jacktheriepe When the smile does the talking
By Jack Riepe #116117 LAST
MONTH’S
column, “The Evo- lution of Motorcy- cle Camping,” drew some fire due to its singular perspec- tive. A number of women riders took
me to task because the female role in that story was consigned to the pil- lion. (The “pillion” is the open space on the seat behind the operator/rider. Many guys seem to think it means something else.) For the record, every woman BMW rider I have ever met rides better than I do, is smarter than I am, and can beat me at Marathon Twister. (I invite all to try.) That being said, some of the comments I received from women regarding last month’s column were particularly biting. They read: • “It is apparent you know a lot of women who are riders, and I am astounded that you have not yet succumbed to death by blunt force trauma.” — Angela A.
• “I have a campsite you would love. It is 3 feet, by 6 feet, by 5 feet deep. I envision you in it often.” — Kristin B.
• “I now understand the reason why the baby harp seal is clubbed with- out remorse. It is because it is mis- taken for you.” — Kimi C.
Generally, I have to be married to a
woman before she becomes this candid. I sent last month’s column to an old
flame for her evaluation. I have been chasing this flame for 40 years. (She is the “Dark Secret” described and idolized in my book Conversations With A Motorcycle.) There is no heat from this flame because she lives 400
96 BMW OWNERS NEWS March 2017
miles away and will not give me an address. I have learned to love her laugh…because that’s what she does…she calls me, laughs, and hangs up. She challenged me to write the same column as last month’s, but from the woman’s perspective. So I decided to revisit “The Evolution of
Motorcycle Camping.” This can’t be the same column, of course. But it is a different approach…
When The Smile Does The Talking… By Jack Riepe #116117
She concluded that men and motorcycles
had one thing in common: they both looked good on the showroom floor. New bikes sparkled under bright lights or in broad daylight behind plate glass. New men seemed interesting or even desirable in dimly lit bars, around smokey campfires, or in the “lost and found” gutters of the inter- net. You could test ride a bike for 50 miles or so, and usually walk away unscathed. But men are more like old bridges in modern cities. Their faults remained hidden until they are forced to carry a load. Sometimes it takes years to find the fatal cracks. Then getting rid of them isn’t always so easy. Like now. In the middle of the desert. He’d seemed like a good idea at the time.
He had a job, and he could ride well enough. He had broad shoulders tapering to a nar- row waist, and the kind of butt that sug- gested he’d played football in college. He had six-pack abs. He had a square jaw and a simple laugh. His eyes shined pale blue. She recently discovered this was because there was nothing behind them to absorb the light. She had decided that he’d be good for heavy lifting and a couple of days on the road. But that was yesterday. Parked side by side, their bikes were
closer than anything she’d felt for him at the moment. Her German bike was older, had a mill that slanted forward and oozed
horsepower. His Teutonic machine was “iconic,” which was supposed to mean “more dignified” or something. It actually meant “hanging out the sides.” BMW had ceased production on her bike a year earlier. It was the first time the Germans had built a bike whose horsepower matched its redline RPM. His bike had been in production since 425 B.C., with one engine modifica- tion. They were five miles off the paved road, surrounded by desert, on a flat little campsite that had once been an emerald mine or something. Surprisingly, the place had a name on a map that was mostly a blank page: “Tarantula Flats.” He’d picked this spot based on the lyrics
from the 1972 Eagles hit “Peaceful Easy Feeling.” He didn’t really know much about camping, and even less about camping in the desert. And that would be okay, if he’d admit it. He was of the thought that real men were born with the ability to camp, ride a horse, shoot a rifle, work a clutch, write a love letter and find the “G” spot. (There was some evidence he could work a clutch.) A lot of his experience was based on what he’d read in moto magazines, and what he’d heard from other guys. Upon arriving at “Tarantula Flats,” his first order of the day was to change into flip-flops. “Leave your boots on,” she’d said. “Leave
the gear on the bike until you can put it into the tent.” “I wasn’t going to set up the tent tonight,”
he replied. “I thought we could sleep under a blanket of stars, like the cowboys.” “This is the desert,” she said. “Everything here has thorns, fangs, or
stingers—all
dipped in poison. The cowboys never came here and the Indians left early. You pitch the tent. I’m gonna see what’s around.” She walked down the trail they’d just rid-
den. Tire ruts indicated people came here, though not often. She found a few spent rifle cartridges, some broken bottles, and the desiccated remains of a desert hare, long
lifestyle
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