My favorite bikes have always been sport-tourers. About eight years ago, I found myself suddenly in need of a touring-capable bike, and although I was putting a few thousand miles a month on my Ducati SS750ie, working as a Case Manager, I didn’t fancy taking it up around the Gaspe Peninsula loaded with luggage; my wrists were suffering as it was, and I would be traveling with a group of women that were mostly riding cruisers. Not much likelihood that the windblast on my chest would be lightening my wrists up very much. My new girlfriend had just given up her Low Rider for a Ducati ST4 that she was totally in love with, and I wholeheartedly approved, as I was still suffering from anti-Harley prejudice, a common malady of sportbike riders. Well, come on, on our first ride –er, date- together, some piece of chrome trim fell off her bike, and as I was riding pretty close (lovely view, that), my evasive maneuvers weren’t sufficient to avoid having the bouncing hunk of metal shear off one of my turn signals. Well, of course we’re still together, why do you ask?
Mary was getting the ST4 set up for the trip, and we were standing at the parts counter of BCM Ducati in Laconia, NH, talking to Chris, the Parts Dominatrix. I don’t know what it is, but the women behind the parts counters at many motorcycle shops are incredible. Carly, at Second Wind is often dressed in 40’s or 50’s high style (but with pink hair), and Rose down at Max’s? In black Hot Chillys top and bottom and a camo Utilikilt? My word. But Chris was the best. When BCM changed hands (ahem) Chris went to driving big rigs over-the-road, but nobody could ever top Chris’s knowledge- or attitude. If you needed something, you got it. If you didn’t need it, you didn’t get it. Simple as that. When I first came face-to-face with her, she scared the shit out of me, but, well, it didn’t take long. . . a few weeks later, I walked into the shop and asked, “Where’s the big blonde bitch?” Eric and Jay didn’t look up, or even flinch. Eric continued working intently on the forks he was revalving, but quietly observed that if either of them gave any evidence that they knew who I was talking about by acknowledging the question, they would be killed. Okay, back to the story I was telling. Not that I’m in a hurry, mind. I’m sitting at the dealer where Mary bought her new truck when the Tundra’s undercarriage rusted out, and where they dented the running board doing the first service. So, they’re replacing that, and I’m sitting here a’blogging of a Saturday morning.
So. Where were we? Oh, yeah, at the parts counter. Mary was saying that I should buy an ST, and Chris said, “Yeah, you should by mine,” and she named a price that I couldn’t walk away from. Oh, my. A 2002 ST4s. A racebike with luggage. 115 bhp in stock trim, which this was not. Bruce and Susie have a pic of them on an ST at Barber in a big sweeper, two knees down. I bought it, the trip was wonderful. . . except that a little problem with the ECU would prevent the bike from starting hot. Every gas stop, lunch stop, rest stop, turned into a 2-hour cooling-off period. After the trip, the ECU was replaced, and the problem went away- for a while. We’re daily commuters. Daily. Not when it’s not raining, not when it’s not too cold, or too windy, or whatever. Once the season is here, four-wheeled-vehicles are only for going to the dump or hauling the race trailer. The bikes have to start in the morning, get us to work, get us home. The final straw came one day not long after the fourth or fifth ECU had been installed (OEM, aftermarket, it didn’t matter), and the bike started bucking and snorting in the first few miles of an all-day Saturday ride. BCM once again, yet another ECU installed, another day spent at the shop. On the way home, I needed to get Mary’s attention, and touched the horn button. The engine cut out. I released the horn button, the engine cut back in. “History,” I said. I can’t have an unreliable bike. Or, of course, a bike that tempts me into 125mph speeding tickets. . . a story I’ll save for another time.
I dropped by Nate’s shop, National Powersports Distributors in Canterbury (they’re now in Pembroke, drop by, tell ‘em Gail sent ya, they’ll laugh). He had a brand-new BMW R1100S in Pacific Blue that had become an orphan when they closed the corporate BMW shop in Manhattan. Oh, my. What a lovely bike. I broke it in on a trip around the Cabot Trail on Cape Breton, Nova Scotia. Never a hiccup, but in the interests of full disclosure, she did drool a bit from a porous cylinder casting that was later replaced under warranty. A Corbin Canyon Dualsport saddle was a wonderful addition- a Second Wind customer had ordered it- they are not cheap- with color-matched piping (that matched my bike) no less- endured the legendary wait, installed it on the bike, sat on it, pronounced it good, put the original seat back on and headed down to Loudon for a trackday where he proceeded to throw the bike down the track for a total loss. I got it cheap, but my current project (don’t worry, we’ll get to it) will get one even if I do have to pay full price, and Mary just got one for her Sporty. The company has a hard-earned reputation for terrible customer service, but, well, the saddles are works of art and they are comfy. Then came the Ohlins suspension, front and rear. Magic. I was gonna keep this bike. The best-laid plans of dykes on bikes, though, aft gang agley. . . huh? That’s not how it goes?
So, we were down at Max’s while my bike was being serviced. Yeah, we may build our own racebikes, but we normally take our late-model commuters to the dealer. Mary was riding her Multistrada 1000sDS (having traded in her ST). Incredible motor, great handling, weird looks. She loved it, but it had stranded her twice on the way to work. Now, Mary drives a big brown truck. At night. She generally gets home in the wee pre-dawn hours. Getting to work late is not an option. Breaking down on the way home is even worse. Max had a couple of R1200GS demo bikes out front, and Mary wanted to take them out. Ho Hum, the big trailie bloated almost beyond recognition. We took them out, and I wasn’t terribly impressed, but after my S, how could I be? This was a lot like Mary’s Multi, though, only better, and with not only BMW’s legendary reliability (ahem, again), but- shaft drive. No chain to clean and lube when you’ve just ridden home through driving rain at four o’clock in the morning. She traded on the spot, and predicted I’d be buying one within a month. Doubt it, said I. Yeah, I took it for a ride up North Road through the gravel, standing up, feeling like some tank commander. Big deal. Totally unsexy, just a great, big, industrial-looking beast.
The next weekend, we went on an errand run. Mary had forgotten to pick up oil and a filter. . .it’s a tradition, whenever one of us buys a bike, to change the oil, and we needed to pick up something at BCM. First, down through Henniker and Weare to Second Wind for the oil change stuff, since we’d just been to Max’s. We wanted to go out 101 east to 107 (a beautiful road), and we needed to get up to Manchester. I have no memory of how we were trying to get there- probably because so many brain cells were destroyed by the heat that afternoon. Somehow, we wound up on an interminable detour through a residential part of Nashua, creeping along (mostly with engines off) behind an oil truck, at about 100 degrees. We finally found ourselves in recognizable territory and made it to BCM, but the damage had been done. Later on, sitting on the curb outside the Irving station in New Hampton, still trying to rehydrate, I was totally exhausted. Staring at the ground between my knees, I remember saying, “I’m all done.” In a surprised voice, Mary said, “Really? I’m fine.” I was totally flabbergasted. Mary doesn’t usually have anywhere near my riding endurance. It had to be the bike. “I’m gonna get me one of those,” I said, and a few weeks later, I traded my wonderful, beautiful, prized R1100S for a demo R1200GS, again at Max’s.
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