At home, I often park my motorcycle on the street, facing out with its rear tire backed up against the curb. It is a blue BMW K100RT, with a four cylinder motor that displaces nearly a liter. This bike’s major problem is that its fuel tank only holds a little more than 5 gallons, enough for perhaps 180 – 200 miles between stops. What it really needs is a 9 gallon tank.
Looking through my living room window, I contemplate its thoughts as I sip my morning coffee.
“North South East West,” it thinks.
“North? South? East? West?”
It doesn’t know. It doesn’t have a passion for any particular direction. It just wants to go.
I understand. That’s why we get along so well, my motorcycle and me. Today, like the days of years before, I have no destination planned. I just want to ride, to cover ground, watch the miles tick away, burn fuel, feel the machine humming below me, feel the fairing slice through the wind, tuck myself into the ergonomics of the machine.
I have no desire to push it, or drive fast. Most days, I set the throttle for 60 mph and feel the bike settle into a comfortable, humming glide. The BMW K100RT can handle speeds far quicker than this, but at such low speeds, the bike feels refreshingly confident and upright. I ride it like a trotting horse, with my shoulders directly above my hips, my lower back straight and my elbows down at my sides. At 60mph, the engine turns about 3800 revolutions per minute, dead smooth, with a light “diesel” clatter from the cams and valves and gears connecting the crank and output shaft.
The K100 engine has a history of “buzzing” somewhere between 4500 and 4900 rpm. The buzz is caused by an imbalance in the firing pulse of the four pistons. If one or two pistons are firing more strongly than the others, a pulse will be felt in the driveline. At speed, this feels like a buzz. This problem is remedied by balancing the flow of air into each cylinder so each produces the same amount of power throughout the operating range of the engine.
Some vibrations are to be expected and BMW, in their infinite wisdom, isolated the engine from the frame using rubber bushings. However these bushings need to be mounted in a neutral and stress free position in order work effectively. The problem occurs because the K100 uses the engine as half the frame of the motorcycle. A sectional frame is bolted to the top of the motor and transmission and holds the seat, fuel tank and steering head. Small differences in size and position means that no two frames or engines will be exactly the same dimensions. Thus, there may be gaps between the engine mounting lugs on the frame and the surface surrounding the bolt holes on the engine.
Mine does buzz a bit at these speeds, but I’ve diminished the effect by shimming the engine mounting points to take up the slack, or space between the engine and frame. If the engine mounting bolt is tightened with a space left between the frame and the engine, it distorts the rubber bushing used to isolate these parts. When the bushing is under tension, it can not isolate the vibrations effectively.
And so my bike sits contemplating its next run. And I sip my coffee and watch it, contemplating mine.
My home is situated in the confluence of five major freeways: 280/680, 101, 880/17. Another route, “The Alameda” or Route 130, passes by a few blocks from my home . Following it east would take me through downtown San Jose, where it is named Santa Clara Street, and up into the foot hills east of town. There Route 130 becomes Mount Hamilton road, a tight and twisty mountain road that winds up and over the foot hills, around ravine switchbacks, to the Lick Observatory on the peak of Mt Hamilton. Two more hours of twisty one-and-a-half-lane lead to the central valley. A full tank of fuel is recommended as there is little in the way of civilization between the observatory and there. A whole new world opens up on the other side: the central valley, Interstate 99 and the towns of Modesto. Head northbound and one can reach Carson City and Reno; head west through Yosemite, over snowy Sequoia mountain passes to the valleys beyond; south on 99 to Fresno and points farther south.
Several other major freeways radiate from my home. Clockwise from eastbound Route 130, interstate 101 heads south, past the farms of Salinas and Hollister where the rich aroma of farmland stretches for miles, and further south, through the Pacific mountains towards the beach cities: 3 hours to San Luis Obisbo, 2 more to Santa Barbara, and a few more to Los Angeles, San Diego and Mexico.
Continuing clockwise, another southbound option is Route 17. It heads south over the Santa Cruz mountains, past Scotts Valley and into Monterey Bay area. It’s my most direct path to the Pacific coast, and also provides residents of Santa Cruz commuter access to the Bay Area. Commuters on 17 are a strange breed, having grown numb over the years to one of the world’s most challenging high speed freeways. On a typical weekday morning, the column of local cars can reach speeds up to 75 mph over a dizzying array of high speed mountain switchbacks. Oblivious to the constant blanket of thick fog, the solo commuters fiddle with their radio tuners, seeking the strongest FM signal up high in the mountains.
However descending into Santa Cruz, the freight train pace of 17 comes to an abrupt column of slow-moving traffic as the highway ends on the edge the town. As the pace of traffic slows, so does the pace of life, and one is tempted to park and walk through town, perhaps buy a slice of pizza or a sandwich and enjoy it on a café table while watching the local hippies and freak parade. One can air out the helmet and decide, as there is much to ponder.
For northbound, Route 1 leads up the peninsula coast past rugged coastal towns like Half Moon Bay and Pacifica. At any time, one could hang a right into the hills and drive for days on some of the most highly rated motorcycle roads in the world: skyline drive, Route 9, Route 84, Old Santa Cruz road, Sandhill Road. They all lead to the premier hangout for west coast motor heads: Alice’s Restaurant.
Just as easily, one could also head south on Route 1: the Pacific Coast Highway. It is perhaps the most spectacular road in the world, a destination for motorcycle tourists worldwide. Descriptors such as “awe inspring” and “breath-taking” seem mundane where the Pacific ocean grinds away at the Continent in a god-scape of views and driving thrills.
In some places the road travels high up on the mountains. Far below, the pounding surf cuts into the rock, slowly chipping away at its base, and causing rock and mud slides and sheer cliff faces, 100 feet high. Yet, where the road descends and passes along a long flat beach, and waves lap gently across 200 yards of sandy beach, the two seem to caress one another in a love embrace.
Here, two old VW buses can be seen parked along the side of the road, their owners nearby, wearing wet suits and bare feet, chatting with one another, or out riding the surf. The pacific wind sculpts the beach and tears at the VW’s ragged curtains through its open windows.
Back at home, many other routes are available, too. Interstate 280 leads west then north, up the crest of the Santa Cruz mountains north to San Francisco. 101 north rolls north through the many towns and cities stacked up the peninsula towards San Francisco. And I 880 North is the major thoroughfare linking San Jose with Oakland and all “East Bay” cities and towns.
“North? East? West? South?” For my motorcycle, the Pacific Coast Highway is just another temptations in a long list of temptations. The tug of the road is strong. The bike wears worn tires to prove it.
Worn tires but has reached no particular destination.
At 41, I am beginning to feel the same way.
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