The GS isn't problem-free, however. There is that little issue with the rear-end seals that BMW keeps stonewalling. Moving the bike around when you're on the ground can be heart-stopping, or when you're actually off-road (like at our house), and you suddenly become aware just how large and tall and heavy an object this is. Plus, it's complex beyond our understanding of complexity. Okay, it doesn't have gyroscopic lean-angle sensors or traction control like the newest BMW, but it does have ABS, a GPS unit mounted on the handlebars, fuel injection, ignition coils in the spark plug caps, and a see-all, know-all computer that can't be turned off. Really, you can't turn them off. When you turn that key on your bike (or car), and things stop turning, all you've done is request that the computer shut the engine down and turn the lights off. The computer is still operating. Walking into the shop area of a BMW dealer when they have a GS on the lift for service can make you more than a little queasy; it appears that they've split the bike in half, wires and hoses everywhere, and it looks more than a little like an autopsy. Plus, of course, the GS has all the sexy-factor of a really good washing machine- and I can't think of anybody, no matter what they've installed for an exhaust, who would ever start a GS up just to hear it run.
Now, you can see from this blog that Mary and I have spent the last two seasons racing with the US Classic Racing Association. Some years ago, the AMA had- and quickly dropped- a Formula 883 series based on the XL883R Sportster. When they dropped it, the USCRA added "American Twins" to its schedule. Now, American Twins is an extremely unpopular class, for two reasons. First, as every racer knows, Harleys are shit. They don't handle, they're slow, they're not worth racing. Second, nobody can beat the Flachs. Steve and his father Dave are old flattrackers. Steve was national pro-am dirt-track champion on the XR750 decades ago when he was a teenager, and the old man's no slouch, believe me. Their road-race bikes are all converted dirt-track tackle, mostly totally built SR500s with great wide bars and an upright riding position. Piloting the 883 is a natural for both of them, and under them, the bikes fly. At last year's Bike Week support race, I was wandering around the pits and noticed that Henry's Sportster wasn't among the gaggle of bikes in his garage. "I'm concentrating on my little bikes today," Henry said. "The 883 is entered, but it's still in the van. Why don't you race it?" Now, even with my Ironhead project firmly into its second year, I had still never ridden a Sportster, plus Henry doesn't have a stellar reputation for maintenance on his race bikes. "I'd love to!" I said, and we rolled the 883 out into the sunlight. It seemed to roll pretty hard when I took it over to tech, and only had a quick look-over while setting the tire pressure before rolling it out to the hot pits for warmup. Practice? Well, I did ride it out to the track gate to get a tech slip from Eve. . . "You're not Henry! Are you going to ride that? Those handle like crap, you know."
"Yup," I said. The bike did turn heads among the Harley crowd, for sure. Over in the hot pits, I rode over to Betty Bluenose and was lifting my face shield when she said, "You're not Henry! Are you really going to ride that thing?"
"Yup," I said. The Flachs were stoked. Dave kept telling me that I was in for a big surprise, that it was a much better bike than I thought. Waiting for the wave onto the track, the bike did sound very cool, and didn't feel at all like I had expected. Of course, all the race-prepped 883's have extra-tall shocks to put more weight on the front wheel and quicken up the steering, but other than that, they're mostly stock. . .well, except for the conversion to chain drive, open airbox and exhaust, all that. I was pretty much able to stay with Dave through the warmup lap, although his seemd to accelerate much faster than Henry's. Once the green flag dropped, however, it was clear that the bike I was on wasn't in the same class as the Flach's. . .strange, since they both have at least 100 pounds on me. That wasn't the issue, though. NHMS was working on the track drainage (the old track had a pond in the infield), and Turn 1 on the road course was a construction zone, so they'd set up a cone slalom on the oval for us. I came in ready to shift hard to the inside, knee down, total commitment. Coming into the turn, considerably behind Dave, I caught sight of him seemingly going straight through with a flick of his, well, mature and substantial hips. He did it at the other end, too, and left me pretty much in the dust. My main goal was to have some fun and bring Henry's bike home none the worse for wear, and I did. I rode into the pits and straight up to a congratulatory (and somewhat shamefaced) Henry who held out a small round metallic object. "What's that?" I asked.
"Uh, that's a rear brake puck for a Sportster," he said. He had found it on the floor of the van. Evidently, the pad had fallen out, and when I touched the brake the first time heading for the pit garage, the piston had somewhat wedged itself against the brake disk. The disk looked salvageable (it's not easy to ruin a Harley brake disk), but it was plain that much of the engine's motive power had been squandered providing the burger-frying heat that was radiating off that great whacking hunk of metal.
The race, for me, had been a howling success. I had spent the warmup lap, and the first four laps of the race, waiting for this supposedly evil-handling piece of junk to bite me. I spent the second half having a blast, making friends with a bike that, while it wasn't really a road racer was huge fun, and trying to learn the wide-open, upright riding style that this flattrack descendant likes. "So, what did you think?" asked Dave.
"It was great! It's a much better bike than I thought it would be, and so much better than anyone here thinks it is." So, I went home, and continued to work on my Ironhead whenever I could take time away from the race bikes or, well, work, the laundry, etc.
Two things conspired to deliver unto me the Evo I was looking for without really knowing it. First, the weather. It had been a truly lovely fall, with good riding weather long after we've usually given up on our short New Hampshire "summer." Second, the economy. I don't know if you've noticed- hard not to- that all used motorcycle values have crashed- but especially Harleys. Everybody's getting rid of their toys (last night I saw an XR1000 close on eBay for under $8000, less than half of what it would have sold for a year ago). The Saturday after Thanksgiving, I had to ride back up to Lebanon to do an errand (yeah, two old ladies gotta have their medications, and I had forgotten on Wednesday). Yet another beautiful day, and I decided to stop in at Granite State Harley. I hadn't been in to buy parts in a while, and as it was getting on to the holidays, it was time for a hello.
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