Motorcycle Dealership Mojo

…and the lack thereof…

 

Disclaimer: The opinion I am sharing is based upon my limited experience visiting and dealing with motorcycle shops over the past five decades.

 

My local Moto Guzzi dealership just closed. The place also sold Aprilia, BMW, Vespa, Royal Enfield and a couple of electrics. Good selection. Not so hot as a dealership. Why? There seemed an element missing. Entering felt a bit like dropping into your nearest Ford dealership to look at the latest F-150 or the Chevy Man looking for an Impala or a Malibu. “What’ll it take to get you into this baby today?”

     Motorcycles – particularly European ones – are different from automobiles. While many who ride motorcycles started out on a dependable Honda (I did)...

... Yamaha, or like Asian brand, some of us progress – or maybe evolve – into enthusiasts that might be looking for something more. Something that might defy definition.

     My transition to a European marque happened nearly forty-plus years ago when I wandered into Ozzie’s BMW in Chico, California and eventually rode out on a beautiful black R65 roadster. Ozzie, with his thick German accent talked with enthusiasm about the area roads I might enjoy astride one even allowing me to take his personal R65S on a fifty-mile round trip run up to a foothill community. I was as much sold on the dealership as I was on the bike. Mojo.

     Ozzie was famous. On a visit to a dealership in Seattle where I was drooling over BMW’s latest and greatest, when the salesfloor guy found out I was from Chico, he offered a light punch on my shoulder and said, “Hell, you’ll be buying one from Ozzie!” (I didn’t.) That said, more mojo.

 

I gave up riding for a decade or so, but upon a second or third relocation, stumbled into A&S BMW in Roseville, California. I’d never lost the itch and a lovely blue R1100 roadster, used, grabbed at my throttle hand and wouldn’t let go. On this particular Saturday, Candi, my beloved was catching up on schoolwork in her classroom, when I drove by, stopped and hailed her out of her classroom. 

     “Wow!” she said. “They let you test drive that bike all by yourself!” 

     “No,” I responded as I lit out for home. 

     What was special about A&S? Beyond selection, it was the enthusiast nature of the sales guys. They all wore riding boots and were eager to share their favorite Sacramento area route: Highway 49 north to Nevada City and Downieville, south to Placerville and Sonora, highway 50 over Echo Summit; 160 (?) out through the delta. The list I would travel on that R1100 was nearly endless and with each service visit I’d be asked, “Where’ve you been lately?” 

Dealership mojo would prompt me to purchase the 1100’s replacement and a couple of other rides.

     Eventually, I bought a used Moto Guzzi from A&S. Shaft drive, bullet proof motor, Italian elegance, my drift from the German to its European neighbor was unavoidable. I’d hankered for a Guzzi after having visited Dave Richardson’s Moto Internationale in Seattle with my riding buddy. Squeezed into a tiny showroom was a row of Guzzi’s limited models and a few Aprilias for the racing crowd Dave likely hoped to attract. 

The visit with the owner proved to be less about buying a gorgeous 1400 California touring bike and more about where I’d could go on it. Knowing that I’d already played that card once, I didn’t come home with one. 

     Later, visiting the Guzzi dealership in Austin Texas, AF-1, while I sat on a white California, the sales guy, finding out that Candi was a quilter engaged in a forty minute discussion about fabric and stitches and batting and stuff.  I wandered in and the fellow asked if I was ready to ride the California back home to California I came close to saying yes accept that it was the first week in January and I knew that the ride across the south and over the Sierra would be colder than a well-diggers instep in the Klondike. Still: Seattle mojo, Austin mojo. 

  

Fast forward to life in Sonoma County. Roads to the coast are exquisite and there’s several of ‘em. Add to that, multiple ways through the Mayacamas range and into the Sacramento Valley or north or south on US 101 and I’d landed in a motorcycle enthusiasts dreamscape. My first purchase would be a classically styled V-7 roadster... 

...which lasted about a year and a half when I became smitten with a more touring-oriented model. 

     Entering the showroom of this dealership – part of a small chain with showrooms in Reno and Vegas – seemed different from those listed above. They seemed lacking an inventory of don’t-miss-this riding destinations or stories from staff about their favorite routes. Videos of moto-GPs were not being shown. Displays seemed a bit perfunctory – except for their BMW selection in that BMW requires certain showroom attributes. Although I bit twice, the “what’ll it take to get you into this little beauty today" seemed not too far off, perhaps second only to the practice of not engaging the walk-in customer with more than “Hi. How are ya?” 

     Still, I’ve enjoyed all aspects of my Guzzi V-85tt except for a service issue – one perhaps NOT the responsibility of any dealer. It seems my sample came with a cracked fuel bladder, one that emitted the smell of gas when sitting in the garage.  The part would need to be ordered from the factory in Mandello de Lario back in the old country. Might take some time. Figuring on a couple of weeks, my ride sat in the service bay for six. I’m not sure what the Italian version of laisse faire is, but the Maybe tomorrow, Luigi corporate attitude of Piaggio, Guzzi’s parent group, was doing neither the customer nor the dealer any favors.

     Five weeks gone, with a trip to Oregon scheduled in but a few days, and recalling more than one story about a BMW rider who would have been stranded had the dealer not pulled a part off a new bike to install it on the customer’s, I eyed a new V-85tt that had been sitting on the showroom floor since before I’d dropped off my disabled version. “Isn’t there a tank bladder in that one?” I thought but didn’t articulate. A shop with mojo might have already seen that as a customer-oriented solution.

     Ultimately, the tank was replaced under warranty and down the road I went just in time for Crater Lake and environs... 

... however, after a time, that gas smell redeveloped and I returned to the service bay to have ‘em check things out. I didn’t know at the time that they had given up the Guzzi/Aprilia/Vespa franchise. “A couple of valves under the tank have fractured. We don’t have any in stock and can’t order them any longer because we’re no longer a dealer.” I turned to my pals at AF-1 in Austin who graciously accepted my order but informed me that the parts would need to come from Maybe tomorrow, Luigi in Italy. 

     Two months passed while I gingerly rode the beast and left it outside allowing the fumes to dissipate before parking it in the garage. The parts arrived – including a 50% tariff – and I hauled them down to my local dealer only to find the entire shop – BMWs and everything – boarded up. No mojo. No nothin’.  

 

 

Dave Harris and Keli Litle operate a wonderful independent motorcycle repair shop in Point Arena, California called The Zen House. They sponsor touring rides for enthusiasts and host moto-GP viewing parties at a local eatery. Traveling enthusiast-renowned Stewart’s Point Skaggs Springs Road out to the coast is always a delight and David said if I had the parts, he’d eagerly install ‘em. (I knew of The Zen House as I had David rebuild my brother’s classic 80s era BMW R80RT. The results were awe-inspiring.)

     My November ride started at 46 degrees, downshifted to 39 and fluctuated into the low 60s and back. The wait time – not two months – was but forty minutes and an interesting verdict came when I retrieved the bike. The valves were not damaged, but he replaced ‘em anyway. It seems the odor came from the line that was not securely attached to the O2 canister. A cost-free, two-minute fix that could have occurred during the ‘inspection’ back in August. [Thanks for your eagle eye and your always attention to detail service, David!]

Motorcycle dealers need competent mechanics and it helps if they have affable sales folks. But dealer personnel don’t need to be interested in where you’ve been or where you’re going or make suggestions of routes to travel. They don’t need to have motorcycle races running silently in the background. They certainly don’t need to entertain tag-a-longs with tips about threads or fabrics or quilting or pie making or how to puree tomatoes.

     They don’t need to demonstrate that elusive thing that might be known as mojo. But successful dealerships do.

 

References:

 

Ozzie’s BMW – Chico https://www.ozziesbmwmotorcycles.com

A&S Powersports – Roseville https://www.aspowersports.com

AF-1 Racing – Austin https://www.af1racing.com

The Zen House – Point Arena https://www.thezenhouse.net

 

© 2025

Church of the Open Road Press

Chance Meeting with Arnold

 …people you wished you’d met on the road...

 

Lost to the dustbin of my memory is exactly why or when, other than Arnold Schwartzenegger was governor. Serving as the curriculum leader in a Sacramento area school district, and as an obligatory member of the Association of California School Administrators (ACSA), I found myself enrolled in a conference of educators focused on something-er-other and arranged for the ballroom of a hotel across from the state capitol. During a much needed afternoon break where perhaps 500 of us were milling about clutching store-bought cookies and sipping Coca Colas, the lights in the hall flashed on and off, on and off. The group quieted, someone took the mic and said, “Supes and Assistants, the governor wants a photo op with about eight of you.” 

         

I shrunk to the back of the venue, but my name tag label “Assistant Superintendent Curriculum and Instruction” betrayed me. Tapped on the shoulder, someone herded me and seven others into an adjacent room where we were instructed to line up. “The Governor wants to see you.”

         

A near-silent buzz coursed through the assembly of colleagues that I’d never met. Seventh in the line of eight, I straightened the tie I was wearing, a black something decorated with images of Crayola crayons. Very elementary school.

         

Mr. Schwartzenegger – a bit shorter than I’d imaged – entered with an aide, a broad smile and an outstretched hand. This should only take a few minutes, I thought. But it didn’t. To the superintendents this would be their less-than-fifteen minutes of fame. Each one grasped the governor’s hand and would not let go until they’d offered more-than-two-cents-worth on some issue or topic I was sure the governor either didn’t particularly care about or about which he’d already made up his mind. As he inched closer, I realized his smile was pasted on, the handshakes perfunctory and that this was simply one of the duties an elected person had to perform if they wanted to stay an elected person. It seemed artificial, fake. I decided not to play the lobbying game.

 

Months, maybe a year, prior, the governor had been riding his glitzy ‘Wide Glide’ motorcycle along the Pacific Coast Highway though Pacific Palisades sans the required helmet. 

The city cop pulled him over and issued the required citation. Rumor has it that Arnie thanked the officer for his service.

 

My turn came up and as Arnold Schwartzenegger grasped my hand, I looked him in the eye and quietly – so as not to embarrass him – said, “Jeez, governor. A Harley?”

         

His hand immediately pulled away and I felt a firm Austrian index finger pointedly poking my chest four or five times. “I bet you drives zee Bee Em Dawbue!” he said with a grin. An honest grin. 

 

I nodded as he clapped my shoulder. Making a different kind of eye contact, together we laughed and he said, “You be safe, now.”

 

With a wink he was gone to whomever was next and I was left with the impression that, in that moment, Arnold Schwartzenneger was anything but fake. 

I’ve always wished we could have done the Pacific Coast Highway together.

 

© 2025

Church of the Open Road Press

VISITED BY SASQUATCH

...I seen ‘um!..  

One October back in 1983 or ’84, I was completing my first extended motorcycle road trip on a spanking new BMW R65 – my first really high-quality vehicle of any type.  Leaving Eureka in the late afternoon, I figured I’d take California’s state route 299 across to Redding and shoot down I-5 and route 99 to Chico where I lived at the time.

When on a motorcycle, three conditions are troubling, even to the experienced rider which, at the time, I was not: light rain, lengthening dusks and a newly chip-sealed roadway.  Chip sealing is when they lay crushed gravel over fresh oil to prevent the original pavement from cracking.  The loose gravel makes it hard to control a two-wheeler even on the best of days.

A few miles east of US 101 on 299, a light rain began to fall.  Shortly after whatever that first or second summit is called, I came across the dreaded chip seal just as the dusk began to gather.  My planned 55- to 60-mile-per-hour cruise along the Trinity River deteriorated to a white-knuckled 25-mile-per-hour crawl through the inkiness of an October nightfall.  I wound over ridges foreign to me and into canyons which may have had no bottom.  Illuminated briefly – menacingly – in the sweeping throw of the headlight: sinister pines and firs that lurking over the twisting pavement and naked rocky outcrops rising from of the gloom at the highway’s edge.  And cliffs!  I was certain there were cliffs.  And voids!  Dark voids!  Deep ones!  After a time, my nerves – or, perhaps, my good sense – got the best of me. I wanted to press on; but didn’t want to risk crashing my German motorrad masterpiece.  If I did, who would find me in the fog-cloaked, dreary darkness?  And if so, when?  My palms turned wet and cold, and it wasn’t from the rainfall.  

The roadside federal campground was gated, but I slipped in.  The same authority who wouldn’t see me had I crashed into the canyon, wouldn’t see me sacked out here.  Setting the Beemer on her side stand, I pulled my tent from the tail rack, fumbled around to find a flat spot to set the thing, wrestled it out of its bag and into position and crawled in.  Given the circumstance, I was far too wound up to fall asleep.  Lightly, however, to the lullaby-like rush of the nearby Trinity, I probably dozed.

Sometime in the night, I was stirred by a scritch-scritching noise outside the tent and the irregular light thumps of something impacting the tent’s fabric.  I found the flashlight I’d stuffed in my boot for safe keeping and poked my head out.  The rain had abated.  I arced the weak flashlight beam side to side and then in circles, finding I’d pitched my tent beneath an ancient oak. All was still save for a shadowy, subtle movement partially hidden by the trunk.  Tracing the trunk’s height, the light’s dimming glow flashed across two huge greenish-golden disks simmering perhaps six feet – maybe seven – from the ground.  I trained the light on those glowing disks.  I figured they were eyes – eyes of some nocturnal mammal – but I had no idea what beast these might belong to.  A bobcat?  Ringtail?  Raccoon?  Sas… Sasqua… BIGFOOT!?!

I ducked my head back inside the tent and zipped the flimsy opening shut, like that was going to do me any good.  Eyelids pinned open, I sure as hell wasn’t going to be able to sleep now.  So, I lay in my sleeping bag with a pounding heart drowning out any river’s lullaby, looking at maps – I hadn’t packed a book – until my flashlight battery died.

The next morning dawned clear and cold.  I briefly inspected the area near the base of the old oak for signs of the previous evening’s scritchy-scritch and light pelting thumps.  Perhaps a footprint?  No.  Nothing but duff – aromatic from the previous night’s drizzle – but still, just undisturbed, not-recently-stepped-upon duff.  There was little to do but shrug and pack up. Collapsing the tent, I noted a small assemblage of acorns collected against one side where they’d seemed to have rolled off the fabric.  

I mounted the Beemer and made my way back through the gate and onto 299 East.  About a quarter mile from where I’d pulled into the campground, the chip sealing project ended.  

© 2020

Church of the Open Road Press

REBUILDING THE BMW – II

The sequel

Reader take note...

The following reflects something I decided I never was going to do: Get hold of an old motorcycle and try to fix the damned thing up.  Among my many limitations, I know, are mechanical skills.  Even the most basic ones.

Recall this Church of the Open Road entry from only last March: https://thechurchoftheopenroad.blogspot.com/2018/03/rebuilding-bmw.html

Except this old BMW– the one now in my possession – I rather inherited when my brother’s throttle hand came out on the losing end of an industrial accident.

The model he wished to unload, I had a history with:  In 1982, as recounted in the above link, my first real motorcycle was a 650cc naked BMW. Naked refers to it having no fairing or wind protection for the rider.  In those days, none of ‘em did.

Two years into my ownership, when it was time to bring the R65 in for service, Ozzie, the owner of the local BMW franchise said, “Why don’ chu take dis new mahdel out for a schpin.  Go ahead.  You can have fun mit it.  I’ll call you when your bike ez rrready.”

Even through his thick Bavarian accent, Ozzie didn’t have to repeat himself.

The demo was a red BMW R80RT.  It had everything my little black bike had and more. It had wind protection.  Sailing under a canopy of oaks and through the gentle curves of Chico, California’s lower Bidwell Park I thought, “Why don’t I get one of these?” The R80 retailed for about $1500.00 more than my bike and I didn’t have $1500.00, that’s why.  Still, the memory of that little tryst in the park lingers.

Fast forward about 30 years into a new century, add in Bill’s terrible accident, and here I am: toting home a 32-years-ago fantasy.

The new-to-me RT is not new.  It’s going to need some work, not because it wasn’t cared for, but because it’s three-plus-decades old.  Automotive-type  things just don’t last that long.  Quick, go out to your nearest major through-fare and count how many 32-year-old vehicles pass by.  See what I mean?

Although I’d trailered it home from Chico, I took it for a shake down around nearby Lake Sonoma today.  Fifty miles of variable curves and variable speeds would help me assess just what I’d gotten myself in to.

Visually the thing looks fine.  The instrument dash is cracked and broken away from the windshield – probably something I caused while trailering it home.  I’d gone over an unanticipated bump at too high a speed and the bike – secured though it was – took a pretty good jolt.

The front tire is new but the rear needs to be replaced.

Two tiny oil spots have developed on the garage floor where it’s been parked for a month, so it’s gonna need seals.  Fork seals as well, I noticed.

The light patina on the finish looks okay.  Who am I to be critical of how some other old thing has aged?

Firing up the horizontal twin engine with less than 32,000 miles on the clock, the motor chortled to life and after about five or six minutes of easy warm up riding, hummed along Dutcher Creek Road almost begging me to twist the throttle just a bit more.

Living in the era of anti-lock brakes, the stoppers on this machine are not.  Longer distances and a more nuanced squeeze will be necessary in order not to lose rear-wheel traction.

Driving through the twisties, up over and down some of the hills along Lake Sonoma, I am faintly reminded of the “death wobble” sometimes experienced on my old ’82 R65.  It is a curious phenomenon that happens as you pass through a band of speed.  Once on the other side of it, everything smooths out.  San Jose’s BMW shop developed a fork brace to alleviate this concern, but I think they’re no longer in business.

So, there’s work to do.  And I’m not a wrench.

A small company out in Point Arena repairs and restores classics and near-classics.  I am eagerly scheduling an assessment visit as you read this.

And today’s fifty-mile ride?  It was like one of those blasts from the past one usually experiences while listening to the oldies station or a when woman walks by wearing a certain fragrance.  Arriving home, I concluded that this acquisition may be both a money pit and a simple pleasure.  

But since I am pretty certain that I only get to go around once, I am happy that part of that once will finally be astride the R80RT.

© 2018

Church of the Open Road Press

REBUILDING THE BMW

Something I’m quite unlikely to do

My first real foray into motorcycle touring came in about 1982 when, fresh off a divorce, I purchased, new, a BMW R-65 from the venerable Ozzie’s BMW Center in Chico, California.  My black Beemer cradled an iconic 650 cc horizontally opposed motor and, when equipped with side bags, and with a duffel bungeed on top, provided an adequate mount for week-long explorations of Northern California, Nevada, Oregon and Washington.  The thing was as dependable as tomorrow’s sunrise and I often marveled, after a 400-mile day, how an engine that was light enough for me to remove from the frame and cart around to the workbench with my own feeble arms – which I never did – could transport my lanky self so far, so cheaply and with so little problem.

There were downsides, however. At 6’4”, the frame on this German masterpiece was a bit small for my build.  Although it returned almost 50 miles to the gallon (on regular!) I often found myself wondering whether I’d find a filling station or find myself pushing the thing along a paved secondary route bordered in endless sage.  And the seat, honestly, was a bit like riding an ironing board.

Still, the adventure of cresting a rise or greeting a horizon was precisely what my 31-year-old psyche needed after those dark days of separation.  Four or five years later, however, with my career taking me from my home town and my leisure hours truncated by responsibility, I found that the BMW did more sitting around than getting around.  Realizing that in one twelve-month period, I’d only added 850 miles to the odometer, and after nearly rear-ending a Dodge van on highway 108 due, largely, to my rusty riding skills, with forty-three thousand miles on the thing, I returned it to Ozzie and he gave me a good price on an outright sale.  For the next thirteen years, I would ride nothing.

Decades later, the little Beemer still holds a place in my heart.

As I have come of age as a reader, one of my favorite genres is the memoir.  The book that introduced me to this realm of literature was Fred Haefele’s “Rebuilding the Indian” [University of Nebraska Press, 1998, 2005.]  In this volume, Haefele tells the story of turning a box of junk parts into a gleaming Indian Chief.  The Indian Motorcycle Company was founded early in the 1900s in Springfield, Massachusetts, adjacent to the site of the armory commissioned by General George Washington 130 years earlier.  The company’s storied history is punctuated with examples of innovation, success and failure.  From delivery vehicles to military motors, from single cylinder to in-line fours well before that configuration became the universal Japanese machine (UJM) – thanks, Honda – Indians had been the backbone of American motorcycles, along with what Mr. Harley and Mr. Davidson created out west in Milwaukee.

The Chief was a massive V-twin with a heavily valenced front fender and a broad, thick, well sprung bicycle-type seat suitable for long days on the road.  After “the war,” the Chief and its little brother, the Scout were the envy of anyone who wanted to explore our continent on two wheels. But the company fell on hard times, Harley was more prolific, and for a spell, Indians left the market. 

But the Indian Motorcycle spell did not.  Thus, Haefele, captivated by what used to be, and with little mechanical experience, bought that box of parts intent on putting a Chief back on the road and heading out to Sturgis to show the thing off.  The problem was, the box of parts was incomplete and some of the parts were not of the same motorcycle.  Quoting a review in the New Yorker: “Haefele describes how his search for vintage parts eventually involved an entire community of fanatical mechanics, impoverished motorcycle collectors, and renegade bikers – a collaboration, he realizes, that gave him skills as much social and spiritual as practical.”

It is a marvelous read, one that I return to from time to time as I find it inspires me both to do some things and to avoid other things.

A couple of weeks back, I was driving on California’s State Route 12, back-dooring my way into Sonoma, the historic home of General Mariano Vallejo.  In front of a derelict gas station turned coffee shack rested something that caught my eye – something familiar.  But I didn’t stop.

Today, while cruising though the area on Enrico, the Yamaha, I did.

Resting on its side stand was a ‘80s-era R-65, brown, not black, but otherwise the spittin’ image of my first tourer.  Thirty-five years hadn’t been exactly kind to this example.  The paint was deeply faded, the tires cracked like the hide of a road-kill armadillo.  The seat was solid, but sun-worn and by brushing my fingers across the cast aluminum jugs of the horizontally opposed engine, I could pick up a grimy, oxidized dust.  Yet the thing was straight, the frame true and sitting on the saddle felt a bit like coming home after missing too many holiday gatherings.  Immediately I remembered that I still owned the set of metric end wrenches – never used – that I’d purchased to tinker with the old bike when needed.

The coffee concession was closing and the motor-head boss about to button things up for the day.

“How much you take for that R-65?” I asked.

“Oh,” he said, “Probably two grand.”

“Does it run?”

“Did when I parked it.”

“Barn find?”

“Nope.  Got from a local doctor, original owner, who rode around town on it for years and years.  Finally, about three years ago, he came to me and said he probably ought to give the thing up.”

We walked over to the machine.

“I pulled the battery out and drained the fluid.  I was going to fix it up, but just too many other projects.  Like my R-80 I’ve got in the shop.”  He walked me into the one-time service bay.  A lovingly restored similar-era BMW GS sat looking as if it had just been freed from the showroom.  “I ride it every day that I can.”

“So, two grand?”

“Yeah.  About that.”

“Thanks,” I said, and we shook hands.  Before leaving, I snapped a few photos with my iPhone, thinking it would be fuel for thought.

And thought is what I gave it.  I came home and thumbed through “Rebuilding the Indian,” revisiting some of my favorite passages.  I suspect my mechanical skills are far more limited than Fred Haefele’s were when he found himself staring at a box of parts.  Then I thought, “I’ll bet Ozzie’s shop could clean it up, repaint the tank, refresh the tires, battery, adjust the valves, sync the carbs, replace the seals…”  I felt my eyes turn into those spinning dollar signs Warner Brothers once used to drive home a point in a Bugs Bunny cartoon.  Soon I arrived at this: With an additional investment of about thirty-five hundred dollars, I could end up with a really cool looking vintage German masterpiece still worth “about two grand.”

I sincerely hope the motor-head coffee shop owner finds success in pedaling that BMW.  I’m sure it will end up in good hands.

Just not mine.

© 2018

Church of the Open Road Press

CHANGING DANCE PARTNERS: THE TWO-WHEELED VARIETY

The process of trading in one perfectly good motorcycle for another is a study in the art of rationalization.  I generally keep a bike for six to ten years. My bikes don’t sit in the garage, they get used, plenty.  I usually log between 40,000 to 60,000 miles – which is to say “far from used up” – before my fancy is tickled by something new.

That’s when those rationalizations begin.

My current rides are a 2009 BMW R1200 GS Adventure and a 2007 Moto Guzzi B-1100 ‘Breva’.  Both are excellent machines.   

The BMW is engineered to be driven around the world.  It is reliable, tough, dependable, and comfortable and, according to a 2009 issue of GQ Magazine, “the world’s best motorcycle.”  The Beemer’s boxer engine is iconic and although because of technological upgrades they’re not as easy to work on as they once were.  I don’t work on my bikes anyway.

The Moto Guzzi is a timeless example of how Italians marry design and function.  The thing is beautiful with fluid lines coupled to a bulletproof chassis and drive train.  Guzzi may lack the cachet of other Italian brands, but the marque has been going strong since 1922.  My little Breva eats up windy country roads and garners attention wherever it is parked.  As a “second” bike I’ve put fewer miles on it since I acquired it used, but it had never as much as hiccupped on the road.

So why think about something else?  Here come those rationalizations.

·      Having moved and downsized numerous things, it is time to downsize in the motorcycle department.  I need to get down to one.

·      That perfect BMW can take on any road (or non-road, for that matter) but I find myself less excited about picking the thing up off its side after misjudging the depth of gravel in a turn.

·      With an arthritic knee that telegraphs me something unpleasant about the aging process, kicking a leg over the high seat and wide panniers is becoming, on some days, problematic.

·      Final drives on my generation of BMWs have a bad reputation – probably due more to how quickly a shred of bad news can circulate on the internet than justified by the part’s performance – and final drive failures are costly to repair.

·      The dealer for my beautiful Breva is over 100 miles away.  Local motorcycle shops won’t so much as change the oil or adjust the valves because difficulties related to getting parts from Piaggio, Guzzi’s current parent company.

·      I’ve always been a bit too tall for the B-1100 but have been willing to sacrifice a tiny bit of comfort for the experience of riding a bike with such mojo.

·      I’m not riding 14,000 miles in a year any longer.

·      I’m not riding 500 to 600 mile days any longer.

·      I’m sticking to paved roads.

·      I do need space in that garage.

So what’s next for the garage?  Whatever was featured on the cover of the latest edition of Rider magazine?

Seriously, I’ve been snooping through the world-wide web looking for a touring steed: one that is comfortable for 300 or so miles in a day (but 500+ if I have to), neutral seating position, good handling, storage for a week’s worth of clothes.  Something that would invite me to ride out to the coast or up to the redwoods at a moment’s notice.  And something with some degree of that magical mojo that you feel as much as see.   

The current apple of my eye comes from England and, because the local (yes, “local,” meaning closer than two hours away) dealer is closing them out, a well-equipped model is selling for about four grand less than sticker.  (Another rationalization?  Sure.)

So, gentle reader: if you’re looking for a world-class adventure mount or a crowd pleasing Italian, get in touch.  Both have been well maintained and, when they are gone, I know I’ll regret it …maybe not today and maybe not tomorrow, but soon. And for the rest of my life… But those rationalizations are wearing away at my better judgment.  No telling how long I can hold out.

© 2016

Church of the Open Road Press