BMW F650GS – BMW R1200GS; contrasts and similarities

I owned my 2006 BMW F650 for 26,000 miles; I’ve owned my 2008 R1200GS for about 3,000 miles now. These 29,000 miles encompass all of my riding experience – just under 3 years. When comparing these two machines, there are similarities and contrasts. It is hard to say which bike is the better of the two machines, and truthfully, I don’t know that one of them is better than the other.

I loved my F650 - it was my first motorcycle. This bike taught me how to ride; it was a forgiving and loving creature that put up with all of my inexperience and mistakes. It took me to places flung far from home, showed me freedom, adventure, and brought calmness to my heart, my head and my soul. This mechanical companion was my guardian as I traveled on adventures that would roll over 3,000 miles under her single cylinder Rotax engine. With that being said, it would be very hard to not have a jaded opinion towards this bike. However, the days of my 650 were numbered, and like a true guarding, she sacrificed herself as a Chevy Silverado pulled out in front of me as we were traveling 60 miles per hour. I survived; the bike did not.

I then had a decision to make. Buy a used F650, a new F800GS, or take advantage of a very sweet deal I could get on a brand new 2008 R1200GS. I went the route of the R12. It was not the same as my 650, but I was very excited to have a new bike, and to be riding again. The bikes are different; the R1200 is WAY faster, almost scary fast. It seems like this bike can pretty much keep up with or out perform a lot of the sport bikes out there. It won’t touch a liter bike or a supersport, but I don’t think there is any other bike on the planet that can do what this bike does on the road, and then get down and dirty off-road as well. While truthfully my F650 had plenty of power, enough for me - the difference between the 650 and the 1200 is something beyond night and day. To counter that advantage, I would say that in my opinion, the F650 had a wider power band than the R12. It seems like I could be in just about any gear on the 650 and not have to downshift. Sure I did not have peak performance if I was in 5th gear and slowed down to 40 or 30 without downshifting, but the bike would roll back up to speed without ever complaining. If I were to try that on the 1200, it would bitch fiercely and shutter as the engine lugged back into its peak operating range.

As to off road handling, as weird as it may sound, it seems that the 1200 actually performs better off-road than the 650. There is a huge difference in suspension. If I were riding my 1200 with a skilled or even moderately skilled rider on a 650, I am sure that the 650 would leave the 1200 in the dust. But this is a comparison of my opinion of both bikes and so far, the 1200 seems to handle the dirt better. It may just be that I myself am better at riding off-road, and it is not the bike at all – but when I compare the two, I feel the 1200 handles it better, despite being around 60 lbs heavier. I have ridden over obstacles on the 1200 that would have put me on my ass on the 650.

Aesthetically I think the 1200 looks better than the 650. A lot of people do not agree with me on this point, but beauty is in the eye of the beholder and I have always admired the look of the big GS’s and wished my 650 looked a little more like it’s big brother. I think the biggest thing for me was the beak and headlight. I always thought these two items had more appeal on the bigger bike. Any time I rode it, I would always get people admiring and looking at my F650, mostly when it was parked somewhere. It was a great looking bike and I was complemented on it often. However in the short time I have had the 1200, I have probably already had more people comment on it than 2-1/2 years of ownership of the 650. People routinely stop beside me in traffic and shout out “nice bike” from their car windows. Beauty may be held in the eyes of those casting the gaze, but it seems a larger sect of the population agrees with my eyes.

There is absolutely no contest when looking at mileage and range. The 650 is a very dominantly clear winner in this field. The dual spark single of the F650 would generate 70 MPG on a consistent, day-in day-out basis. There were times when riding the mountain roads in Colorado that I would get up to 96 MPG out of this efficient machine. The lowest gas mileage I ever had to put up with was 56 MPG from a tank when coming home at 85 – 90 miles per hour on a fully bagged out and loaded bike. To date, the best I have been able to squeeze out of the R1200 is about 45 MPG. Of course almost every tank run through the R1200 has included some city traffic, but at almost 3,000 miles on the OD, I am guessing it is probably not going to get much better. Although the tank held about a gallon less fuel, I could easily get 200+ miles out of a tank before the fuel light would come on, and then I knew I had around 70 miles left in the tank. The low fuel light on the R12 comes on around 170 and I probably have right at around 40 miles in the tank. I don’t know that this is going to be a big problem when traveling, I usually tend to stop every 2 – 3 hours anyway when riding, but the comfort zone of knowing I could still go another 70+ miles when the fuel light came on is going to be gone.

There is very little doubt that the 1200 handles better than the 650 – at least once you get used to riding it. I feel much more comfortable leaning into turns on the 1200 than I ever did on the 650. I’m not sure why that is, perhaps the suspension. The 1200 is a bigger bike though and while it handles better when riding at speed, you have to learn how to handle it at low speeds; it turns wider and feels a bit more top heavy than the smaller counterpart. The 650 seemed to be more agile as well. While I am getting used to, and learning how to flick the 1200 around, it was effortless on the 650, and although the additional power certainly helps you get around other vehicles, I felt that the 650 was a better bike in heavy traffic. Of course that may be 26,000 miles of handling one bike vs. only 3,000 miles on the new bike. The only real handling complaint I would have about the 1200 is that it seems to be a little less sure footed when riding over city titties in a turn. It feels more like I would loose traction than it did on the 650.

One thing I am still having a hard time believing is that the air/oil cooled 1200 runs at a lower temperature than the liquid cooled 650. I know the opposing cylinders of the 1200 is a huge advantage in keeping the bike running cool, but even when stopped in 100 degree Texas heat, I really don’t feel the engine heat. I used to feel the heat from by 650 while I was moving, even in cooler weather (which was not always a bad thing by the way…).

As to working on the bike, I was used to and comfortable with doing just about everything on my F650. One of the reasons I choose the R1200GS over the F800GS is that it seemed that everything on the 1200 would be easier to get to and to work on. Of course you have the final drive, but I have some experience with drivelines from working on the machines at my job. The shaft drive is much cleaner; I don’t have to put ATF on the chain after every tank. While talking about final drives, one of the things I liked about the 1200 was that it seemed like it was geared pretty low, as low as my 650 with a 49-tooth rear sprocket and stock 16-tooth front. Of course the issue is that I cannot change the gearing on the 1200 unless I really got into the bike. The 650 was just a change of a sprocket and chain.

Riding at highway speeds truthfully does not feel that much better than it did on the 650. This is the thing everyone always told and/or tells me. That I am going to like the 1200 much more on the highway. In some respect that is a true statement, especially when riding over 70-80 MPH. However, I really do not feel that much of a difference at a steady 70MPH between the two bikes. Sure there is a difference, and of course the 1200 has abundant additional power waiting in the wings at that speed that was not present on the 650. However my month old memory between crashing the old bike to purchasing the new one, did not find a significant difference.

Well, that is my evaluation of the two bikes. Right now, I have to say that I prefer the 1200, but of course I would – that is what I am riding. However if someone were to ask me which to buy, outside of taking the Chinese built engine of the G650GS into consideration. I would steer most first time dual sport riders to the F650. If they were coming off of something with a lot of power then I would recommend the 1200. Hopefully after 23,000 more miles on the new bike, I will find it treated me just as well as the old bike (rest it’s soul).

A morning ride

On a Sunday morning a couple of years ago, I took of on a ride towards what some people have called the North Texas Hill Country. This is the portion of land north of hwy 82, and south of the Red River situated between Muenster and Nacona. The thing I remember the most about the ride was the fact that about 100 miles from home, I got a flat. Being a Sunday and all of the shops closed, getting home simply added to the adventure. Since that time I have wanted to ride this part of Texas again. I have ridden along 82 on my way to and from Colorado, but never took the time to hit the smaller roads to the north. Usually out of desire to get as close to Colorado as I could on the first day out. Finally this past Saturday, I made the trip again.

I’ve know Alonzo for several years, we’ve worked together, traveled together, been known to throw back a beer or two in a couple of different cities, and get into heated discussions regarding the Dallas Cowboys with the fine citizens of those cities. However, we have never ridden motorcycles together. I’ve been riding a little over 2 years now, and Alonzo has been riding longer. It seems each time he is in my office, or me in his, the discussion moves in the direction of motorbikes. Last weekend Alonzo rode down to Austin, and then through the hill country on the way back. He remarked about what a great ride it had been, and I mentioned the ride I had taken just south of the Red River a while back. Over the next couple of days, we had decided to ride that direction on Saturday.

The unwelcome sound of my alarm clock woke me way to early for a Saturday morning. I was meeting Alonzo at 0630 at the corner of Parker Rd and the Dallas North Tollway. He had mentioned that a couple of his neighbors would probably join us, as I sat enjoying a aromic cup of Starbucks, Robert, Valentino and Alonzo came rolling into the parking lot about 10 minutes earlier than expected. A couple of them had to gas up prior to the ride, so a quick stop at the gas station and we were on our way. A rather unique mix of bikes ventured north on the tollway, Alonzo on his Honda VTX1800, Valentino on his Suzuki Boulevard M109 and Robert on his Yamaha FJR 1300, all followed me on my BMW R1200GS through the glowing light of daybreak. We took the quick route north to hwy 455 – heading up the tollway to 380, then north again on 289 until we hit 455. Then it was west on 455 all the way to Montague. The Texas countryside is amazingly scenic and nostalgic, taking you back to a simpler time, a more relaxed pace than the bustle and stop lights of city life. And the calm of the morning enhanced it even more. We’ve had some good rain this spring and the landscape was almost an emerald green topped by a sapphire sky that was brushed with the white and orange clouds that only reveal themselves in the early morning light. The road was a series of sweeping turns, rise and falls in elevation, with a few tight turns to add a bit of excitement. I am at work each day before sunrise, and on the weekends I rarely get out of bed in time to enjoy it. But Sunrise is my favorite time of day, whether awakening to a view of a prehistoric valley from a precipice in Big Bend, or from the seat of a motorcycle riding the country roads of North Texas; they all bring the same sense of well being to my soul. It is one of the times I feel most alive and at peace.

Once we arrived in Montague, it was a short jaunt up 103 before we headed west on 2634. 2634 is where the riding became exhilarating again. While it is not the mountains of Colorado, or the Hill Country of Austin, this area just south of the Red River can hold its own. The pavement was no longer flat, the road would swell up beneath you only to fall away again around a sweeping turn lined by mesquite and live oaks. Little yellow flowers lined the roadway, while perfectly place trees dotted the rolling meadows on the left and to the right. We didn’t even have to slow down for it, but 2953 jutted off of hwy 2634, which eventually gave way to 677 as we headed south towards St. Jo. These roads, along with 373, which we did not ride on this outing, are some of the roads anyone who rides a motorcycle needs to add to their library of routes. In the pre-noon hours of the day, even the hot Texas weather seems like something distant and unfamiliar as we rode into St. Jo at the junction of 677 and hwy 82.

150 years ago, this area was part of the Chisholm Trail that was used to drive cattle from southern Texas up through Oklahoma and on to Kansas. This area was about the start of where the trail had to cross into Indian Territory so I can imagine it was likely a stopping point before crossing the Red River. Although it has been renamed as Biker Roadhouse, there is a little motorcycle apparel shop in St. Jo that used to be called the Chisholm Trail Mercantile in honor of the history of the area. It is a nice destination and place to stop and rest for a bit. The store is really geared more towards the cruiser bikes like Harleys, Alonzo’s VTX and Valentino’s Boulevard, but I stop there any time I am riding through on Hwy 82. The folks are really friendly and it is a great place to stop for a cold drink and just to rest for a while. I’ve even made a few non-cruiser purchases there myself – from Draggin riding jeans, to tire pumps, to a BMW jacket patch. So no matter what kind of bike you are on, you should stop by this little shop in this little town.






By this time it was around 10:30, Alonzo needed to be back in Dallas around noon so the decisions was made to skip the 373 part of the ride and start making our way back to Dallas. As we headed east on 82 towards Muenster and Gainsville, I pulled over and asked the guys if they wanted to take the scenic route back. Silly question to which was answered by a resoundant “Hell Yes”. As we made our way through Meunster, we headed south on 373, a part of the ride I had planned; we just picked it up at a different point. It was a good choice, the riding was great from 373 to 922 all the way back to I-35. The plan was to continue on 922, along the north shore of Lake Ray Roberts, until we hit hwy 377 and on to 121. However as we must not have paid our train bill, there were two trains in opposite directions that were blocking the path of 922 as is passed under I-35. The north bound train was stopped, and the south bound train was moving at an excruciating slow crawl. After about 15 minutes of waiting, we decided that only course of action was to turn around and head south on 35. We made a quick clip down the interstate until our paths crossed 455 again. What the hell… I pulled off the highway, onto 455 and started heading east. The three other bikes followed in close order. As we made our way east, the number of motorcycle on 455 increased like rabbits on a bunny farm. First 2 bikes in front of us and one behind, then one turned of, but another would follow. Then it was a group of 6 approaching bikes, followed by another group of 4. I don’t know where they were at 6:30 in the morning, but they were certainly out by 11 and on their way to enjoy the afternoon the same as we had just enjoyed the morning.

As I exited at Parker Road and waved goodbye to Alonzo, Robert and Valentino, it was just starting to get warm. It had been a great ride and I still had half the day left. I think I need to wake up earlier on the weekends, and start enjoying my favorite part of the day.

The backcountry roads of Big Bend National Park.

Big Bend country is a great place to ride a motorcycle. That experience is even farther enhanced if you have a dual-sport motorcycle. The BMW F650GS is a great ride for such activity. It is geared a little more towards the tarmac side of a dual sport ride, but lets face it, most of the riding most anyone really does on a dual sport is on concrete anyway. The bike takes full advantage of the paved roads that snake their way in and around the park, and has no problems handling anything Big Bend can throw at it when venturing into the rock and sand.

In early September of 2008, Gary booked a wedding in Marathon Texas. Marathon is about 40 miles north of the Persimmon Gap entrance station to Big Bend National Park. It is a very small town, and mostly consists of individuals of a more artistic laid back nature. I went with Gary on this venture to assist in the photography and to take advantage of some riding opportunities that would present themselves during the 5-day sojourn. I won’t get into too much detail about the wedding, only to say that the bride, groom, and their friends and family were genuinely really good people. They included us in everything as friends more than photographers shooting the wedding activities. To give a timeline reference, the night we arrived, we had dinner outside the White Buffalo bar at the Gage Hotel while patrons of the rustic tavern listened to Sarah Palin’s Hockey Mom / Pitt Bull with lipstick GOP Vice Presidential acceptance speech. In a town full of artists, it was interesting to hear the whoops coming from what appeared to be a predominately conservative audience.

We trailered the bikes to Marathon as we needed to bring a lot of camera equipment and it made more sense than trying to pack all of the equipment along with everything else onto the bikes. However there was plenty of riding to be had. The distance between Marathon and the park headquarters at Panther Junction is 70 miles. While the road out of Marathon is fairly straight and flat, it quickly starts twisting and turning its way through the hills not to long afterward. The first ride we made to the park was the in the cool clean morning the day after we arrived. After we had stopped by the park headquarters, gassed up, got some snacks and drinks, we headed west towards Castolon.



The River Road
The river road takes off of the main road about 5 miles prior to arrival in Castolon. And that was our destination for the day. The 51 miles of the river road more or less follow the Rio Grande. I have driven this road several times, but until now had never ridden it on a motorcycle. If I were to write a travel guide for motorcycles, I would only have 5 words to say – The River Road Is Fun…. This unbeaten path of Chihuahuan desert is a great ride on a dual-sport bike; there is just the right mix of sand and rock. As soon as we would get to a spot where the sand would get the back tire of the bike fishtailing, it would become rocky and manageable again. Never did we get to a point where there were massive amounts of beach to cross. Just enough to let you know it was there and keep you on your toes. The scenery was unprecedented, it was getting towards the end of the rainy season in Big Bend, and the desert was in full bloom. The western part of the river road is the more difficult part, and that’s the part of the road we were staring from. Living up to that reputation, there were even several water crossings we had to contend with. One particularly long stretch of submerged washed out road we crossed was more or less the beginning of yet another adventure/ordeal on yet another trip to Big Bend National Park. We had just made our way through this obstacle and the road smoothed out. I was riding fast; the bike was performing great, small jumps, a little air, controllable terrain, and great scenery. Everything was perfect, and I was enjoying it to the full extent a 450 lb 650cc bike on aired down Michelin Anakee tires would allow. After a mile or two something changed however, the back end began to feel mushy, at first I just thought it was the terrain, however after a few seconds, I realized there was something wrong. I pulled the bike to a stop on a flat level part of the road right after a small hill. As I was stopping the bike the vision of a dead tire sloshing its way around beneath me was running through my head. When inspected, sure enough – Flat Tire. Damn-it. That was the last thing I wanted or needed, to be changing a tire out in the middle of the Chihuahuan desert. Sometimes things are what they are, no matter how hard you want them not to be, and for me that thing was a flat tire. As I got the bike up on the center stand, Gary approached from the direction that I had just come. He said that he had seen me stop, and was wondering why I did so and got off the bike. As he rode up the hill to where the road flattened out, he saw me putting the bike on the center stand and figured we would be spending the next few minutes repairing a flat. The next action, I have to claim sheer stupidity, sheer laziness, and a sheer case of not thinking. I’m not sure why… but for some stupid reason I thought filling the tire with a can of fix-a-flat might do the trick and get me back on my way. This method had got me a hundred miles home once in the past, before I started carrying tire irons. But this time it was a big mistake. The fix-a-flat did nothing to patch the hole in the tube, and all it ended up doing was making an easy job a big pain in the ass that took much longer than it should have. In the end getting the bead broken and the old tube out was a piece of cake with two people, the problem was all of the fluid that had leaked out of the busted tube, into the tire… I spent probably 30 minutes just trying to clean all the gray, milky, sticky crap out of the tire and rim. I had to get it out so that the new tube did not bind, pinch, and rupture when inflated. To add to the experience the painstaking task was achieve under the hot desert sun. Another stupid act on our part was to leave the manual tire pump back at camp. I had a C02 tire inflator, but the cartridges did not exactly fit. It took all 4 cartridges to get the tire partially inflated and the tire never set the bead completely against the rim. However, as we pretty much had no other alternatives, I would have to ride it as it was. At this point we had made our way about 15 miles down the road. We were just getting to the old Johnson Ranch airfield that served as a USAF station in the early 1900’s. As we would have another 35 miles to cross if we continued east, we decided the best course of action was to turn around and head back towards Castolon. Amazingly enough, the bike performed exceptionally well on a half inflated, un-beaded tire. Once I got to the point of realizing the tire was going to be okay, I started riding a little harder again and the bike was performing great. I knew that deflating the tires a bit helped off-road traction, but I had never deflated below about 28 lbs, as it were, I was running the rear tire at 15 lbs and it was doing great. You probably would not want to be crossing any rugged rocky terrain like this, but it was great for the road we were on.

Once we got back to the paved road, we headed west about 5 miles into Castolon. Castolon was an old army fort and barracks built back at the turn of the century when the US was having boarder issues with our neighbors to the south. It has been restored and today acts as a visitor center and store. We almost always make our way to Castolon on our trips to the Park. One of the things we were happy to see was that there is now cell phone service in Castolon. We called the motorcyclist best friend in the Big Bend country, Ralph at Cycletek. We told him of our situation and he agreed to meet us in Terlingua with a new set of tubes and a portable electric pump. About ½ hour later we were talking to Ralph, and a fresh set of tubes for both bikes, along with a Slime compact air compressor joined the other tools in my Jesse Luggage.

We did not need to be back at the Gage for a few more hours, so we decided to head up 118 toward Alpine. As we were blasting our way north on hwy 118, we had just passed the VFW post when Gary stopped, turned around, and headed back. We pulled into the parking lot of the VFW; walked inside and ordered up a couple of ice cold Tecate’s. After a hard day of riding on and off road, the cerveza’s hit the spot just perfectly. We chatted to the veterans at the VFW for a while and then mounted our bikes and continued on towards Alpine. Hwy 170 is probably the most scenic ride in the area, if not the state, however 118 holds it own - especially as you start approaching Alpine from the south. Rolling hills, winding roads, beautiful geological formations, it pretty much has it all, plus when riding the roads of southwest Texas’ Big Bend country, there is rarely any other vehicles to contend with. We arrived in Alpine and headed east back towards Marathon. We arrived back at the Gage hotel with just enough time to clean up, take a shower and get ready for dinner with the wedding party. There was an activity scheduled for the next morning, that we were invited so. It sounded like a fun time, and something fun to photograph. With the morning and evening activities set, we knew we would have a few hours set aside for riding the next day.

The Stillwell Ranch and La Linda
After photographing the morning event, we had some time before the rehearsal dinner that evening in Alpine. We decided that we wanted to ride to the old La Linda Bridge. A quick jaunt down 385 took us to FM 2627 right before the entrance to the park. Upon heading east on 2627, we entered the Black Gap Wildlife Management area. Like everything in this county, it was a spectacularly scenic desert ride. One of the things that really surprised me was how the road following the contour of the earth, undulated beneath the rubber side of the bike. The road is not traveled very often and you had to watch for build up of sand along the sides of the road in the low spots. However there was nothing to keep you from enjoying the road at a high rate of speed. About 6 miles east of the turn off from 385 is the Stillwell Store. The Stillwell’s owned a very large Ranch in this part of the country a little after the turn of the century. Hallie Stillwell was the patriarch from the age of 19 until she passed away in 1997 at the age of 99. She was a Texas Legend. If you can remember Barbara Stanwyck in a 60’s-70’s TV show called The Big Valley (I think that is what it was called), the show portrayed here as a rugged rancher woman, well Hallie was the real thing and old Babs would look like a scared little school girl in comparison. The store is mostly a stop for people visiting the Stillwell Ranch, but the also have a museum dedicated to Hallie’s 100 years in this county. We did not have time to tour the museum, but did have some time to sit and talk to Hallie’s granddaughter, and it was some interesting conversing. After a snack and drink at the store, we headed on towards the La Linda Bridge. I can’t say that there was much to see at the crossing that was shut down in 1997, but you can look across into La Linda Mexico. I don’t know if they still mine fluorspar there, but it looked as if the town was still somewhat active. After spending a short time at the bridge, we headed back to the hotel. Upon arriving back at the hotel, we figured what time we left, returned and the number of miles we clicked off. We calculated our average speed and determined that it was a “Fast Ride”. We had enough time to get cleaned up and make it to the Reata Restaurant in Alpine early enough to photograph the wedding party as they arrived.



Old Ore Road
Saturday was the wedding, so there were no motorcycle adventures, however Sunday would host another dual-sport ride. As the wedding ran pretty late, we did not get an early start on Sunday. After breakfast, we made our way back to the park. A few miles after the park entrance the Dagger Flat road takes you east towards Dagger Flats, before you get there, Old Ore Road winds its way for 26.4 miles south. Zinc and Silver Ore, used to be mined in this area in the early 1900’s, and Old Ore Road is what was used to move the ore from Boquillas Canyon to the Railroad in Marathon. You would not recognize this today as the vast majority of it was paved over to become Hwy 385. However this portion of the road as remained. For the most part is has been un-maintained for almost 100 years now. This is a great road whether driving it in a 4x4, or riding it on a motorcycle. I have driven every back country road in Big Bend National Park, and have driven portions of Old Ore, but never from start to finish so this would be a first time experience for me. All of the back country roads in Big Bend give you access to parts of the park over 90% of the visitor never see, and if you want to see the real Big Bend, it is these roads you have to venture forth on. The vistas are spectacular from just about any of the roads, any time you are on them. However taking one of them for the first time is probably the best time of all. The riding was fairly technical, at least for me. A lot of rocks, hill climbs, descents, ruts, sand and mud. And it was electrifying. As falling is a part of off-road riding, I took full advantage of the opportunity. The first time was the classic, try to pass Gary in the sand and bust my ass. It seems that almost every time I pass Gary off road that happens… (or I get a flat…). But it was fun and I got up laughing about it. The terrain was widely varying, there were parts of the road you could ride really fast, and other parts you had to take really slow. As we approached parts of the road we would find interesting, we would stop and check them out for a bit. At one point on a rocky hill climb, Gary’s rear tire slipped out from under him, and down he went with a thump. Gary was unhurt, but there was a little damage to the bike, nothing to keep him from riding safely, just a broken peg. A few miles later it was my turn again. It was a rutted out hill climb, I was down in the rut and decided I needed to get out of it and apparently gave it too much throttle. To my surprise, the bike JUMPED out of the rut and launched itself right into and almost over the embankment on the side of the road. The Jesse luggage took the brunt of the impact and the bike and luggage came out completely undamaged. I gotta say, that is some tough luggage. As we made our way to around 20 miles from the northern part of the road, it became a little smoother and – to be honest, more boring. I had been on this part of the road several times before on the way to Ernst Tinaja, and perhaps that familiarity in comparison to the virgin territory we had just crossed made it seem more boring. However it was a good finish to the off-road portion of the ride. We hit the pavement where Old Ore joins the park road a few miles west of Rio Grande Village. We road west into an afternoon sky of painted clouds and silhouetted mountains. A reward for our hard earned journey down Old Ore Road. Black Gap Road used to be my favorite backcountry road in Big Bend, I think it has now been replaced by Old Ore. While not as scenic, it was certainly more fun to ride. We are planning to ride this road again the next time we are down there.

Which Side are you on?

So, I installed my Garmin Zumo GPS on the new bike yesterday. It was a relatively simple project considering I also installed a bus relay to connect it to. In connecting the relay wire to the source, I removed the windscreen. Again, not a big deal – however what I failed to notice is that the brackets that hold the front of the windscreen, which also allow it to pivot, were different between the right and left. When I was reinstalling the windscreen, I had to stop and figure out which one went on which side. German engineering, being German engineering – they were actually marked R & L, telling me which one went on the right, and which one went on the left. Of course, me being me, I had to over analyze it and question… is that the right and left when sitting on the bike, or the right and left when facing the bike??? Right and Left are relative. I figured that relativity was in relation to sitting on the bike and the installation of the windscreen went flawlessly. However it made me think of my old sailing days. Sailboats, or any boat for that matter, have a Port Side and a Starboard side. Port and starboard are not relative, they are a specific side of the boat, no matter if you are facing the bow or facing the stern. Port always remains Port, and Starboard always remains Starboard – even if you are taking about a different boat out on the water. With cars we tend to rationalize right and left by defining “driver side” and “passenger side”, this is of course exactly the same way of viewing port and starboard. Albeit, they would technically be opposite if you were in England, Australia, South Africa, or India… but we won’t go there. On a bike however there is no driver side and no passenger side, unless you are talking about front and back. Even the drive side on a bike isn’t universal; my bike has a right side drive (while sitting on the bike), while most others have a left side drive. I wonder if we should come up with some common terminology for describing the sides of a motorcycle. Maybe Throttle Side and Clutch Side? But certainly we could come up with something as unique as Port and Starboard that would make those who ride have that extra little sense of mystery about them, just like those who sail. But then again, I guess we always have the wave.

Like Superman with a Cape

I wrote this over a year ago, figured I would post it here.

11/18/07

I bought a motorcycle a little over a year ago. It’s something I have always thought of a lot during my life, but something I just never did. In the year-plus I have owned my bike, I have racked up about fourteen thousand miles. Gather from that – I like to ride. Whether that is in the 06:00 pre-rush hour 70+ MPH heavy traffic on the way to work in the morning, riding around McKinney on the weekend, riding the back roads of Big Bend National Park, or a 3,000 mile 10 day trip through Colorado. I find enjoyment in all of them. There is something about it, not to sound cliché – but something about it that sets me free, something that heightens my senses, makes me feel alive, closer to Zen, calmer and more intense at the same time. I think it is as close to flying as you can get, not like flying in a plane, but flying like you had wings – like you are superman with a cape. The speed, the agility, the vision. The awareness of what is going on around you. The smells. You smell everything when you ride a bike, both good and bad. When I ride in the country, the sky is so big, the clouds are so grand, God is so close. A friend of mine said he went for a ride on a Sunday. His wife asked him why he did not go to church that day, he told her he had just been to church – I know exactly what he meant… When I ride there are no cell phones, I very rarely listen to my iPod when I ride, so there is no music, just the sound of the wind. Just the solitude of my thoughts, nothing to focus on but what is going on around me, whether that be a lady on a cell phone in a suburban, or a hairpin turn with a mountain on one side and a river on the other. It’s the perfect stress relief from work and day-to-day life. Riding is therapy, at least for me. Does it solve any deeply rooted problems, probably not, but when things start getting me down, I can take a ride and realize that things are not really as bad as they may seem. It has become, in a romantic sort of way – the guardian of my sanity.

There is so much more to say about riding, is it dangerous – yes, in some respect, but as I have said before, I am not afraid of death anymore. And then there is the camaraderie of riding, “the wave”, etc… all things I really am not going to get into right now.
I don’t ride a Harley, but they have the adage “Live to Ride, Ride to Live”, I don’t know if I would quite go that far, there are certainly other things in life besides motorcycles. But mine has certainly added a new and enjoyable aspect to my life.

Elephant Tusk

I climbed Elephant Tusk once. I am certain it will not be considered a great accomplishment in the annals of mankind, but as far as the research tells me, I am the 5th person to reach the summit. Who knows what Indian may have climbed it on his or her herbally enhanced spiritual quest many, many moons ago, or what Spanish explorer may have climbed it because he thought he would find his golden riches at the summit – but as far as what I can find that has been recorded, Gary was number 4, and trudging slightly thereafter I increased the number to 5. It was an accomplishment for me, and something I will remember for the rest of my life. By climbing standards I guess it is considered a Class 4 climb because of a 40-50 foot section that technically you should use ropes – we didn’t, but that’s because… well we were just probably stupid (and did not have ropes). I will always remember this climb because for me, it was a feat that would constitute a “life-changing event”. Most of the climb was just physically difficult, I remember both of us were pretty exhausted after the 5 mile hike from the campsite, the assent, the descent, and the 5-mile hike back to camp (which was difficult enough as it was an unmarked open desert hike). And I don’t know if it was as profound for Gary as it was for me. For me there was a specific moment, about 200 yards or so from the summit that I had more or less got stuck. I was following Gary, and he had just made his way around a ledge. I tried to follow the same path that Gary had taken, but when I did I had placed my foot on a rock that was extremely loose. The rock I was holding onto to make this move was like a big tombstone. I had to hold on to the tombstone rock, put my foot on the loose rock and swing across. There was what seemed like a thousand foot drop below on both sides. As things seem to be larger than life in these types of situations, and I’m sure it was no more than a couple of hundred feet, but 200 feet or 1,000 – to me it seemed like the depths of the deepest trench the ocean has to offer. If the rock beneath my foot had not been loose, it would have been no big deal, if the drop on either side had only been a few feet, it would have been no big deal. But the rock was loose, and that was what was presenting me my opportunity for a life changing moment. I knew what I really had to do was to get a solid grasp on the tombstone with one hand, and swing myself around the thousand-foot drop to the ledge on the other side. Needless to say, I got stuck…. Not stuck physically, but stuck mentally. Rock climbing in Big Bend National Park, is not recommended – because of the loose rocks, couple that with the fact that I am NOT a rock climber and I was not in a good place at that particular moment. I must have been there for 5 minutes – but that 5 minutes escalated into what seemed like an eternity. I knew all I had to do was get a good hand hold, and swing my body across, the fact was that I could still use my foot on the loose rock, I just would not want to put any real weight on it in case it broke loose. I had been doing this for at least the past 30 minutes; from the moment the climb became climbing and not just walking up a very steep hill. I had just not been maneuvering in this fashion with a sheer drop below and certain or probable death as a result of a slip. I guess I could have turned around and made my was back down, but that was not why I had made it to within 200 yards of the summit, and turning around at that particular point on that particular mountain was not exactly the easiest task accomplished either. I thought of a lot of things during that “eternity”, I don’t know that I really need to get into all of them here, but they were about my life, about what I was made of, about whether or not I had the strength to overcome that fear at that particular moment. All of the classic stuff you read about in a book when someone weathers a storm in a small sailboat or something like that. In the end, I did swing across the tombstone, the rock did crumble beneath my foot and fall to its painful death below, and I did make it to the summit. The rest of the climb to the summit seemed like nothing after that – including the 20 or so yards that was no wider than a floor tile with sheer drops on both sides. I was pretty elated at the top. I could not wait to get back down and back to camp to have a beer. The descent went much smoother than I was anticipating. The hike back to camp, well that is another story as it got dark, open desert hike, we ran out of water, and got a little disoriented, but all of this happened only a mile or so from camp and after looking back at it, was really more of an annoyance than anything. When we got back to camp, all I wanted to drink was water, a beer was supposed to be on the agenda, but upon our return I was not even thinking of a beer. Eventually we did have that beer, but it was not as enjoyable as it was going to be when we were at the summit. I think because by the end of it all we were pretty exhausted. We both swore we would NEVER climb Elephant Tusk again, been there, done that, no need to do it again – on the way out the park, we gave old ET the one finger salute several times, both in defiance and in respect - probably just a little more respect in a “F-you, you kicked our ass” sort of way. That was October of 2004, it is now August of 2007, and we have actually talked about climbing ET again…. Don’t know if we are just stupid, or just intrigued. I don’t know if anyone else has climbed it since then, the only record we have found regarding anyone climbing it, was that someone attempted it in ’06, got stuck and had to be rescued. I guess the only way we will know for sure is to climb it again, find the register at the top, and see if there are any other names after 4 & 5 from McKinney Texas.

Gary and Eddie at the Summit of Elephant Tusk.

The toys of Middle Aged Men - Bois D'Arc Trails 05.31.09

The other day somebody asked me what “middle age” was. My simple reply was “me”. They just laughed. Then I went and proved it, not by going out and acquiring that bastion of middle-aged men, the corvette… no, that would be way to sensible. I went and bought a dirt bike instead. A toy that is not the standard choice of middle aged men, but the toy of middle aged teenage boys. While I have ridden my GS in some places that most people would probably not ride a motorcycle of that size, I had never ridden a true dirt bike, until a few weeks ago. And I had to have one. If you have been reading this blog, you will know by now that lately we have been frequenting the off-road parks, most commonly – Bois D’Arc Trails. It is a great venue for families and for middle age men to learn how to ride a dirt bike. It seems to have something for everyone, including the experienced riders.


The bike I bought was from a friend of mine, Bret. I have known Bret for over 15 years, in fact we were roommates at one point – and I should probably just leave those times to the history books. Nobody really needs to know the discussions after shooting crown at Champs, or the 2 AM 4x4 excursions in my Xterra. Bret had purchased a 2000 Yamaha XT 350 about a year ago, and painstakingly rebuilt it. He has a lot of blood, sweat and tears into that bike. We were catching up about a week ago, and I mentioned that I was going to buy a dirt bike. He suggested that I buy his as he was looking to move it. And as he said when we finalized the transaction under the twisted wood of the ancient Bois D’Arc tree, “the bike was staying in the family”.


We got out to the park around 10 on Sunday morning. When we got there we met Howard and Price, the owners of the park. These were two of the nicest guys you would ever want to meet. They have a really well laid out off road park, and in my opinion are running it right. Parents can take their kids out and not have to worry about them getting run over while they learn or hone their skills. A little later, Dave and Dawn showed up, and around 1:00 Gary, Rachel, and the kids arrived. We had a nice set up under the shade of one of the trees. A little later in the day, Marcus arrived and brought our number to nine. The day was spent riding, talking, eating (thanks Rachel and Dawn for the great eats… AGAIN!), and just hanging out. A great way to spend a hot, sunny, Sunday afternoon in North Texas. Not exactly cruising around in an air conditioned Corvette, but once you were out on the trails trying to tear up your newly acquired Yamaha – you don’t need AC, and you forget exactly how old you are.

for more images of the day click here