- A few years ago I visited BMW’s corporate headquarters in Germany. A group of journalists sat at a conference table loaded with pastries and pots of coffee. David Robb, the American born head of design, gave a lecture on the design process. He’d sketched the outline of a motorcycle on a white poster—it looked like a grave rubbing, or one of those cards Civil Defense aircraft spotters (and little boys) carried to help them identify the shapes they saw in dreams.
What kind of bike is this? Robb asked. The journalists started offering specific models. Robb held up his hand. “What type?” It was a cruiser, vaguely American. Every motorcycle, said Robb, has a stance, makes a gesture, declares its purpose from across the street—and invites you to participate. He then sketched a family tree of models—sport, touring, deluxe touring, off road. These were the categories. The challenge was filling the silhouettes with details that said this machine is a BMW.
It was a brilliant lecture. Of course, the eyes of the journalists in the room drifted to the blank spots on the wall, where, no doubt, sketches of product actually in the pipeline had been taken down.
Category. Execution. That’s the nature of the business.
Last month, BMW did a similar exercise, in fire-breathing steel. It invited journalists to South Africa to get first impressions of four new models (or maybe five)—the R1200S (the worlds most powerful boxer), the F800S and ST series (introducing a revolutionary upright twin), the R1200 GS Adventure (The Hummer of adventure tourers ) and the K 1200 GT (the ultimate flagship sport-touring machine). Four bikes, four distinct impressions. They could have sent us press kits (in fact, they did) but there ain’t nothing like the real thing.
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- We stand on the patio of a winery in Franschhoek. Beneath a white canopy are the new bikes, reflected in pools of water, illuminated by tiny spotlights, candles, and the light of the setting sun. As the mountains go from red to purple to darkness, we eat a fabulous meal, discussing the new model with engineers, product designers, other editors. When one of the editors described what went on at these gatherings to a friend, the friend said, simply “I will never again believe a word you write.” With that caveat, let me continue.
Sometimes things get lost in translation, sometimes the ricochet of language inspires. Last year at the launch of the K1200S, an employee of BMW struggled to translate German impressions of the competition. As I recall, the Speed Triple was Der Vater aller Street Fighters (the father of all street fighters), the Aprilia Tuono was the Rattenscharf (Red Hot, not rodent’s neckerchief). Ducati Monster was Ein Renner aber ohne Verkleidung (a racer with no fairing). The Kawasaki Z 1000 was Die Adrenalinspritze (no you didn’t wet yourself, it’s German for The Adrenalin Injection). The Yamaha Fazer was Der Durchzugsbolide (the Lusty Puller); a Benelli was die Rakete (not the sound of its engine, it means The Rocket) and the MV Augusta was die Brutale (not the title of a Bruce Willis movie, but simply the brute.)
The R1200S, they said, was BMW's idea of a category to be called “character sport” as opposed to “supersport”, a “synthesis of sportiness and everyday riding qualities.”
The numbers were in the press kit: a dry weight of 430 lbs. With a full tank: 470 lbs. Horsepower had been boosted to122 hp at 8,250. The bike looked right at home amidst the servants, the trays of floating flowers and candles, the gleam of wine glasses.
But motorheads don’t ride floating flowers. On the motor: I’ve enjoyed every iteration of the new R1200. I loved the first GS, had ridden the RT through California, the ST through Spain. I’d listened to GS owners try to figure out how to implant the horsepower of the ST into the off-road model. The earlier press intros tended to compare the new improved product to older 1150 models—the R1200S didn’t bother. This is the most powerful boxer ever—the performance upgrades put significant improvements between this and the other 12s. For the S, BMW engineers had tinkered with cylinder heads, beefed up connecting rods, camshafts and bearings, harder valve springs and reinforced rocker arms, better breathing (intake manifolds increased by 5 mm), bring the redline up to 8800 rpm. The model borrows the neat wheels of the K series, and the new seat philosophy (narrow at the crotch) which works for me. When I first saw details of the bike I called it “defiantly unadorned”—open to admiration. Character sport? You bet.
The ride: We leave in fog. The moisture gathers on faceplates, turns brake lights into incandescent gargoyles. It feels like we are pushing through beaded curtains. Nerve-racking. Lose sight of the white line and you might pitch over a 100 foot drop. But eventually the fog lifts. The mountains become visible, and the pass a playground. We skirt a reservoir, emptied by drought to reveal the ghost trees of a forest that had been drowned when the dam was built. We turn west and followed the wynneroot into a valley that is verdant beyond belief. Vineyards with grape clusters hovering. Ponds and waterholes for cattle. White egrets nesting. Workers clustered at roadside waiting for taxis. The mountains rise out of green, then slowly move away from the road. The vineyards give way to “high Africa”—dry brush, hardscrabble soil. Periodically, we open the throttle for speed runs (rolling up to about 120 mph is effortless), but enough of that. No one wants to rush this scenery.
Near the coast, in full view of Table Mountain, we turn into Killarney Race Track, and with no hesitation or change of equipment, start making circuits. On turn eight I manage to drag the feeler peg that hang below the right foot peg; I feel pretty cocky until a faster rider passes on a left hand carousel, sparks flying from his titanium tipped boots. He’s completely worn down both feeler pegs. What’s left, I wonder, titanium toenails? The bike is rock steady, the powerband substantial enough that I could have chosen just one gear (third or fourth) and made respectable lap times. Not as fast as a 600, but I wouldn’t have spent the day in the saddle of a 600.
We return to Franschhoek. Rather than turn the bike in, I take it back up the pass that had been obscured by the morning’s fog. In the slanted rays of the sun, I romp. Near exhaustion or some kind of ecstasy, I park and watch the sun turn the trees that demarcate vineyards into sketch artists. Baboons scurry across the road.
Almost everything I love about motorcycling condensed into one day, aboard one bike. BMW had made its point.
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- How do you spell frustration? BMW showed the American journalist the new vertical twin, medium size bike to show the bold new direction the company was exploring. No date has been announced for an American model (spring 2007?) or price (somewhere between the 650 singles and the boxers).
BMW wants to claim the midrange territory, to, to offer the returning motorcyclist sophistication packed with technical features.
The engineers can’t hide their excitement describing the new parallel twin. The language of the press kit: “An additional swiveling conrod sets off first and second order mass forces, enabling the two cylinders to run softly and smoothly, with vibrations reduced to a minimum.” The image I have—as the cylinders go up, the diving board goes down, comes as close as anything to the diagram. A twin so smooth that it doesn’t need to be rubber mounted. What a novel idea.
The bikes BMW chose to compare the new model to don’t even exist anymore. Remember your Norton, they asked. (Well actually, my Norton was sitting in a garage in Evanston, and I had to figure out a way to hide the fact that I was cheating on it with another motorcycle.)
The F is everything I like in a bike. Narrow. Uncomplicated. Light (401 lbs). Fast—in the first surge (0-100km/h in 3.5 seconds) and in what I call the power- surge or male-dominance-mode (60 to 100 mph). As in eat my taillight!!! BMW has built a bike without the usual gee-gaws: it is belt drive rather than shaft, a neat telescopic fork rather than the brand famous Telelever/Paralever. The single swingarm, of sculpted die cast aluminum, is one of those design details that David Robb brings to the table. (And actually, quite often does. We have thought of doing a collection of the “cocktail napkins of Mr. Robb”—but let us not digress.) As for numbers—85hp at 8000 rpm, 63 lb-ft of torque at 5800—will my Norton understand my curiosity and lust?
The first part of the test route follows the Franschhoek pass. During the night, the ghost forest and shrubs around the reservoir had caught fire. Roots were still burning underground, sending up white plumes of smoke. When we stop for photos, we discover the skeleton of a small animal in the ashes. Weird.
Beyond, we turn east and ride through farm country. Not the flat prairie farmland of the Midwest, but the huge rolling hill and dale combinations you find on screensavers. Fields covered with stubble of crops, the occasional shade tree for workers, and remarkably few farmhouses. These estates are huge. On the F800S I get to experience the privilege of birds of prey: you crest a hill, look down into the valley, up to the next rise, and do it all, the ultimate here to there, in a single surge of acceleration, about 90-100 mph, something appropriate for the sense of freedom engendered by the view. A single arc joining target to acceleration, one that doesn’t rattle fillings loose from vibration. I don’t know about you, but that is the experience that welds me to motorcycles, skiing, windsurfing. The rush into beauty.
We rush into rain, but the highway along the coast of the Indian Ocean will not be denied. This road comes at you like the sensuous curves of a Brazilian dancer. From Hermanus to Gordon’s bay, the road follows the edge of mountains that rise from the sea. They are not solid rock, but rather heaps of conglomerate, ancient seabed holding boulders as big as houses. Indeed, a sign warns about potential rockfall, saying that users travel the road at their own risk. Another, oddly polite, roadsign warns that “untoward behavior” will be punished according to the laws of Capetown.
When we stop to switch bikes, and study road maps, a driver tells us that the inland route back to Franschhoek, which he had just traveled, is pure sunlight. A nice straight road. No contest. We tighten our rain gear and take the coast road again, back into rain. The turns a melody, unpinched, seductive. The F800s, rock steady, unshakeable companions. Really officer, this is not untoward behavior—we are going toward Franschoek, toward fun, toward the horizon.
After the ride I conduct an unofficial poll: the old farts on this press trip favor the ST model, the slightly higher fairing had helped with the rain, but all were surprised by the comfort of the S model, with has a lower, shorter handlebar—but not the riding position that reminds you of a visit to a proctologist.
Now, let them set a price and bring this to the US.
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- At 145 mph the road comes at you like a downed power line, hissing, sparking, thrashing and filled with threat.
Hold that thought.
Over dinner we’d discussed the wonder of the modern motorcycle, how the technology had evolved to the point where it was better to trust the machine, than the shivering twitch of your muscles. I listen to two amateur pilots discus how fliers first learned to pull out of a tail spin by taking their hands off the controls. Pilots caught in tailspins had ejected, only to watch as they floated down beneath their parachutes, their plane straighten out and fly right. The racers among us commented on how many times they had seen a rider thrown off by a vicious series of tankslappers, only to watch the bike, riderless, cross the finish line.
It’s not a learning curve I want to explore. But I recognize the drift of the conversation. On almost every high performance ride of my life (sport touring or track time) I’d judged the bike by the level of relaxation I could summon, by how much tension resided in my forearms, how much bad information and paranoid twitches I was transmitting to the front wheel. I’d ridden the K1200S in Northern California, a day spent mastering power management. I appreciate the bells and whistles (ABS, Duolever front wheel, Paralever rear wheel, and the electrically adjustable suspension strut (that lets you flip through settings from comfort to sport for all sorts of riding conditions). I’d grown comfortable with the S model, but some part of the brain that stills connected to my testicles, that has the power to yank my scrotum up to my ears, keeps returning to the raw numbers: 150 bhp. Choose a gear, any gear, and 100mph is just a breath away. The K motor makes me wonder if my wrist has the sensitivity to make the minute throttle adjustments that mark the boundary between of, 60 and 160, between cruising speed and escape velocity.
The ride starts quietly enough, almost like church. Three editors are down on their knees, cameras held out like offerings to the graphite K1200 GT. We mount and ride south toward Cape Point. One of my favorite roads on the planet, Chapmans Peak Drive, is an hour away. Built in 1915 as a ploy to get tourists to come to South Africa, it is carved out of rock, a scenic shortcut to the Cape of Good Hope. Steel nets protect from rock fall, a low rock wall from a plummet into the Atlantic. Intoxicating, tight turns. Only on this day, inhabited by jocks training for the Two Oceans marathon, and bicyclists trying out new tights. I round one corner to find a cyclist riding in a u-turn, or circling aimlessly. Heart attack handbrake. No problem. It ‘s like hitting the pause button, everything stops just like that. If it had happened after lunch the absent-minded cyclist might have been decorated with ostrich pastrami, ostrich salami, ostrich pate, smoked ostrich and fragments of ostrich filet. I am used to the brakes on the Norton. The first Lockheed discs, quite possibly the first anti-lock brakes, since not only do they never lock, they never stop the bike. The guy would have been toast. The K bikes binders are as decisive as falling on a sword.
We rocket along eucalyptus-lined roads, past native stands selling carved giraffes and hippos (sorry that won’t fit in the luggage. Almost everything else, but no hippos.) The road crews wave us by with a flourish and bow, the flash of the famous cape smile. We have to adapt to the rules of the country. The cars with the police lights on top are not traffic cops, but agents for Chubb armed response—if someone trips a burglar alarm in the surrounding neighborhoods, they arrive with drawn guns and righteous homicide in their hearts.
Deon, our local BMW guide, tells us that South African speed enforcement is largely passive: a system of cameras record speeders—the front license plate of the offender, which of course, doesn’t effect motorcyclists. Coming into one town, a group of riders on K1200s triggers a flash. It is the only group portrait taken on the trip. We ask Deon if we could send for copies…
Coming into Cape Point, the most southwestern part of the continent, another rider and I flush five full grown ostrich. We follow them at about 30 kmh. Ostrich butts bouncing, they break for the bush, the male splitting off to do freaky dance moves. Hilarious. What was that BMW ad slogan: “Learn to say hello in many languages.”
The next day we continue the ride, through open farmland. On the map, there’s a name, Stanford. It is not a town, but rather a single estate. I ride faster, for a longer period of time, than I have in 40 years of riding. Go back to the opening sentence about how the road comes at you like a downed power line. Things change at that speed. I look to the horizon, the point where the road vanishes, and realize that I no longer have the vision to ride at that speed.
Since this is South Africa, the approaching cars are doing anywhere from 75 mph (the posted limit) to about 100. Closing speed at those velocities is not comforting (which is why NASCAR drivers all go in the same direction). It takes a long time before I can judge a safe passing situation (which with the K bike’s power, is immediate, if you think it, so shall it be). And whereas in America we sometimes post minimum speed, the SA roads are shared by smoke spitting bakkies sputtering along at about 30 mph, burro drawn wagons, hordes of school children walking home, workers ambling…that white pin prick becomes the back of a van in the space of a single breath. I let the bike handle the details of the road (surface, bumps, whatever) while I focus on trajectory and consequence.
Impacting a bug at those speeds sounds like a howitzer going off in your helmet; the gelatinous mess obliterates vision. When I offer a cleaning cloth to another editor, he laughs. “Don’t need it.” He’d spent the past twenty miles tucked behind the adjustable fairing.
At our last gas stop, a local boy does backflips off the roadside fence. We pass groups of school kids who go absolutely ecstatic, dancing, making revving gestures, aping wheelies. Nowhere in America….
Our guides have saved the best for next to last. Outeniqua Pass threads a nature preserve/park. The road is perfect, with huge sweepers, in a stunning setting. While most of the group gathers in a turnoff, taking pictures of the African mountains, three or four editors take multiple passes, turning the view sideways, sparks scraping from footpegs, in a fluid sort of fun that I’ll remember the rest of my life. Forget the coast highway. The Outeniqua Pass on a K1200S. Category? Execution? Perfect.
Still To Come: Off-road and off bike on the GS Adventure.
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- Photos by Arnold Debus, courtesy of BMW
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