is that his malady and aging also caused him to sell his Yamaha 1100cc Virago some time ago.  It was in that saddle that he garnered much of his biker camaraderie, which remains constant to this day as witnessed by our exchange of emails.  In his own words Jack says “. . . I sold the ‘Japanese’ Virago and like you, stood on the curb and watched it disappear into the distance - except for that lingering imaginary sound that still resides in the back reaches of the cerebral material.  But, Mary & I do still have the little 90cc crotch-rocket she received as a going away present from her Japanese friends . . . just can not quite give up all the 2-wheel connections.”  He goes on to say that he rides it on occasion just to have the wind in his hair and prove to himself that he is not quite over the hill yet.

     My other friend by the name of Randy just returned to Japan for more work with the U.S. Federal Government.  He already has 20 years of that under his belt after finishing one career on active military duty.  Out of the “clear blue” he sends an email asking for the current addresses of two of our past riding companions from the ZMC, and restoring contact with me.  He says, “Being 60 sucks!”  He goes on to say that an “ex-ZMC-er” by the name of Billy is still at Camp Zama “but that his bike has no vroom vroom, just pedals.  Alas, same with me.”  Randy sold his last bike during 2004.  He has acquired a malady during his aging that requires him to shun the sun, and his wrists have gone bad as well.  One of the ZMC-ers he wanted to contact by the name of Wayne passed away last May.  The ranks are beginning to thin.  The other member is still “kickin’,” and is the fellow with whom Randy made a memorable ten-day trip to Hokkaido years ago.  He spoke fondly about that trip.  What a great memory of a past event and of current camaraderie. 

     So now communications are restored between a few of us old comrads.  We are back in touch with one another, but this time we are without our wheels.  Yes, there is a certain melancholy that comes with the re-establishment of contact that sparks the flow of old memories of bygone times.  But the joy of unending camaraderie surpasses any sadness induced by aging, maladies, old memories and the passage of time.  Enduring camaraderie is the precious gift that all motorcyclists have to enjoy and look forward to now and forever.

Skid Lid 

So after several miles of some fine twisties, me and my buddy dismounted from the saddles of our late model rice rockets in our matching leathers and entered the primary commercial establishment. Our purpose was the usual of filling our biological tanks and disposal of a bit of waste product. As we entered a teenage female working the register said “Are you guys riding those motorcycles?” Now, before I tell you my response, you have to realize what a ridiculous question this was. The normal patrons of this establishment are agriculturally based and are typically festooned in Wranglers and Stetsons. In our colorful leather outfits, we were about as common as space aliens. So, ask a silly question, get a silly answer.

“No, Honey, we’re super heroes” was my witty retort. Not bad for a unprepared one-liner. Now for just the glimmer of a moment, the look on her face was one of startled belief, but it was quickly displaced by indignation at my snide remark.

So, my friend and I went about our consumer and waste management business. The cooler near the door contained one of my favorite treats, a Big Ed’s Flying Saucer, which is basically an ice cream sandwich that uses chocolate chip cookies instead of the usual dark brown carboard like substance for an external covering. I also picked up a Red Bull to assist my alertness for the coming miles.

Due to my earlier comment, as I walked up to the counter I knew I was in for some harassment (which I frequently enjoy). So as I placed the items on the counter, my new nemesis’ first comment was, “that’s not good for you”

My response, “But, It’s super hero food” and I added, “Besides, it’s the top of the food pyramid!”

Silent during the earlier exchange, another comparably young female behind the counter looked up from conducting some other sort store business and choose this moment to offer her opinion, “That’s not the top of the food pyramid”

“Really?”, I replied.

“Chocolate’s the top”, was her insightful comeback. I pondered the fact that I’d been bested by a young country girl at my own word game. So to acknowledge her accumen, my final utterance, “You’re the smart one, aren’t you?”

Rhino

As I was putting on my gloves, in preparation to leave, Dad came over to me and said “he thinks you’re a Power Ranger”.

Priceless,

Rhino

He goes by Mr. COB (Crabby Old Bastard), and sports (still) a 1998 R1, among many other bikes.  When I was an active member, he was the ‘adult’ in the group when the online community got out of hand.  I’m sure he still is.

I had the pleasure of meeting Mr. COB back in 2000 when he was traversing the country from his home area of Seattle to Virginia for a Vietnam Veteran reunion (thanks again for your service).  We met in Mackinac City, MI and I was much delayed from our original rendevous time.

SIDEBAR:  There is a funny story as to why I was delayed.  I was to meet Mr. COB at the Lower Penninsula side of the Mackinac Bridge at a Denny’s.  I was on my Valkyrie and I loaned my buddy my new (to me) 1990 Yamaha FJ1200.  Literally, I hadn’t ridden the bike except home from the seller’s house a couple miles a way from mine.  Not smart.

The bike ran totally rich and was getting about 60-80 miles to the tank!  No matter as we had miles to put down and keep a schedule.  We probably stopped for fuel 8 times on our 350 mile trek.  Silly I know, but the plan was to get to our cabin up north (our place to crash for the night) where we had tools and sort it out.

When we finally arrived, Mr. COB wasn’t pissed at all, although he was pretty coffee’d out.  As my buddy and I told Mr. COB of our woes over a hot dinner, he mentioned that this one time he (or a friend…I can’t remember) had a bike in storage for a couple of years, and it did the same thing.  The root cause was that a mouse built a friggin nest in the airbox.

Do I really need to continue?  I decided to lift the tank and take a quick peak.  DAMNIT!  After digging out several handfulls of cieling insulation and other sit that this mouse found to keep himself warm, I buttoned it back up and go figure - it ran perfect.  You will be happy to know that Mr. COB had the gall to capture my nest dismemberment on video with nothing but laughter in the background.  I would never fess up to this, but there is proof…undeniable video.  END SIDEBAR

Anyway, we spent the next several days traversing Michigan on two wheels.  After he took a day off to rest his ass back in suburbia at my house, he continued on to his reunion.  It was a great time with some great stories.

Every time I think I am an enthusiast, I remember that I can’t hold Mr. COB’s jock.  If you want to see what a real addict does in his retirement, check out his photo diary.  Brace yourself because if you are like me, you will be jealous…in a good way. 

Enjoy.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ +

Thanks for the trip down Suzuki Memory Lane. My second motorcycle was an ‘81 GS1100E and it dragged me from practical transportation to lifelong addiction. I finally parted with it after 17 years and 55,000 mile, but immediately bought the first generation Bandit 1200 to replace it.

Just as English bikes will always be a 60s icon, I grew up riding in the ’80s and Japanese bikes will forever be a part of my psyche. Some riders are addicted to the throb of the V-twin, the howl of a triple or the thump of a single, but I will forever be commited to the scream of an inline four.

I’ve owned ten Brand S machines over my 27 years of riding and they continue to be my favorite. While Harley, Honda and Yamaha continue to fight it out for the top rung on the sales ladder, Suzuki goes quietly about the business of producing some of the best motorcycles on the planet. They seem the perpetual underdog and yet continually cross the finish line first in a preponderance of race series. I’ve dabble in several Euro-brands but it seems about every other time I buy a bike it’s got that classically beautiful stylized S on the tank.

Forever Suzuki!

Rhino

He was the semi-crazy guy that was always broke but it was worth payng his fare every now and then just have him around.  We hung out a couple times as we had other common interests in guns and bonfires (heh - separately).  I was even his wing man one night trying to distract his hot date’s DUFF while he tried to work his magic.  The day before I left for Arizona, he dropped by to pick up a couch I was throwing away (heh), and to show me his new toy - a Kahr Arms .380 compact semi-auto.  Nice.

He was yet another person I met locally (when I lived in Michigan) via the tight knit sport bike world of mutual friends, and more specifically Deal’s Gap riders.  We were both part of a larger group of up to ten guys that would make multiple trips to DG each year.  Not all ten went every time, but it was more or less the same faces.  That is where Jim was at his best:  on a road trip making people laugh.

On the bike side, Jim and I had a lot in common.  We were decent riders on sub-par equipment at the time.  Both of us were frequently wrenching on the roadsides of the TN & NC twisties for one reason or another.  A fine example of us trying to get his RZ350 going again: (yes that’s a Hawaiian shirt on the outside of his leathers)

The pleasure of a Road Trip is not just about riding, but the antics and camaradarie around the campfire at night.  Brehmer was the kind of guy who loved his whiskey…a lot of whiskey.  There were no women to deal on, there were no strangers to impress, just us guys sitting around the fire telling the same stories we told on the last trip.  Yet Brehmer always found a way to crack us up.  One night he blessed our presence wearing a dog collar…I guess you had to be there.

Somehow, he would manage to get himself out of bed every morning and ride.  I have no idea how anyone could finish a fifth of Jack Daniels and manage to tackle the Dragon at about ‘eight tenths’.  I know I couldn’t.  I do remember this photo below when he was pretty hung over, but soldiered on with us:

I haven’t seen Jim in a couple of years.  Funny though, I would touch base with him via email a couple time per year as jobs openings within my company would pop up.  That’s right, I was totally willing to tie my name to him as a strong referral.  While he was a jackass (in a great way) around the campfire, he always managed to do the right thing when necessary - professionally and personally.  He wasn’t reliable to show up for dinner every time (heh - or to be able to pay for dinner if he did!), but if you needed his help, he was there.  

I’m not writing this as if I lost my brother or to ask for sympathy.  It sucks, but I need no pity.  I am wirting this because I feel lucky to have known and spent time with the guy.  I feel absolutely horrible about the loss to the people, his family and life-long friends, that knew Jim well.  They are the ones that truly suffered a loss.

I have no idea as to the details of his accident, and at this point it really doesn’t matter.  What I do know is that the world has been a little less fun since mid-August and its a damn shame that his time came so early.  Life is about living in the moment, and keeping all past moments through memories.  My Deal’s Gap trips have been some of my best memories and after tonight, they mean a lot more. 

If you’re interested, another buddy named Jim has a nice memorial here, and check out some photos from our Deal’s Gap trips here and here.

GODSPEED Brehmer.  You will be missed by all of us.

EDIT 22Dec2006 - This was sent to me and its spot on about Brehmer.  (thanks Rick)

FRIENDS: Never ask for food
BIKER FRIENDS: Are the reason you have no food.

FRIENDS: Will say “hello”
BIKER FRIENDS: Will give you a big hug and a kiss.

FRIENDS: Call your parents Mr. and Mrs.
BIKER FRIENDS: Call your parents mom and dad.

FRIENDS: Have never seen you cry.
BIKER FRIENDS: Cry with you.

FRIENDS: Will eat at your dinner table and leave
BIKER FRIENDS: Will spend hours there, talking, laughing and just being
together

FRIENDS: Borrow your stuff for a few days then give it back.
BIKER FRIENDS: Keep your stuff so long they forget it’s yours.

FRIENDS: know a few things about you.
BIKER FRIENDS: Could write a book with direct quotes from you.

FRIENDS: Will leave you behind if that’s what the crowd is doing.
BIKER FRIENDS: Will kick the whole crowds’ axx that left you.

FRIENDS: Would knock on your door.
BIKER FRIENDS: Walk right in and say, “I’m home!”

FRIENDS: Are for a while.
BIKER FRIENDS: Are for life.