Free Wheelin'

I am a Queens-born New Yorker, but now live in New Jersey. I was riding a new BMW R 1300 RT, built in Berlin, Germany, that I had picked up in South Carolina, which was registered in California and running with California plates. I was riding north at the beginning of the Autumnal color show. I had no real time frame, and was enjoying the Starship that BMW calls their R 1300 RT. On the sunny days, I was eating up 300 + miles without any thought of pushing it. On a hard, rainy day, just a third of that, and that was a soaking push.

The R 1300 RT is a very attractive machine, and always garnered looks from passersby, whether they be on a backroads, or a sidewalk. Add in the blue West Coast plates, and conversation almost always followed.

I like to be an ambassador for our sport and passion, so taking a bit of time when I could to chat with strangers that had questions about the bike, me, and my travels was a small pleasure. They usually went like this:

“Wow, I didn’t know BMW made motorcycles. That is a very pretty bike. Where are you from…oh wow – California?! How long did it take you to ride from there?” Or, some variation of that.

The first time was at a vista atop the Little River Canyon in Alabama. This is a stunning bit of odd geography and geology. Its sandstone cliffs tower 600 feet above the river, and it would be hard to choose which overlook is the best. I love it for the Little River Canyon Rim Parkway, which is a blast to ride, even with Mushroom Rock in the middle of it.

When these questions were rapid-fired at me by a youngish mom, with a quiet, meek dad holding onto two very active young balls of energy, and who was trying to get them both into the minivan,

I had to pause to get all her questions answered.

“Yes, BMW actually made bikes first, after planes…and it is a pretty bike, that was made in Berlin, picked up in South Carolina, registered in California, and ridden by a guy from New Jersey, now to be queried by a pretty young mom in Alabama.”

It was an easy explanation that took her a minute to digest. I think she liked my “pretty young mom” riff. She looked at the BMW and then turned her head back to dad, hustling along the little rapscallions, returning her gaze to the bike, just a bit wistfully.

I told her she had a beautiful family. She nodded, smiled, and wished me a safe trip. The angel on my Aerostich-protected shoulder said, “That was a nice thing to say.” The devil told me, “You still got it.”

As I said, a version of this debriefing happened almost every time I stopped for fuel, food, or at a motel parking lot. But it was the California plate that truly drew the attention. The tag added that certain je ne sais quoi to the machine, and with that, I got a bit of Jenny said what.

The cross-continent plate was not a big deal to me, but, for whatever reason, it seemed to give me a bit more street cred.

I liked it and began to change my story a bit, as I was tired of the Berlin, Californian, New Jersey thing. Like a shapeshifting con man, I became a SanDiegoan. I lived on Dove Street, north of Little Italy. That worked well until the guy with the Padres hat came up while I was telling the story, and I had to explain the Mets cap, while telling him about how great the Bluefoot Lounge is.

Live the lie, Brian. Live the lie.

We had this machine for the winter, and somewhere along the way, BMW sent us a new registration and plate from New Jersey, and I sent back the Cali plate.

That’s when I began to notice the difference a state’s plate can make.

Where before I would come in ‘way hot’ in fourth, to a tightish bend and downshift briskly, smoothly, and like…very cool, bro, to second and casually accelerate onward, dude.

Now, with the NJ plates, I would do the same and the bike would argue a bit like – “Whoa…what the F%#! was that? Hey brother, get it together, for the love of pizza. You mope.”

When I gave it back, the RT kinda looked at me, flashed its high beams, and said… “Hey, you don’t suck. You ain’t great, okay? But you don’t suck. Friggin’ Jersey.