The Man’s Got A Brand New Plan
Posted: March 29, 2011 Filed under: Motorcycles | Tags: ADV, adventure bikes, bike shopping, BMW, dream bike, enduro, F 650 GS, more Mr. Slow's speed, motorcycling, R 1200 GS Adventure, recalls, S1000RR, service 1 CommentMr. Slow apparently has tired of the abundant Pavement Ends signs peppered around this area or maybe he has finally succumbed to all my whining about being bored with the uninspiring layout of our roads; or just maybe he wants to go off on some adventure? Dirt. Plenty of it around here and I’m plenty scared of it, but this girl conquers her fears (eventually). Maybe I should have kept my mouth shut about the only hope he ever has of getting me off the asphalt is a little unadulterated fun sliding sideways around a flat track. And by sideways I mean horizontally on metal, after vertically on rubber.
We were waiting on Ron of BMW of Atlanta to finish putting my bike and her handler into their customer database and write up the work order for us to sign, so the Pirate could get her now 2400-mile overdue 12K service and three minor recalls done; one of which was an updated owner’s manual, which told me among other things that it is now unlawful to operate the Pirate with her red coding pill inserted on public roads; one was a new sticker that goes somewhere under the fairing which is tremendously important; last but not least she was treated to an updated drop sensor and a new breather hose for the crank case. As I was browsing the gear selection, Mr. Slow told me he wanted to check something out and made a beeline to the adventure bikes.
He’s really got it for the R1200GS Adventure in Shine Yellow Metallic. The same crappy yellow with a hint of puke green in the paint pail as this year’s new S1000RR color. Yuck. But he’s a weirdo, and his fashion sense is nowhere appropriate but on the golf course. I hope it was just the fluorescents casting the evil green shadow on what I thought was a sunflower kind of yellow from what I saw of this year’s RR online. I sat on the F650GS, which I take to be the smaller sister of the aforementioned monster; definitely more my size. After sitting on the R1200GS, just for giggles, I knew there was no way I could do anything but stay on the pavement with that giant of an Enduro, which is just his size.We’re well on our way of becoming a couple of Warsteiner guzzling, Beemer riding, motorcycle racing, grownup kids who refuse to act their age; toilet humor is considered an art form around here and is graded on a 10-point scale.
Now, it’s just a matter of paying off both of our bikes to enable Mr. Slow to set his evil plan in motion. The plan to kill off Miss Busa and make it look like an honest goat trail tragedy, so he can collect the price on her overly-insured, adrenaline-fueled head (racing voids the warranty, after all) and live the sweet life of the rich (but not so much famous).
A message to the Dearest: Just remember, I will send you messages from beyond the grave by rearranging the alphabet magnets on the fridge. Please leave three sets of letters and numbers and a full collection of refrigerator poetry words, or crap is going to fly Poltergeist style. Just sayin’.
I’m Sliding In The Rain
Posted: January 26, 2011 Filed under: BMW S1000RR, Goals & Milestones, Random Thoughts of Speed | Tags: BMW, cagers, commuting, crap weather, DTC, Dunlop Sportmax Q2, loss of traction, Metzeler Racetec Interact K3, milestones, motorcycling, postaday2011, Race Mode, rain, riding, Riding Skills, S1000RR, sliding, traction, traction control, traffic 1 CommentWhat in the devil is wrong this morning? Traffic is pretty heavy, but moving along at almost the pace of a Georgia Super Speeder, which is highly unusual for a Wednesday on both counts. It’s raining, has been pretty much all night from the looks of things. I’m running late, so I’m pretty much in a hurry. Business as usual on I-20. I’m passing most everybody, a few get to pass me. Yeah, you’ve read right. It’s a privilege, one which can be revoked at any second. đ
Once I merge onto I-520E it’s a different story, as is evident at the merge point of the two opposing I-20 ramps feeding into I-520E. It takes some seriously creative riding to get in between all the slowasses, the hesitant mergers, the leadfoots, the space holders, the distractedly engaged, and the mobile jabber junkies. Yes, I have categorized the crowd by their default behaviors when driving becomes more complicated and the brain starts running the risk of overloading. Inconveniences such as intersections, on/off ramps, cloverleaf ramps, and merge points are all prime spots to observe the Common Cager (incola communis rotae cavea) in their natural habitat.
I make my way towards another day filled with opportunity of earning Pirate Coin (read: I’m going to work to make the bike payment) through the succession of merge points that is Augusta’s own scaled-down version of Atlanta’s infamous Spaghetti Junction or Columbia’s suicidal Malfunction Junction. After slicing and dicing and duking it out with a cager crowd that is denser, faster, and more aggressive than usual, which makes the situation also more unpredictable than is the norm; I finally find myself some empty-enough asphalt I can settle into and go with the flow of traffic.
My bliss, however, doesn’t last long, and as the wild bunch behind me catches up, I find myself surrounded again. Damn! I hate this. I can’t stand being around this much metal. That goes against my rule of riding as if invisible. I don’t like being caged in (pun intended), it gives me few to no outs and not enough time to react to set an escape in motion if it became necessary. I like to control the situation. And I do that with the throttle.
I have planned my escape and am working my way towards the freedom that is a much airier stretch of asphalt not too far ahead. As I see an opening to escape the imminent clutches of a semi-truck spraying me with grimy rainwater its tires sling off the road surface and a tailgater in an SUV, and risking getting stuck there, I take it and quickly change lanes, squeeze in between two cars, ride the left side of the white line, then gas it a little too enthusiastically to take advantage of the next opening. I slide the rear wheel, it starts stepping out to the right. I don’t even have to think about it; nor is it an event that registers even the slightest twinges of panic in me, nor does it upset the Pirate, as is evident by the DTC light remaining dark. A simple acknowledgement, followed by trained action.
I pin the throttle, then dive left with a quick nudge on the left grip, aiming for the left wheel track of the left lane; as I do, the rear wheel hooks back up. I straighten myself out, pass the semi truck, and after one more set of rolling road blocks (two cars pacing each other slightly offset, taking up both lanes and backing up impatient caffeine-deprived, half-asleep morning commuters for miles) I am finally free. I feel like putting on blue face paint and showing my arse while yelling “Freedom!”.
I was kind of proud of myself. I smiled. It wasn’t too long ago where I would have had to pull over and dig out the emergency pair of replacement panties. And here I was complaining not too long ago that I can’t improve my skills on public roads anymore. That street riding has become mostly mundane, boring and uninspiring. I guess I underestimated the power of constant and conscious repetition of isolated skill practice. I definitely have increased my crap weather riding skills and my confidence must be solidified.
I noticed another thing, I have reached a milestone of sorts in my riding: I haven’t been singing in the rain. That means I am not nervous or anxious anymore and the need for intense concentration has passed. I still sing on occasion when I drag knee though, I’m pretty sure of it. đ
As a side note: I’m rolling Dunlop Sportmax Q2s, the rear in Hayabusa size (a leftover from some long-ago tire sale): 190/50 as opposed to 190/55. I can reach the ground better in my race boots, but I think I lost 6 mph off the top end… *giggles* and my speedo reads about 5-7 miles slow now. Oh well… it won’t be on there forever. I really do love those tires. I think I might even like them better than the Metzeler Racetec Interact K3 (K3s are medium-hard) that came on the bike; and they are cheaper, too.
S1000aRRgh: The Saga ContinuesâŠ
Posted: December 15, 2010 Filed under: BMW S1000RR, Wrenching & Maintenance | Tags: ABS, ABS pump, Atlanta, Blue Moon Cycle, BMW, BMW NA, BMW North America, complaint, customer service, dealership, dishonesty, electronics, fail, failure, Georgia, Motorcycles, Norcross, poor PR, procrastination, rear brake, S1000RR, service department, warranty, warranty work 3 CommentsOriginally Aired: October 30th, 2010
Bringing My Baby Home
Previously on S1000aRRghâŠ
After I pretty much lost it on the phone I laid into Mr. Slow. All of my frustrations, all of my anger, all of my stress jettisoned at once in a whirlwind of a profane verbal shit-storm of epic proportions. I call it venting; psychologists would probably label it transference. Needless to say â and I donât blame him one iota â Mr. Slow left the building; in a hurry, I might add, to save his sanity, no doubt. I had to apologize profusely to him later on for being such a jackass. I was treating him poorly and I wasnât even mad at him. Apparently BMW North America doesnât care. We were told they would âcall us right backâ, after calling the dealer and âgetting to the bottom of thisâ, but they didnât. It was painfully obvious that he dealer couldnât give a two-bit shit less as theyâre still clinging to their contrived story. I felt helpless in all this. I hate feeling helpless! There arenât but a few things in this world that are worse for me than the feeling of being unable to do anything. I suppose thereâs nothing left to do but wait for the phone call that will inform me that my bike is ready to be picked up. Waiting isnât one of my strong suits either; especially the kind of wait that doesnât come with a definite expiration date.
Making peace with the situation, but nevertheless tirelessly working to get the bike and myself ready for running the You-Know-What at You-Know-Where and then celebrating the occasion with You-Know-Who kept me from committing random acts of homicide; it gave me something to do and something to look forward to, a luxury carrying a hefty price tag of approximately $700.
BMW NA does finally call. We are informed that they have looked into the matter, that it was deemed unreasonable for the repair of my motorcycle to take this long, that they are so very sorry that this issue led me to miss almost a month of prime riding season, that this is completely unacceptable and that she is going to forward our case to Marketing to see if there is any way we can be compensated for being inconvenienced like we have.
A few days later Blue Moon Cycle calls. It is Daniel wanting to keep us updated on the status of our repairs:
âThe part has cleared customs. It should be here tomorrow.â
Still no tracking number, I see. I suppose Customs doesnât issue those after all, eh? Ah, Iâm just such a ray of sunshine. I get ticked off all over again. Did I or did I not tell you people to not bother me until my bike is ready to be picked up? Overnight shipping, I have learned as a German who gets packages from the homeland on a fairly regular basis, apparently takes two weeks now. The audacity! My aunt once overnighted a book to me, tâwas the day before Christmas and⊠and I still received it the next day, which was Christmas Eve, no less. DHL to the rescue! That little luxury cost her an arm, a leg, and 27% of her eternal soul. My point is⊠ah, who cares! I know what the point is. They never ordered the part when they said they did, lied to us to cover up their mistake⊠and blamed it on customs⊠ah, here I go again. Enough! Itâs making my blood pressure rise just writing this. I detest a damn liar more than anything. Line Feed. Carriage Return.
Two days later, a Friday, my bike was ready to be picked up. Joe and I decided to go Saturday morning after we both got off work and had occasion to squeeze a little nap in. We leave around noonish. I wind up with dash rash on my spine and a bloody elbow on the way and am told at one point to stay in the truck when we get there.
âWhat? ⊠Why?â
âYou canât keep your cake hole shut. Thatâs why. I donât wanna go to jail today.â
Pregnant pause, then: âCake? I want cake.â
Dash rash?!? WTF? What in the Sam Hell are you people doing in your truck? Well, Iâm getting my gear sorted because hubby wants me ready to jump on the rocket and leave.
âYou stay in the truck. You hear me? If somebody comes over tries to talk to you, ignore them. Donât even look at them.â
âOk, ok. Gotchya. Stay in the truck. Keep trap shut. Pretend people are invisible. [pause] Câmon I swear I wonât say anything.â
âNo. I donât trust you. Stay in the truck.â
âWhhhhyyy-yyy?â [takes on a playfully whiny tone]
âYou canât keep your cake hole shut. I know you!â
âHmmm⊠cake.â
Where was I? Oh, the dash rash. I drop something. I donât even remember what it was now, but I undo my seat belt and stick my head under the seat to go hunting for whatever it is that Iâve lost. Picture this: Head resting on the floor mat, one hand braced to keep from falling over, the other groping around in the semi-darkness between old (but fresh looking) French fries, dust bunnies, lost change and whatever else makes its home under there. Two feet wedged between the seat cushion and the lumbar support, balancing precariously on toes, ass hiked way up in the air. Screech! The noise of the sudden loss of forward momentum is accompanied by an incredulous proclamation of âHoly shit!â Meanwhile, in the Land Down Under, my head rolls onto its spine, my posterior is catapulted forward until my back impacts the dash. My feet are now stuck to the windshield with my ass resting on the dash and it takes me a minute to undo the pretzel I find myself in. Damn the physics of an object in motion⊠I hear an apologetic âSorry, Foxyâ from the driverâs seat. Then, as I slowly emerge from the Underworld, he proceeds to tell me the rest of the story in an excited I-canât-believe-THIS-shit staccato:
âI almost hit a deer. A freakinâ deer. In freakinâ Atlanta! The guy in front of me swerved, I missed it by inches ⊠and it kept on going. I think it jumped over the wall.â He looks around: âI donât see it anywhere. I think it jumped over the divider and kept right on going! A freaking deer! Over the wall. Jumped over the freakinâ wall!â
I scan the Interstate behind us. Six lanes of traffic and nothing going on. Just the flowing, uninterrupted organized sheet metal chaos as always. Wow.
âDamn, that takes skill,â I muse, âhooves on asphalt, definitely a low traction situation. Like a dog on linoleum.â I giggle at the thought.
A little later we pull into the joint and park. Mr. Slow gives me a stern look:
âStay here! Iâll be right back.â
With that he gets out and heads into the direction of the service department. I look around. There are two dudes chatting it up over a vintage bike in the back of a pickup truck. The parking lot is pretty full. I get out of the truck. Nobody else around. Good. My heart is starting to pick up the pace a little. I recognize it for what it is: the beginnings of my system going into âFlight or Fightâ mode. It is a somewhat awkward moment. Iâm half hoping somebody is going to give me the opportunity to chew their ass, but Iâm really wishing for a quick, unobserved, unmolested departure. Never mind the unobserved part, itâs too late for that; but the guys are still engrossed in what they are doing and pay me no mind. While Iâm putting on my riding gear standing next to the truck Steven walks out the front door with the cell phone glued to his ear. I knew he saw me, because he was looking right in my direction and he promptly turned around and went back inside. Sadly, my quarrel isnât with him. He sold me the bike, always been straight up with us, no bull, just straight with a chaser of the best places to eat.
This hurts a little. Maybe he didn’t see me after all? No, he had to have seen me. Yeah, this hurts. Before all this went down, he was the one who came practically running across the parking lot when I pulled in, basically telling me that he put the coffee on or would I rather have a Diet Coke this fine morning? Sad, no, itâs depressing. He was the one who offered me a slot in Keith Codeâs California Superbike School for half-price, the same week I was scheduled to attend the Kevin Schwantz School at Barber Motorsports Park. Had to turn it down though, because there was no way I could get out of work. Apparently word got around and my email was probably circulated as Exhibit A for the prosecution and of course, Iâm the bad guy here. The guilty party. Look at this disgruntled unhappy, neâer can please her, rude customer who — when not getting her way — runs crying to Corporate to stir the shit pot and all we ever did was bend over backwards for her. Oh, how you can misjudge people⊠Wrong! Oh well, heâs on their team. Heâs got a job to keep after all.
Iâll miss Jean-Marie, too. The man you see for your gear and apparel needs. He always greeted me with âHello, Speedy Morrigan.â, which made me giggle. Or âHow is the only woman riding an S1000RR doing today?â His wife is a fast woman, too. She rides a Blackbird. Oh, the stories he told. His wife and I would have gotten along splendidly to the chagrin of our husbands, Iâm sure. âș He always answered my questions, texted me updates on my orders and had me look at bike part porn, telling me my Double-R would benefit from this and that⊠yeah, he had me pegged as one of those high performance junkies right from the start. He showed me stuff on his bike, made suggestions, we had rapport. I know itâs business, and as such he was an excellent sales person. But thatâs how itâs supposed to be, or used to be, or should be. I liked it.
They were almost like family. My newfound BMW family and at first I thought I had died and went to heaven. After the level of service I got used to with my poor, neglected Hayabusa, this was like a dream come true (fleeting as one, also). But what can you do? I have talked to several people, all the shops around the Augusta area suck. Even the place in Aiken isnât worth going to anymore. There are several decent enough places that will work on your bike, but if you own a new bike, need to keep up with scheduled services and have recalls and warranty to worry about, youâre screwed. You would think with the economy the way it is and with motorcycle sales declining these people would kiss your feet and wipe your ass while you wait for your 3K service to be completed. They have to be there anyway to earn their paycheck, so why the shitty customer service? They all act like they donât really care whether or not you come in with your bike and open up your wallet. The âweâve made the sale so we donât care jack anymoreâ attitude doesnât really make sense to me. Yeah, you got me on that first one. But I damn sure arenât going to be back to buy the next one from you! And if history repeats itself (letâs hope not), Iâll be strolling onto your sales floor about once a year to get a replacement for the one I just wadded up. My Suzuki dealer lost my sales business anyway, since I was treated like I was out of my mind when I told the sales manager that I was wanting to trade my Harley-Davidson Sporty 1200L in for something a little more âmy styleâ. When he asked what I was looking at, I threw a confident thumb behind my right shoulder:
âThis white Hayabusa.â
He looked down his nose at me, cocked an eyebrow after sizing me up and sarcastically uttered one word:
âReally?â
Dripping, drawn out, with just the hint of a high pitched man-whine on the last rubberized syllable. I looked him dead in the eye and repeated:
âReally!â
Then turned around, grabbed Mr. Slow by the arm and dragged him outside stating flatly:
âI am not buying a bike from them even if it were the last white Hayabusa on the planet.â
The deal they offered us was shit anyway. Good riddance. I ended up keeping the Sporty and buying my dream bike from a dealer in Hayesville, NC. Good peeps up there. They made me feel at ease and welcome. Theyâve made us an offer we couldnât refuse. The deal was pretty much handled by phone and email and when we got there it was but a formality with the paperwork. No hard selling, no macho BS, and 10% off the gear we bought and a really good deal on my Shoei Flutter RF-1000 lid. I wonder if they have good service, too.
Meanwhile, back in the service departmentâŠ.
Joe walks in and informs them that he is there to pick up his wifeâs S1000RR. Daniel apparently hadnât gotten the memo that explained that the game was up and promptly laid another lie on Mr. Slow:
âHey, Joe! Iâve called Corporate and Iâm working out a good deal for you.â
Mr. Slow takes a breather, a moment of strategic silence, and replies calmly, but firmly:
âI called Corporate. They then called you. I think we are done here.â
With that he pays for the extra service I had requested when I was still swallowing their spoon-fed lies in the name of âbenefit of the doubtâ, grabbed the Pirateâs keys, did an abrupt about-face and walked out.
He met me at the truck, handed me the keys and told me to look the bike over VERY carefully before I took off on it. I did. I was being watched by the two dudes who were still hanging out in the parking lot. I felt awkward. I couldnât wait to get the hell out of there. I wanted this to be over with. I got on my knees, checked out the bike, took note of the clean work theyâve done on the requested drilling of safety wire holes on selected bolts and nuts; they had even wired them up for me. I started the engine. The S1000RR came to life and sounded smooth as always, looked great, she was clean and seemed to be in good shape. Their work, as always, seemed to be of superior quality. I never had a problem with their workmanship. I sighed heavily as I pulled my helmet over my head, put on my gloves and prepared to leave. As I put the bike in gear and slowly eased out the clutch I noticed how tense I was. My hands on the controls were jittery and I felt a little nauseous. The four holes the dudes in the parking lot had burned into my back with their uncomfortable stares were ablaze. I was starting to perspire. I took a deep breath and tried not to think about it. What I need now is to stall the bike or fall over trying to make a turn or have an incident in the form of any of a number of âThis Girl Canât Rideâ adventures.
As I completed my right turn out of their facility I started to feel relieved and the anxiety quickly left my body. I spent the next few miles testing the bike and putting it through the paces. She felt great, shifted smoothly (she always does after an oil change), sounded as she should, handled as she should (well, handled as she must considering the miserable shape my Interstate-abused front tire was in.) and the brakes also performed as they always have. I felt alive again. I hadnât ridden in almost five weeks and it had gotten on my nerves something awful. And now I have about 150 miles to make up for lost time with my baby: A Pirate Named Trouble.
Miss Busa is baaaaaaaaack!