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shinysideup “The Disease” By Ron Davis #111820


RIGHT ABOUT THE time my desperate longing for a Sch- winn Stingray started to wane, my fascination with anything that ran on gas began. Those


rear wheel slicks, butterfly handlebars and swooping banana seats on Sting- rays (and on the 20-inch bikes my buddies had commandeered from their little sisters) just couldn’t compete with the Hurst-shifter-ed, late ‘50s Chevys, rumbling GTOs and new Ford Mustangs that were perpetually taking laps up and down our little town’s main street. Though my own father had been showing symptoms for years, some- how I had been oblivious to his own enchantment with cars and his consequential addiction to buying new ones almost every year—the habit my family casually referred to as “The Disease.” I’m still not quite sure how he did


it. We were a single income family of six, and though Dad may have been getting some deals as a result of man- aging the advertising in the local paper, I’ve got to think he was making ballooning car payments for all of his adult life. One day he might roll home for lunch in a lavender Chevrolet Malibu, a year later, a Volkswagon Karmann Ghia. The variety of makes and models I watched rotate through our dilapidated garage as I grew up had no limit: a bronze Impala with three on the column (my dad was a strict adherent of manual transmis- sions), an AMC Gremlin (two con- crete blocks in the rear as optional accessories), an El Camino, a Blazer, a Pacer (rolling greenhouse), a Toyota Hi-Lux—by the time I was in college,


14 BMW OWNERS NEWS June 2016


I fully expected to see a new vehicle every time I came home for break. When I would say, “New car?” my dad would answer with a shrug of surprise, as if to say, “What do you mean? Of course it’s a new car.” I don’t think my mother, the saint, actually approved of my father’s obsession, but I guess, with her characteristic sigh and a roll of her eyes, she had resigned herself to it as an incurable, if fairly harmless affliction.


R). All of those bikes were purchased “pre- owned,” so, with the prospect for an end to my riding years no longer a distant abstrac- tion, this year I went looking for something in the “New Inventory” realm. Buying a new BMW isn’t quite the exhila-


rating little dance I’ve come to expect when buying a new car or even a used bike. Pes- tering all the dealers within a 300 mile radius, I found salespersons basically have their hands tied on asking prices. There may be a promotion or some wiggle room on accessories—if a trade’s involved, possibly some room for hag- gling—but all of that finesse I’d picked up from years of negotiating car deals was of little use. Though the new bike bargaining pro-


cess didn’t offer much excitement, the browsing and test rides did. I rode every model that seemed to fit into the narrow parameters of my inseam, riding habits, and checkbook. Having been away from new bikes for a while, I was in awe of fea- tures like self-canceling turn signals, steel braided brake lines, gear indicators, and tire pressure monitoring, and as salesper-


Apparently susceptibility to “The Dis-


ease” is genetic. Both my brother and I seem powerless to resist the siren song of new vehicles, no matter how feeble the rationalization or how thin our wallets. Some milk was spilled in the back seat? We obviously needed a mini-van. The road is late getting plowed one day? Let’s go look at four-wheel drives. Tires and brakes need replacing? A trade-in would simply be “a wash,” right? Yes, I even once talked my wife into splurging on a new, gigantic crew- cab pickup so our family could go camping. (We did. Twice.) This disorder I’ve inherited is not limited


to cars. I’m now on my 12th motorcycle, even with an 18-year hiatus while I waited for my kids to grow up. Among those, I’ve had three BMWs—an old one (R65), a small one (Funduro), and a big one (R 1150


sons rattled off strange new acronyms like DWA, ASC, ESA and TPC/RDC, I nodded knowingly, as if I had any clue what they were talking about. When I found the bike that seemed to fit


me best, it seemed like suddenly I had passed the point of no return. My wife (another saint) was supportive, though her comment, “Well, it’s probably the last bike you’ll ever buy…” was a little troubling. My boss at Owners News, Bill Wiegand, sagely counseled, “Ron, if you don’t buy that bike, the terrorists win.” Though there were all kinds of valid reasons for walking away (a perfectly good V-Strom in the garage, an educator’s salary, a failing washing machine, and a looming tax payment) I pulled the trigger, this time on a 2016 Mineral Grey Metallic BMW F 700 GS. What can I say? It’s not a character flaw, it’s a disease.


the club


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