jacktheriepe The evolution of moto camping


By Jack Riepe #116117 THERE


IS AN


ancient Asian phi- losophy that con- tends a man in his lifetime will be a farmer, a soldier, a teacher and a priest. There is another


that suggests a man will be a social sperm donor, a bartender, a writer and ultimately an ex-husband to many. The tools of the former are a plow, a sword, a blackboard and a soul. The equipment for the latter includes a “battered baby harp seal look,” cigars, a motorcycle and the ability to change form to aid in escape. Some gentle Owners News readers will identify with the first group. Dedicated “K” bike aficiona- dos will appreciate that I am the poster child for the second. While a lifestyle philosophy is a


handy thing for impressing people who rate such things highly (like dis- cerning women), reality is likely to bend a philosophical outlook over time. A man in his teens or early 20s is naturally drawn to fire-breathing motorcycles that idle at 14,000 rpm. He doesn’t mind riding in a nearly prone position with his testicles in his shirt pocket and the gear shifter mounted on the rear axle. In fact, he will claim to prefer it. In his 30s, the same man is more


likely to appreciate a motorcycle that can carry a tent, a weekend’s gear and provisions, plus a woman, more than 350 miles on a testicle-sensitive seat at a reasonable speed of 95 miles per hour—without generating enough heat to melt iron, vibrating the fill- ings loose in his teeth, or causing the lady on the back to develop a hatred for the operator.


80 BMW OWNERS NEWS February 2017 After his first divorce, a man just wants a


motorcycle that starts in two seconds and provides 87 percent of available torque in first gear. It is assumed the seat will cradle his butt like a catcher’s mitt, there will be enough lash points to carry gear sufficient for a new start in the Witness Protection Program, and that the tank will carry enough gas to get two states away before needing fuel. It’s reassuring if the onboard computer system monitors the air pressure in the tires, the oil pressure in the engine, and the social pressure on FaceBook, but not necessary. The same is true for moto-camping. For a man in his late teens or early 20s,


nothing compares with the pure romance of pulling off the road in a desolate stretch of deep mountains or endless desert and following a trail to a campsite that is just a level patch in undisturbed wilderness. The tent, a two-person triangular tube of space- age polymer, is guaranteed to conform to the body shapes inside it. A little camp stove will make soup, coffee, ramen noodles and instant oatmeal. The campsite is just big enough to be illuminated by the campfire. The bike headlight is floodlight enough for contingencies. The woman padding around the campsite will have changed her riding boots for soft moccasins. She is wearing a cotton t-shirt that beats the hell out of space-age polymer for conforming to body shapes. She laughs when she squats to pee. The water is boiling for the ramen noodles as the sun goes down. The man is smiling because he has all this while saving 140 bucks on a hotel room. Reality sets in at dinner. “This is it?” the woman asks. “Ramen


noodles?” The man responds, “There is also instant


oatmeal,” but the suggestion does not go over well. He breaks out the bottle of wine. It is good they are romantically involved, because they are forced to conform to each


other as there is no space in the tent. She does not want to be on the bottom as the floor of the tent is conforming to a huge tree root that has sprung up in the last 30 seconds. She does not want to be on the top as the tent’s clammy roofline is pressing unto her back and butt. It is midnight, and the rider has to go out-


side. He has to pee…and also to fart. He knows what will happen if he farts in the self- conforming tent. It will conform to the shape of a mushroom cloud. It will wake up the woman and her criticism. He manages to get outside without disturbing her. The moon is peeking from behind a cloud that is as dark as a shroud. He is naked except for his moto boots and the night air feels good. Draining the lizard next to the bike feels good, too. On a whim, he switches on the headlight. Fifty sets of eight eye clusters glow back. The campsite is surrounded by tarantulas. As fast as he moves back to the tent, the first big, fat rain- drops land on his back. It will rain torrentially for two days. The


woman’s hatred for him, ramen noodles and that tent will conform the conversation for a month. The rider in his 40s will also camp, but in an


old-fashioned motel where the parking space is right outside the door. There is a diner 200 feet from the motel. The cook is somebody’s grandmother who knows how to make every- thing on the menu, but who will be glad to do liver and onions if that’s what he wants. The motel was built the year I Love Lucy debuted on television. The window unit air condi- tioner is diesel, or at least it sounds like one. The water is hot in the clean bathroom. The chamber maid is “Lizzie,” who is the girlfriend of “Stevie,” who is the grandson of “Maudie,” who is the grandmother cooking in the diner and who happens to own both places. The rider covered a respectable 400 miles


that day. Maudie made him liver and onions. It is the end of the day, and he has the room door open to watch the sun set on his K 1300. He turned the television on, briefly. The motel


lifestyle


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