My new-to-me motorcycle is a real departure from the sport bikes and hooligan machines that usually catch my eye. It has a big fairing, built-in stereo, three bags and an electric windshield you can raise or lower as you ride down the road.

My ’02 BMW R1150RT is nothing if not gentlemanly. It drew light ribbing from my non-riding wife when I pulled it into the garage.

“God, is that like a Gold Wing or something?” she asked, poking at the antenna next to the windshield. “You might want to join the Shriners now.”

I very quickly reminded her that this is the official bike of the California Highway Patrol. They use it to catch bad guys, see. It and its predecessor, the R1100RT, have been written up in every single motorcycle magazine as sport-touring benchmarks. It’s the bike all others try to match.

“It’ll hold it’s own,” I say as my wife is walking away. “It’s got 95 horsepower.”

But the damage was done. She planted a seed. That night I began to wonder if I made the right choice. I had been thinking about BMW’s sportier R1100s and even had a line on a Ducati ST3. However, neither bike was as confidence-inspiring as the bigger Beemer. Neither had the comfort. I thought about the last painful time I went touring on a sport bike. I cast my lot with the RT.

I could live with the pedestrian image. But a slow, ill-handling beast was something I could not tolerate. So the next weekend, I put the bike through its paces at the best place around for such a mission — Skaggs Springs=Stewart’s Point Road outside Healdsburg.

Getting there from Santa Rosa on Highway 101 was a breeze. The bike eats up slab without a hiccup. It sits high, affording great visibility, and splits lanes well. You get a lot of double-takes from people noticing the familiar CHP profile. Those who don’t pay attention and drift in your lane get to hear one of the loudest air horns ever on a motorcycle.

Things didn’t change much on the back roads. The bike is noticeably top heavy but acquits itself well in the twisties. My bike has recently installed Wilbers shocks front and rear so the suspension is tight. The linked ABS brakes take some getting used to. I found the key is to never step on the back brake pedal. It lacks the acceleration of a super bike but it will get into triple digits with minor coaxing.

On the way home I played with all the gadgets again, adjusting the electric windshield, fiddling with the heated grips and playing the radio. It may not be cool, but this Beemer truly is the King of the Road.

I got to know my local car rental agent during my recent quest for a new bike.
Rather than pestering friends or my wife for rides, I rented cars on a one-way basis with plans to drop them off in the seller’s hometown. A drive-and-ride, if you will.
I did it four times, traveling as far away as 150 miles to see bikes I spotted on Northern California Craigslist sites. It was about three times more than I hoped. And guess what? I didn’t buy any of the bikes. In the end, I picked up a nice sport-tourer from a guy living practically around the corner.

But it was a method with some promise, especially for those who live in sprawling regions. Or for people like me who just want to limit the number of friends and family members who witness our tortured decision making process.
Here’s the way it went for me. I’d spot a bike I liked, call the owner and have a nice long talk. If it sounded good, I’d reveal my plan to rent a car and ask if the seller could provide a short ride if necessary.
I’d pick up the car the next morning and make the drive. The first trip was the longest — nearly three hours one way. It was a gamble — and I threw craps. The bike wasn’t as described.

It was too bad because I had just driven across the top of the state and the seller seemed nice. Within minutes of arriving I turned to him and said no thanks.
It had to be done.
Of course, I tried to salvage the day by seeing bikes on the way home but I couldn’t reach anyone. They were all at work. The rental agent was surprised to see me when I pulled onto the lot just before closing. It was a long day.
Less than a week later, I went for it again. This time I was positive it was going to work out. It was a one-owner bike with low miles and slightly underpriced. I’d always dreamed of having one. And it came with tons of extras that I envisioned selling on eBay.

But after making the drive and test-riding the bike, I began to have doubts. The seating position was too hunched over for a touring bike and it had that noisy dry clutch. I knew I was walking away from it when the guy produced maintenance records that showed the every-6K service was more than $1,500.
My mind raced to come up with an excuse for not buying a bike that was actually a pretty nice bike.
“It’s just too fast for me,” I lied. “I’m going to have to think about it over the weekend.”
I marched out to my rental car and drove home.
It was scene that played out two more times, at great expense, before I happened upon the perfect bike, virtually down the street.

It’s early Friday morning and from my desk I can hear the rumble.

Packs of Harleys are roaring up Highway 101 to the annual Redwood Run near the Mendocino County town of Piercy.
Organizers expect 5,000 people for the weekend event famous for its live music, skinny dipping on the Eel River and debauchery of a kind seen only on Bourbon Street.
My office is 1,000 yards from the freeway’s edge and about 140 miles south of the action. I sip coffee and Google the event on the Internet as a cubicle mate curses the steady noise outside.
First the images – biker women flashing their boobs, tattoos, a man on a Harley doing a wheelie. I go to the event website. The official poster describes it as the “last true run” and an “old school” party.
“Two nights of non-stop, kick-ass music. Scenic camping … motorcycle shows and wet T-shirt contests,” it declares.
What’s not to like?
I begin thinking of ways to convince my wife to go. I pick up the phone and call her at her office. We Google together. “Uh, I don’t think so,” she says, looking over the pics.
“What?” I say.
“You suppose a lot of men will be showing their penises?” she asks. “Not happening.”
We get off the phone and I think maybe I’ll just shoot up there myself on the Beemer.
But that wouldn’t be right. You gotta have a Harley. I pick up the phone again and dial a rental company. The guy on the other end just laughs when I ask if he’s got a bike available.
I guess it takes planning to be a biker. That and a biker wife. As I browse through more pictures of tattooed women in halter tops and sunburned men with bulging guts I think they sure seem to be enjoying it.

I mostly adhere to the motorcycling principal of ATGATT, which means All The Gear All The Time. Truth be told, I don’t always wear every stitch of protective clothing. I’ve ridden many a mile in Levis.

But I almost always wear a padded riding jacket, calf-length boots and, of course, a full coverage helmet and gloves. For some, ATGATT is like a religion that promises to save your skin, if not your soul. I believe in it but I don’t necessarily go to church on Sundays.
As the motorcycling season gets into full swing, it’s easy to spot the straight-up heathens. They’re sporting half-helmets, sleeveless T-shirts and tennis shoes. Or worse – shorts. I wonder if they are receiving the motorcycle accessory catalogs I’m getting in the mail.
According to publishers of the latest rag, motorcycle riders fall into two categories, based on gear. The first is clean-cut, vaguely effeminate and prefers exotic sports bikes. The second is a scowling bald man with goatee, leather chaps and a cruiser.
I pondered the neatly simplistic division as I thumbed through the June edition of the aforementioned junk mail. Sport riders are happy people, I thought. Bikers are a pissed off lot. Sport riders have perfectly gelled hair. Bikers wear pirate earrings.
Where would I fit in?
My mind wandered. Are these guys real riders or just models? How many have ever thrown a leg over a bike? Is that an Aprilia in the background?
I pored over each picture looking for clues. As I did, I found myself drawn in by the marketing genius of it all. That waterproof adventure gear actually looks pretty good, I thought. Cheap, too. Maybe I should buy a jacket. And how about those gloves? Decent price. Maybe I should get a second helmet.
I reached for the order form.
I was an easy sell, in part because in addition to being a junk mail critic, I covet gear. Textile suits and Italian leather jackets are just a start. I get excited about the latest travel bags, tank-mounted video cameras and all manner of roadside emergency equipment. When it comes to riding I live the Boy Scout motto: be prepared. A less flattering label is Gear Whore.
It’s not a good image. But it’s a lot better than the sight of a road-rashed limb from someone who crashed wearing cargo shorts.

Each year, I talk about going on The Big Ride, a multi-state adventure that satisfies my wanderlust while transforming me into a better human being.
And so far, it hasn’t happened. I’ve been on a few overnight rides that could be seen as warm-ups for a long journey but the 2,000-mile odyssey across time zones has eluded me.

For whatever reason, I’m no Captain America. Not even a wild hog.
So it’s a good thing I live where I do on the north coast of California. It’s hard to beat as a jumping off point for mini-adventures. A weekend pass from work and family obligations is ideal but you can have fun with even less time.
Here are three short trips I highly recommend. They all begin and end at the Golden Gate Bridge. If you live outside Northern California, you are just a plane flight and motorcycle rental away from the action.
1. Highway 1/Mendocino loop: This three-county ride takes you to where the Pacific Coast Highway meets the redwoods. From the bridge, go north on Highway 101 to Mill Valley and exit at Hwy 1/Tamalpais Valley Road. It will take you west a bit to Muir Beach before it turns due north through Marin and Sonoma counties.
Good places to stop include Pt. Reyes Station or oyster restaurants on Tomales Bay like Nick’s Cove. A good gas stop about 80 miles north of Pt. Reyes is Gualala. From there, you get into desolate coastal landscape reminiscent of Scottish highlands. Cool towns include Elk and Mendocino. random

Fort Bragg is about 60 miles north of Gualala. It’s a typical beach town with tons of clean, cheap hotels and a decent downtown. The brewpub is not to be missed. The return trip is faster. Head east on Highway 20 to Willits or shoot down Hwy. 1 to Highway 128, and go east through the scenic Anderson Valley. Hwy. 128 is preferred. Plenty of slow, sweeping turns with good asphalt underneath. All roads lead to Highway 101 at Cloverdale. You’ll be slabbing it on the freeway for about 75 miles to get back to Sausalito.
2. Trinity Wilderness (two nights): First day is about 225 miles. Head north from the bridge on Hwy 101 to Hwy 37 and go to Napa. Continue north on Hwy 29 through the famous Napa Valley, past Clearlake and onto Hwy 20. That takes you to Williams on Interstate 5, where you’ll slab it for about 100 miles to Redding. The real fun starts just west of Redding when you get on Highway 299. First, you’ll want to find lodging in Whiskeytown or French Camp. Rest up on this first overnight stop because in the morning you’ll be departing for major adventure on Highway 299. It twists and turns along the Eel River in some of the most spectacular scenery around. Go all the way to Eureka or detour on Hwy 3 to Hayfork.

Then find Hwy 36 and go west. Come down Highway 1/101 through the Avenue of the Giants. You can camp or find a hotel. The Benbow Inn is nice. In the morning ride 200 miles south to san Francisco on Highway 101.
3. Sierra loop (one night): Same as ride No. 2 but when you get to Williams head east through Colusa and Yuba City until to Highway 70. From there, ride northeast as the road ascends along the Feather River.

Spend the night in Quincy, an old logging town on the back side of the Sierra at about 4,000 feet. Next day, ride south to Calpine and get on historic Highway 49 to Grass Valley. Go further south to Auburn and super-slab it 125 miles on Interstate 80 back to San Francisco.

There was a time before recycling went mainstream when people would dig a hole in their backyards and throw just about anything in it.

Got some old insulation you can’t use? Bury it. Old lead-based paint? Bury that, too. Used motor oil? Dump it on the ground.
A back yard wasn’t particularly necessary. I can remember the scene outside the local auto parts store when I was a kid. Grown men drained motor oil in landscaping planters. Used filters were strewn about the parking lot.
Flash-forward a few decades and such behavior is almost unheard of. It’s getting better because of widespread awareness that dumping – whether it’s an old couch or used car batteries – is bad for the earth.
Nowadays, places like auto parts stores and quick-oil-change businesses are helping out by collecting used motor oil at no charge.
At least that’s what I was told by the folks at Ridersrecycle.com. They are all about educating motorcycle riders about correct ways to dispose of oil and filters. Since many of us do our own mechanical work, they want us to known our options.
I decided to test the system. I took a gallon jug of used oil and an old filter down to my local Pennzoil quick lube place to see if they’d take it. Guess what? They did. First, they told me to drive around the side of building. Then an employee came out and asked for my zip code. I gave it to him and he grabbed the jug. He was just about to walk off when I reminded him about my filter. He took that, too. No problemo.
Overall, it was a hassle-free experience. I’d recommend it to anyone. For more information about oil recycling, check out the links at Ridersrecycle.com

Can’t say I’ve ever experienced a two-year erection from any of the three BMWs I’ve owned.
For me, riding such sensible German machines has always had about the same loin-stirring effect as a kiss from my grandmother. And she’s been dead for 15 years.

But the unflagging condition is exactly the claim by a California man who is suing BMW of USA and aftermarket seat makers, Corbin-Pacific, in San Francisco Superior Court.
The plaintiff maintains he’s suffered a constant erection since a 2010 road trip on a bike equipped with the special seat. Ridges designed for comfort instead led to the hardship that has made getting dressed and going to the bathroom a problem, his lawyer said in published reports.
The science behind what’s termed by doctors as a “severe priapism” is clear – blood gets trapped in the penis from prolonged contact with the seat, rendering it unable to return to its flaccid state.
But metaphorically speaking, it seems odd that it would happen on a BMW. BMW riders are more likely to fall asleep or die of old age than spring into a posture of masculine readiness.
When I think of bikes with strong arousal factor, my thoughts usually turn to more manly mounts. Maybe a Harley or a stripped-down racing machine. Ducati, for example, sells a bike called a “testaretta,” which, if I’m not mistaken, refers to some anatomical part that is red.

My own experience with groin-stiffening machines is limited but distinct. I’ve ridden Harleys and Ducatis and owned so-called “hooligan” bikes – Triumph’s Speed Triple and Kawasaki’s ZRX1200r.
Looking back, I’d have to say my “chubbiest” moments came on the Triumph. I stared at the sleek, black, bug-eyed machine for hours the day it arrived from the shippers. Its three-cylinder engine had an unmistakable growl that made my heart race.
But love is fleeting. One morning during a triple-digit run down the freeway, the Trumpet choked on the tip of spark plug and came to a grinding halt. It survived major surgery but the majority of my bank account didn’t.
My feelings waned after that. A guy from Sacramento offered a trade for his cobalt-blue BMW and I took it. I remember the look in his eye when he fired it up and drove off. Major wood.
I was happy with the deal, too. As I rode home on my well-engineered, if not boring, BMW, I took comfort in knowing this bike would never leave me stranded. I could take it cross-country tomorrow. It had smart features like locking bags and a saddle that didn’t make your butt numb after 50 miles.
And suddenly, I felt a tensing down below.

There are a lot of things that bug me about my fellow motorcycle riders.
One thing that really gets under my skin is the practice of greeting other riders on the road with the stupid little two-fingered wave.
It’s not that I’m antisocial or afraid to take my hands off the bars. It just seems insincere. And lame. Why don’t we wave to cars, for instance? Don’t most of us drive cars, too?

And everyone knows you don’t wave to every person on a bike. If you’re like most people you’re selective. You wave to people in your “tribe.” Harley riders wave only to Harley riders. All others confine their greetings to non-Harley riders.
Then there are people (like me) who don’t want to wave but feel obligated. I feel guilty when someone waves at me and I blow them off, which I do sometimes.
So here’s an idea, one that’s been said by others before me: stop waving. Don’t do it. No mas.
Let’s save our mutual admiration for the cantina down the road where we’ll buy each other beers.
That said, there are some meaningful hand signals that we all should continue to do, especially when riding in groups. You see a road hazard, you point it out for the rider behind you with a hand or foot. Speed trap ahead? Slap the top of your helmet to warn oncoming riders. Turn signal left on? Open and close your fist to the person.
And there are many others. Perhaps one of the oldest and most expressive signal is one I’ve been using since junior high. Piss me off enough and I’ll show it to you.
Or, you can check out this website, which has a great guide to hand signals. Here’s the link: www.bestbeginnermotorcycles.com/motorcycle-hand-signals

My wife isn’t what you would call a huge motorcycle fan.
She doesn’t enjoy riding. And she’s not crazy about the fact that I do.
It’s not a matter of fear or safety. Sometimes I get the feeling she’d like to see me crash. Just a little. Something to teach me a lesson. Maybe leave a small scar.
No, her issue is one of money. Bikes are expensive. Every dollar spent on parts or gear is one less dollar to throw at our bills. Or a Hawaiian vacation.

Because I want to stay married, I don’t push it. And when it comes to owning bikes, I buy used and stick to just one.
It’s a bit of a problem because it is so hard to find a bike that’s good for everything. Dual sports will always come up short on the street, crotch rockets aren’t comfortable for long distances and cruisers are boring. Sport-touring bikes seem a logical middle-ground but I’ve found they don’t quite satisfy either.
My wife, meanwhile, is not the least bit sympathetic to this conundrum.
And she’s not alone in her indifference. Fellow riders are constantly grousing about their inability to spend freely. To achieve the Ducati-BMW-Harley trifecta.
Of course, many spend money secretly. And the all time champion of such deceit is a riding buddy I’ll call Tom.
Tom, a painting contractor, developed a small fetish for Buell motorcycles when the
manufacturer announced it was ceasing production.
At a dealer close-out sale one sunny afternoon, Tom wrote a check for not one but three Buells, putting a more than $30,000 dent in his bank account with a quick stroke of a pen.
For some reason it didn’t occur to him that his wife would soon be wielding her own pen over a stack of divorce papers. As a stop-gap measure, he had the bikes delivered to a rented storage unit until he could figure out how to break it to her.
But instead of coming clean, he just … kept the bikes at the storage unit. Forever. Whenever he wanted to ride, he would make up an excuse and head for his bike pad. Kind of like he was having an affair.
Maybe that’s what we’re all doing in some small way.

It sounds too good to be true — and it is.
The description of the nifty sport-touring bike hits all the right notes: One-owner, garage-kept, low miles and dirt cheap.

My heart leaps as I guide my cursor to the tiny pictures on Craigslist and scan the posting for a phone number.
It’s perfect. Just what I am looking for. And it’s only an hour’s drive away.
So I call. Get the dude’s voicemail. Leave a message. Is it too early on a Sunday morning? Nah.
I settle in to wait for his return call. But after staring at my cell phone for five minutes, I jump in the car and head in his direction. He’ll call me while I’m on the road and I’ll get first dibs on the fine machine.
Sure enough, my phone rings a half-hour later and it’s the dude. He’s willing to show the bike right away. Sweet!
I ask a few quick questions, scrawl an address on a piece of paper and hang up the phone.
I’m feeling very good about this. And before you know it I’m at the exit.
That’s when the fun starts. The neighborhood is dicey and dude’s house is no different. A couple of slammed Civics and a ridiculous monster truck are out front. There’s an empty bottle of malt liquor in the gutter. I knock on the door and dogs bark.
Could a decent bike come from this?
The dude appears. He’s about 20. He says, “Hello sir. The bike’s over here.”
He lifts a tarp and there it is. It’s hard to recognize as the same bike in the pictures. But it is the correct make and model.
Close inspection reveals the bike’s got several major oil leaks, bald tires and lots of little scratches and dents – the kind that don’t show up in pictures. The exhaust looks modified and the rear fender looks like it was cut off with a hack saw. The license plate is mounted vertically, under the fender well.
Within 60 seconds I’m ready to leave. I don’t even want to hear it run, much less test ride it.
The dude is talking, though, and I don’t want to be rude. He’s explaining a special modification that increased the horsepower. Something about a dyno test.
“This thing is faassst,” he says with a knowing smile.
I act impressed, nod approvingly when he fires it up and then … say good-bye.
“I’ll call you.”
Of course, I’m lying and I feel a twinge of guilt as I put him in my rearview mirror.
But more than anything I’m kicking myself for my impulsiveness. I didn’t ask enough questions up front and violated my own used-bike buying rules. Insist on pictures. Ask about maintenance records. Never, never buy from young, wannabe-racers. And try to stick to bikes in fancy-schmancy neighborhoods.
As I drive home I think of these things. I’m going to get this right.