The problem with custom

(Originally published on RideApart)

I spend a lot of time playing the "What I Want Next" game, daydreaming about the dozens upon dozens of bikes (and bike-related things) I'd like to own. As a result, I spend a lot of time reading reviews and descriptions of bikes. One sentence that occasionally shows up, which annoys the heck out of me, is: "This motorcycle makes a great base for customization."

Ugh.

My level of annoyance varies depending on the bike, of course. I don't feel too upset when the base in question is something like the Triumph Street Twin or Indian Scout Sixty — quality machines in and of themselves. They don't necessarily need to be improved upon, it's simply the case that the opportunity is there if you have the will and the wallet.

Other bikes, however — and I'm looking at you, Harley-Davidson Street 750 — are steaming piles of poo. And in that case the "great base for customization" claim feels like a cop-out, a means of ignoring the fact that a manufacturer is trying to get you to buy a product that it knows is not good enough.

To inspire you to overlook the bike's obvious shortcomings, a manufacturer will fill its Instagram feed with images of motorcycles that have been transformed by someone who likely possesses far more skill than you.

I mean, for the love of Pete, if I were as talented as, say, Roland Sands or Shinya Kimura or David Borras, I wouldn't be buying a brand new motorcycle to serve as my base. I'd be making up stuff on my own because I'd be a genius. And if I did rework one of these bikes that are claimed to be "a great base for customization" it would be only because a manufacturer had come to me a with fistfuls of money.

Malasana yoga pose

I'm guessing that's what happened when Roland Sands made all those really cool Scout Sixty flat trackers a few months ago. I love those things. Primarily because they eliminate my one complaint about the Scout/Scout Sixty: low seat height. As a guy who's 6 foot 1, I don't really want a bike that forces me into the malasana yoga pose. But as a fan of Indian, I would like a Scout. I want that Scout Scrambler I've been dreaming about for more than a year.

Since I'm not as clever as Roland Sands, the only way to get such a bike is to pay someone else to build it. So, not too long ago, I got in touch with one of the UK's best known motorcycle shops, Krazy Horse, to ask if they could do the job.

"Yes, we can," they told me. "But it will be costly."

Then they ran down the list of bits and bobs that would be needed: longer shocks, fender points, spacers, new forks, new wheels, longer brake lines, longer clutch cable, etc. Fine, fine. It makes sense that one needs lots of different parts to create an essentially different bike.

"How costly is 'costly'?" I asked.

"Well, cost will change based on the specific parts you choose," they explained. "But to give you an idea, if you wanted the Ohlins rear shocks that Roland Sands used, they would be about £1,500 alone." (That's US $2,150)

And that's pretty much where the conversation ended. If just one set of parts was going to cost that much I knew the whole thing would be beyond my meagre resources.

Harley-Davidson knows this custom is better than the standard Street but refuses to offer anything close to as good.

Now, at this point, you're probably thinking: "So, what exactly are you complaining about here, Chris? That you're too stupid to build a bike? That you're too poor to have someone else do it for you?"

Well, sort of, yes. Maybe it's childish and unreasonable to say this, but the whole thing feels unfair in some way. Manufacturers entice us with incredible customizations that are simply unattainable to the average rider. But in performing these customizations on entry-level machines, there's an implicit suggestion that they should be attainable, a suggestion that you should not be happy with the out-of-the-box product. For some reason that irks me.

If a manufacturer knows its bike could be better, why not make it better?

It's not like this happens in other parts of life. I don't fork out money for a brand-new coat and say to myself: "This coat will be great as soon as I sew in a new liner, take in the waist, add a fleece collar, and replace the zipper with a sturdier one."

I don't want to buy a washing machine and have to put in a different motor. I don't want to buy plates and have to paint and glaze them myself. I want to be happy with the things I purchase when I purchase them. Along with this, spare a thought for the poor soul who doesn't live anywhere near a good custom shop — the person stuck in a town full of Orange County Choppers wannabes.

Of course, exclusivity is arguably the point of customization. The more expensive the build, the better. The more challenging it is to find someone who can interpret your vision into metal and paint, the more special you feel. I get that. And that's life; some people will have things you don't have, even when you really wish you had them.

Additionally, if a manufacturer doesn't sell the bike I want, I don't have to buy it and try to turn it into something else. I can just go out and buy a BMW RnineT — nothing wrong with that thing.

I still can't get over the feeling, however, that in some way it is all a bit unfair. But I can't quite come up with a reasonable suggestion of the way things ought to be instead. Perhaps I'm just overthinking it. I am, aren't I?

ADSENSE HERE

Does it matter where stuff is made?

(Originally published on RideApart)

I've become obsessed with the idea of getting an Aerostich Roadcrafter, the famously unsexy safety onesie favored by adventurers and moto-journalists. I mean, just about every two-wheel-loving scribbler out there seems to wear one: John Burns, Jamie Elvidge, Marc Cook, Gabe Ets-Hokin, that guy who goes camping with dogs... 

And since I've been known to describe myself as a moto-journalist –– primarily just to annoy my father –– I feel I should look the part. But also, 'Murica y'all.

Roadcrafter suits are made in the God-blessed United States of USA Land –– specifically Minnesota, where I spent many of my formative years –– and the idea of being able to represent my home country every time I ride hits the semi-illogical pleasure center of my brain where patriotic thoughts are most often stored. Indeed, I think that may be the main reason I want an Aerostich: patriotism.

But I'll admit to being a man of fickle allegiances. I've lived in Her Majesty's United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland for almost 10 years now, and I've developed some affection for it. As such, there may be an argument for my buying one of the textile suits made by Hideout, a company based in the English county of Hertfordshire.

I've met some of the women who run and work at the business, and that humanizes the product for me. It makes the idea of Hideout gear feel more important, more special.

Hideout Hi-Pro Adventure suit

In both cases –– Aerostich and Hideout –– the goods are said to be of extraordinary quality. And with that, comes an extraordinary price tag. In the case of the 'Stich, you're looking at shelling out upward of $1,700 for a suit with additional bells and whistles and some tailoring. Meanwhile, a two-piece from Hideout easily heads north of $2,300.

That's eyewatering, but keep in mind a two-piece from Rukka can put an equally large hole in your wallet: about $2,200. Buy the best two-piece suit Klim has to offer, and you could end up paying more than $2,500.

In my mind, I've dismissed those last two. Rukka gear comes from China, and asking the origin of Klim stuff results in a murky, apologetic admission that it comes from a lot of places, none of which are the United States.

All of this is academic, of course. I have nothing close to the money needed for even the least-expensive of these options. But I tell myself that if I did I would want my gear to be "local" (local either to where I'm from or where I am presently).

This speaks to an idea of goods origin that I've been developing recently. I want my stuff to come first and foremost from 'Murica, but if that's not possible, I'd like it to be from the UK or Ireland. After that, Canada and Mexico, then the European Union, and finally, any one of the other 75 countries at the top of the Democracy Index.

But, of course, that's hard to do. I'm writing to you on a device that was assembled in China: a country listed well below those top 75. And in inspecting the labels on the clothing I'm wearing right now, I'm only scoring 1 out of 5 in the conscientious buying game.

Aerostich Roadcrafter Classic

Meanwhile, perhaps simply to assuage feelings of guilt, I can't help asking myself if it really matters.

I mean, let's say I had the money for one of Hideout's fancy, made-to-measure get-ups. I don't know their gear to be demonstrably superior to, say, Rukka or Klim. Hideout suggests as much, but you'd expect it to say that. Finding independent reviews to back up that claim is a challenge (equally, I can find no negative reviews).

Still, I'd choose the UK brand because it's a UK brand. Because I've met some of the people who make it, but more broadly because I like the UK.

Effectively then, I'm deciding that something is "good" because its staff and manufacturing facilities are located in a place that is familiar to me. I assume they are people "like me" –– people who share the same Western values as myself, whose ideals align with my own. Is this silly? Is it jingoistic?

And more importantly, does it matter? The Vietnamese guy or gal who made the Triumph-branded riding suit that I wear at the moment is probably a cool person. But if he or she isn't, who cares? And what does it matter if he or she agrees with my world view? I bought the suit because it was the best thing I could afford at the time, and it's held up pretty well over the 21,000 miles I've worn it thus far. Shouldn't that be what matters?

Maybe. I clearly haven't gotten my undies in a twist over the fact that I don't ride a motorcycle that was made in the US or UK. For all my pro-Minnesota blustering I don't (yet) have a Victory or Indian in my shed. (Though, I will point out that the Suzuki V-Strom 1000 is made in Japan –– no. 20 on the Democracy Index)

Japanese bike in Luxembourg

I honestly can't decide which is the correct position to hold. I can't decide if "local" is actually important or if I just feel that way. I will say though, that none of this pondering has stopped me from setting aside money each month for an Aerostich.

And when I finally do get one, you can bet I'll be paying the extra $15 to have them sew on an American flag. If they can scrounge up a Minnesota flag, I might have them sew on one of those, too. Because who wouldn't want to be associated with the home of Prince, Dairy Queen, and Great Clips?

ADSENSE HERE

Europe 2015 pt. IV: It suddenly gets interesting

"Planning is the enemy of adventure"

––– Jamie Duncan

My grandmother passed away a few weeks ago, which was devastating for any number of reasons. First and foremost, of course, is the simple fact she's gone. My grandmother was a superwoman and I had genuinely expected her to live, and thrive, at least to the age of 120. She was a sprightly 88 years old when we found out in late March she had leukemia and I had anticipated it as being nothing more than an inconvenience for her. It was more than that. She died on 9 May.

I am blessed to have been so heavily influenced by her, so I know that I have the intestinal fortitude to move forward, even though it doesn't feel like it right now.

Anyway, in practical terms, attending her funeral in Texas blew a massive hole in my finances. International flights on less than a week's notice do not come cheap. I maxed out my credit card and used almost all the money I had been setting aside for July's trip to Tuscany.

When I returned to Britain I sat down to look at the state of things and my initial feeling was that the European adventure would have to be scrapped. Then the July issue of Bike magazine came through my door, featuring an article about motorcyclists travelling on a limited budget, and I thought: "Well, you know, maybe."

So, I'm now rapidly trying come up with solutions to salvage the trip. All that stuff about screens, tank bags, CamelBaks,textile jackets and sat-navs I mentioned previously is totally out the window, of course. If I don't already have it, I ain't taking it.

Which is OK. After all, my ferry to Rotterdam is already paid for. I already have a top-notch motorcycle. I already have panniers and Kriega bags and a tangle of bungee cords. And I've already got all the camping gear.

Because that's the biggest thing I've realised: if I'm going to make this trip work, hotels are out. I will be roughing it.

This is in Switzerland, apparently. Who knows? I might end up sleeping here.

The implications of that last statement has been keeping me awake at night. It adds a whole new dynamic, a whole new set of challenges. First and foremost, of course, is the challenge of how to do it.

Not camping, I mean. I used to spend days by myself trekking the Superior Hiking Trail, sleeping amongst the wolves and bears and myriad other wildlife of Minnesota, so I am confident in my ability. And, although it's a little old, I'm equally confident in my gear. I am equipped to spend several days on foot in wilderness, so I'm sure I'll manage just fine on a motorcycle through more civilized terrain.

The thing that's vexing me is the question of where: How do I find out about camping spots? I've never been to Germany/Switzerland/Italy and I don't speak the languages. How do I find out where I can sleep cheap (or better yet, for free)? And what's the process? What are the ins and outs?

For example, if this trip were taking place in the United States, I would know to aim for state parks, national forests, national parks, wilderness refuges, etc. I might stay at designated sites, or I might just pick a spot that's far away from everything else and keep out of sight. With designated campsite areas I wouldn't bother to book ahead because: a) I might find some place better along the way; b) campsites exist in time vortices, so there is no way to accurately gauge how long it will take you to get to one.

But, see, in the above scenario I am fluent in the common language, possessing the vocabulary to ask specific questions and receive specific answers from locals about where to go, as well as the nuanced ability to (try to) talk my way out of trouble if I get caught setting up a tent where it isn't technically allowed. I lose that in Germany, Switzerland and Italy.

Meanwhile, living in Britain has taught me that the definition of natural space isn't as clear cut as I used to think. For example, the term "national park" has a dramatically different meaning. The picture below was taken inside a "national park" (Yorkshire Dales). It's charming and lovely, but setting up a tent and frying some eggs in the middle of it would be difficult to do unnoticed.

Grassington, England. In the heart of Yorkshire Dales National Park

Meanwhile, the entire concept of camping is unrecognizably different here. Where it is allowed, camping in Britain is more akin to spending time in a refugee camp. No, really. Here's an image of a refugee camp in Africa, and here's an image of a campsite in Britain. Bafflingly, available spaces in the latter will book up months in advance. If life on the continent is anything like it is here in the Soggy Nations, I may find it very difficult to get by on wits and luck.

Still, unless someone with experience wants to tell me what a terrible idea it is, I'm inclined to try to tackle the question of sleeping accommodations in continental Europe the same way I would in the God-blessed United States of America. I'm encouraged to do this for a number of reasons:

1. Practicality. See the above statement about going sans sat-nav. As such, I will struggle to accurately predict destination times. I don't want to put myself into a situation of trying to arrive somewhere that turns out to be 3 hours further away than I imagined.
2. It's most likely my camping will take place in Germany and Switzerland. In my years of backpacking in Minnesota, California, Utah, Nevada, and Colorado I ran into a lot of Germans and Swiss. Which leads me to hope-believe our understandings of nature and how to function within it are similar.
3. The German word for camping is "camping." The word for campsite is "campingplatz." I feel confident I will be able to remember this.
4. Germans (and presumably the Swiss, as well) are really smart. I've honestly never met a German who didn't possess a more impressive English vocabulary than myself. So, I'm optimistic that communication won't be as much of a problem as it might if I were travelling to, say, Kazakhstan.
5. I have noticed on my map of Switzerland a number of little blue tent-esque triangles which I perceive to represent campsites (campingplätze). The map key doesn't really say what they are, so they may turn out to be something else entirely: missile silos or brothels. I'm guessing campingplätze, though, and there are a decent number of these triangles. Enough that if one campingplatz is full, I should be able to arrive at another before der nacht. 

Note: This bike's plates are Swiss. I'm going to the right place.

That's not the end of the challenges faced in opting to camp, though. There's also the fact I will have to carry all my camping gear, and doing so will inherently use up a lot of the space I would have otherwise dedicated to carrying all my mankinis and evening gowns.

I had previously calculated my luggage would afford 90 liters of storage. I anticipate a tent, sleeping mat, sleeping bag, camp stove, frying pan and steel mug will eat up 30 liters of that. Or, rather, it'll eat up the space on my rack where I had planned to secure a 30-liter dry bag.

Additionally, I'll want to keep at least 10 liters free somewhere for the sake of supplies: the food and beer I'll pick up at markets along the way. Subtract the space that will be allocated to tools and chain-maintenance supplies, laptop and related electronic equipment, and it leaves me with very little room for clothes/toiletries.

To this end, I've been trying to think of how to add carrying space. I've ruled out use of a backpack because I'm pretty sure it's the thing that was causing shoulder pain in previous rides. You'll remember my old Oxford X30 tank bag doesn't fit properly on the Strom. Which is a shame. I spent a few moments this morning contemplating some sort of jerry-rigged system of bungee-strapping it to the crash bars but I suspect that would only end in disaster.

I also contemplated bodging my old Viking soft panniers to sit atop the Suzuki panniers, but again, that sounds like a recipe for disaster. Perhaps more realistic would be to bend the no-buying-stuff rule and purchase two small, cheap dry sacks I could strap to the top of the Suzuki panniers. Say 10 liters each –- costing about £10 total. I could ensure waterproofing by lining them with trash bags and store clothes in them. Of course, the drawback is that strapping anything to the top of the panniers will mean I will first have to remove that thing before I can get the actual panniers open.

Perhaps that's not a problem. Just pack intelligently, making sure all the items I need on the ride are in the Kriega bags that will be on the passenger seat. Or, perhaps I could use those small dry bags for carrying the aforementioned food and beer supplies. That way they can be put away on fast, non-camping sections of the trip, such as when I'm travelling across the UK or from Rotterdam to Saarbrücken.

The more I look at pictures of Switzerland, the better I feel about my decision to camp there.

Hmm, obviously there is a lot to think about. Ultimately, I feel I'll need to do a few test runs over the coming month or so, to work out exactly how to get everything strapped to the bike. Which means I will very soon need to come up with a comprehensive list of everything I intend to take.

Additionally, I need to make sure I have some experience adjusting the V-Strom's chain and performing whatever other maintenance and minor fixes might be necessary. I'm being realistic about what I can actually do and will be carrying my RAC card to help me deal with any major incidents. I'm skeptical of RAC's ability to legitimately provide European breakdown coverage, but my policy says they do and I suppose even that is better than nothing.

This whole thing feels daunting. Money will be very tight, and I'm inclined to scrap my plans to spend a day swimming in the River Aare in Bern because there will be nowhere to safely store all the stuff in soft luggage. But surely there will be opportunity for all kinds of other fun stuff. Adventure will present itself. I have only a month to prepare myself for it.

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On a side note: It's always been my understanding that socks with sandals is a perfectly acceptable fashion choice in Germany. If this turns out to be untrue I'm going to be heartbroken.

ADSENSE HERE

Europe 2015 pt. III: Stuff for my stuff

The last time I wrote about my preparations for my European adventure (back in February), perhaps the biggest development was that I had bought panniers for the Honda. Each holding 33 litres of stuff, the panniers were a quality piece of kit and dramatically improved the look and utility of the bike. 

I put them to good use on a trip to York in late winter and they performed brilliantly. But the bike upon which I had placed them had been giving me cause for concern for a while. Little things had me worrying. A certain squeak in the front brake that never went away –– even after replacing the front pads. A tendency to get stuck in gear or out of gear when the engine had been running particularly hot. Oh-so-slightly loose handlebar switchgear that couldn't be tightened any further. Dentist-drill vibrations at 80 mph that left my hands tingling for days afterward. A seat that got uncomfortable after 45 miles. The fact it was 10 years old.

As I say: little things. No one of those things was a good enough reason in and of itself to sell the Honda, but collectively they contributed to my desire to do so. Jenn actually sealed the deal on my decision to get my V-Strom (a) when she said: "You write about motorcycles, babe. This is your thing. Of course you can't just stick to one bike."

Yeah. I had to get a new bike. My career depended upon it...

Doing so was a mixed blessing. Mostly good, admittedly; I don't yet know this as irrefutable fact, but the V-Strom 1000 Adventure is almost certainly a perfect machine for traversing Europe. However, it is a step back in terms of luggage space. Combined, the Strom's panniers offer just 29 litres of storage –– 4 litres less than a single Honda pannier. I went from 66 litres to 29. Not to mention the fact my old magnetic tank bag isn't compatible.

Fortunately, Jenn gave me a Kriega US20 bag for my birthday and just last week, I scored a massive eBay win thanks to the fact that a seller misspelled "Kriega" and I ended up getting an almost-new Kriega US10 bag for only £9 because I was the only one to bid on it.  (A new US10 retails for about £55 and used ones hold their value frustratingly well on eBay. Before this stroke of luck, I'd never seen one sold for less than £45 –– more than I'm willing to pay for a used item)

With these and the panniers, I've got 59 litres of carrying space. Beyond that, I've got an old kayaking dry bag that I think holds about 20 litres, which I can strap to the rack. So, about 80 litres in all. I'll be spending more than three weeks away and will need clothing for a number of different scenarios, but I'm optimistic this will be enough.

If it's not, I'm considering wearing a small backpack to hold water, sunglasses, a visor cloth and other need-it-right-now essentials. I have two concerns about this plan, however:

Firstly, I have ridden a little bit with the aforementioned backpack and I'm concerned it may be causing pain in my shoulder. Additionally, it is a very old backpack and one part of the chest strap is broken. I'm not sure I can trust it for the full 3,000 miles to Volterra and back.

Secondly, it's at this point in the planning process that I start down the slippery slope of buying new stuff. If I go with the backpack option, I'm planning to buy a CamelBak reservoir to put in the backpack. Or something similar. I've never used one of these things, but having one strikes me as a good idea because:

1. It will allow me to drink water on the go. I have a bad habit of getting dehydrated when I ride, because I neglect to take the time to stop, pull bottled water from my bag, and drink it.
2. It will allow me to hold more water –– the plastic bottle I usually carry only holds 500 ml.
3. If the worst happens and I'm in a crash, the water bladder is less likely to cause me damage. Whereas I sometimes worry that landing wrong on a Nalgene-style bottle could damage my back (in spite of my back protector), or, worse, it could crack and puncture me with shards of plastic.

OK. That last grisly-death-by-water-bottle scenario seems highly unlikely. Stranger things have happened though; hundreds of Americans are killed each year by tortilla chips.

My alternate plan is to just strap a few Nalgene bottles to the Kriega bags somehow. Bungee straps, I guess. And maybe that would be best, anyway, because it would demand I stop and get off the bike every so often. One thing I really hope I can get myself into the mindset of doing on this trip is stopping frequently. To take pictures, to stretch, to refresh myself mentally, and enjoy the fact that I am on an incredible journey across Europe. 

Too often when I consider this (or, in fact, any other) trip, some part of me wants to power across the continent, like when Baron von Grumble rode through 14 countries in 24 hours. Instead, I should be using Jason Warner Smith's trek across America as inspiration. He took several weeks to cover the distance and made sure to stop every 30-40 miles.

Still, this doesn't actually get me out of spending money.

When I watched the Baron von Grumble video of his 14-country ride, one aspect of his trip stuck out for me: border checks. He frequently had to produce his passport and, often, a credit card to pay for tolls. His BMW R1200GS had a fancy little compartment on the tank in which to store these things. My V-Strom 1000 does not, so I'm thinking it would be nice to have some sort of a tank or handlebar bag.

Admittedly, the large pockets in my riding trousers could serve that purpose, but, uhm, I don't know. The thought of that makes me a little nervous. I don't know why. Plus, the pockets aren't quite big enough to hold my sunglasses (EDIT: That's a lie. I just checked; they fit fine).

Ideally, I'd use something like the SW Motech Quick Lock EVO City tank bag. It looks like a really nice bit of kit, and the size of the thing would also remedy my "Where to store water" issue. The drawback, though, is the fact that, good gracious almighty, it's expensive. Givi have something similar for less, but it is not that much less and it is a lot uglier.

Not to mention the old truth that fixing one problem tends to create another. If you read my review of the Givi GPS holder, you might remember one of my biggest complaints was that it sits too low in my field of vision. So low, in fact, I suspect a tank bag would block it.

To that end, with or without a tank bag I've been considering getting a handlebar bracket adapter from Touratech. Basically, it's just a bar that bolts to your handlebar clamp and allows you to mount stuff a few inches higher. The Touratech website doesn't say exactly how many inches higher, which is the sort of information you'd kind of like to have if you're going to fork out £48 for some bits of metal.

That cost is nothing, though, compared to the asking price of a TomTom Rider 400. I'd really like to have one of those. It's expensive, though. I feel I will need to invest in some kind of new sat nav, however, because the hand-me-down device I'm using at the moment doesn't have European maps (nor the ability to download said maps). So, if anyone has any suggestions on devices they've used I'd appreciate your input.

I won't want to rely solely on a sat nav, of course. I'm going to want some actual physical maps, as well. Paper maps will help me plot a good route, something that's challenging on, say, Google Maps, because it's hard to have a full perspective on mapping software.

I'm guessing I'll want detailed maps of Germany, Switzerland and Italy. The only other country I'll be riding through will be the Netherlands (I've decided to simplify things and drop the route that would have taken me through Belgium and Luxembourg). My itinerary is such that I don't foresee getting much chance to explore the Netherlands, so I'll be on motorway through that stretch.

Which is a shame. Next time. I do really want to spend some time in the Netherlands. If not simply because I've never met a Dutch person I didn't like. And, uhm, the women are easy on the eye. (My friend, Astrid, once came to stay for Christmas and was so intimidatingly beautiful my ex-wife banned her from ever visiting again)

If anyone has experience with a particular map brand they prefer over any other, please let me know. Personally, I'm inclined to go with Michelin. Just because I'm a fan of their tires.

Meanwhile, the issue of the V-Strom's screen continues to concern me. It's the only real foible I've experienced so far. I lowered the stock screen to its lowest setting and have found doing so improves things a bit, allowing the wind to hit my helmet cleanly rather than having a big ol' mess of turbulence swarming at the top of my head.

However, I went on a longish ride recently and found myself suffering shoulder/neck pain at the end of the day. This may be because of the aforementioned backpack. Or it may be because the low screen leaves me battling wind gusts. A little more research is necessary.

But even if it turns out the screen isn't responsible for shoulder pain, I already find myself thinking about getting a Givi AirFlow windscreen. I've read a lot of good things about the screen on various V-Strom forums, with a number of the people singing its praises being my height (6 foot 1) or taller.

It's definitely the sort of thing I'd like to have before next winter –– to help keep the British misery at bay. Although, I wonder about its use on this particular trip. Continental Europe is much warmer in the summer than Britain. Perhaps I'll want the steady wind blast I get with the stock screen. After all, I'll be riding in the same old leather jacket I've always worn, which has no vents or the like for hot weather.

And that makes me think it would be nice to have a good-quality textile jacket. Something like the Oxford Montreal 2 seems affordable enough. And (rare for Oxford products) I like the look. But, just the other day I happened to be at a Triumph dealer and tried on a Triumph Traveller jacket that I really liked. It's the bee's knees. And it's got loads of pockets. Enough, perhaps, to eliminate the need to get a tank bag.

And if you take that into consideration –– you know, subtracting the cost of a tank bag from the cost of the jacket –– it makes the price of the Triumph Traveller pretty reasonable...

Wait. Stop. Just calm down a minute, Chris!

If I were to buy all the stuff on the little wish list I've created above, I'd be throwing down at least £900. Just to prepare to go on a trip! Nevermind the costs of hotels and food and petrol and, you know, actually enjoying myself. That's just ridiculous. Especially when you consider that my father-in-law used to meander across Europe on his unreliable Bonneville in the late 1970s. He did not have sat navs or high-end tank bags or fancy ways of consuming water. And considering the fact he was a trainee gardener, I'm pretty sure he didn't have a whole hell of a lot of money, either.

Neither do I. So, perhaps I should be taking inspiration from him. Despite my dedication to working myriad Amazon links into my posts lately, it's a tactic that isn't likely to amass a fortune (Full disclosure: To date it has not earned me a single penny). Really, I should be working with what I've got and trying not to spend any more money.

Well, OK, the maps. I should definitely spring for the maps. And perhaps a few bungee cords. So, about £20 expenditure at the most. Beyond that, my desire to have All The Things may cloud my ability to properly enjoy this adventure.

I don't know. What do you think? What do I absolutely need? Do I already have those things? Or, are there, in fact, several things that I haven't even thought about? All advice is appreciated!

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(a) I am considering naming my bike "Essie Mae," because I like being obscure. Huge points to you if you understand the reference.  

ADSENSE HERE

What I can afford this month: BMW K75S

This thing of tracking my motorcycle savings by searching classified ads for bikes I can afford right now is my new favourite game, y'all. Each month I have a tiny bit more money, so each month I am (presumably) able to climb a little higher in terms of desirability and quality.

The bike this month comes from someone who doesn't know how to upload photos properly, and it is technically £25 more than what I have in savings (surely I could talk him/her down that much) but that doesn't really matter because the machine he/she is selling is so iconic. It's a 1988 BMW K75S.

Wait. Is a K75 an iconic bike? I don't actually know. I thought the old R-series bikes were the ones to salivate over. But I assume the old Ks are, too. Admittedly, I only assume that because John Nelson has one (a 1986 K75RT) that he swoons over, and he strikes me as a cool sort of dude who would only surround himself with cool, characterful, iconic things. He rides a Royal Enfield, after all.

Ah, I'm sure it's iconic. It's a BMW, after all! And as I've mentioned before, there's some part of me that really wants to be a "BMW guy." Dude, I would be the most BMW-est BMW guy of them all if I were rocking around on this thing. 

That is primarily because I would almost certainly first need to develop an encyclopaedic knowledge of not only how to maintain and repair old BMWs but also how to hunt down the necessary parts for them.

Taking a look at the pictures of this thing, although the owner says it is "in good working order" and "starts always first time," it is clear to me that some work would need to be done and I'm guessing that it would need to be done often. I'm guessing, too, that this would be one of those "delightful" old machines so imbued with "character" that it is inclined to do inexplicable things at incredibly inconvenient times -- like having the horn go off every time you shift into second gear, or discovering that it will only start if you lean it at a 30-degree angle.

To that end, uhm, I'm not really sure I want to be this sort of BMW guy. Indeed, I'm not entirely sure that the reason I want a BMW motorcycle isn't similar to the reason my father has always pined to own a 1960s Jaguar.

"Those things are finicky as all get out, Dad," I once told him. 

"Yes," he said. "That's partially the point. I'd like to own an old Jaguar because it implies that I would be rich enough to be able to pay someone to fix it all the time."

With that in mind, I guess it's best that I stick to my un-iconic Honda for the timebeing.

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What I can afford this month: MZ TS250/1

I mentioned last month that I am slowly, slowly, slowly building up savings toward buying a new bike. So far, there's not much there; the Honda VFR1200F or Indian Chief Classic I'm pining for remain faraway propositions. But in the interim, as I wait for funds to accumulate, I like to entertain myself by searching through online classified ads to see what I could afford right now.

Actually, I presently have just enough cash to buy a brand new 50cc Chinese scooter, but I have to imagine that's a purchase I'd soon regret. According to the aforementioned scooter's spec sheet, it has a maximum speed of 30 mph. Meanwhile, I am able to hit 27 mph on my bicycle when pedalling on a flat. On the hill that is a part of my daily commute, I once managed 40 mph.

Related to that, I've taken to ruling out the multitudinous 125cc motorcycles of dubious Chinese origin that are to be found for roughly the same price as a bicycle. The bicycle would be a better investment, I feel. Not to mention that those throwaway London commuting machines have no sense of style or soul.

The MZ TS250/1 I found this month, though...

MZ stands for Motorradwerk Zschopau, and the bike -- a 1980 model -- is a product of the East German state. It looks like it, too, doesn't it? Styling reminiscent of Robert Pirsig's 1960s Honda CB77. Drum brakes, front and back. A kick starter. A two-stroke engine in which petrol and oil are mixed in the tank. This is exactly the sort of thing I would have expected to see sitting on the other side as they tore down the Berlin Wall.

According to the bike's advert, this little beauty "smells of the 1970s."

After the collapse of the Berlin Wall, poor MZ struggled in the capitalist world. According to Wikipedia, the company's spent the last quarter century being bounced from one ineffective foreign owner to the next.

But, hey, we'll always have the DDR, boys. And according to this bike's seller, this MZ is in good condition, having seen "reasonable restoration" by a previous owner. Elsewhere on the interwebs, I found a tale of someone buying an MX TS250/1 for just £100 and thereafter finding it impossible to defeat.

I suppose that makes sense. This is East German technology; it needed to run for a long time and be easy to fix, because no one had any money. The 5-speed machine apparently has a decent amount of pace -- I found YouTube video of a Polish guy pushing one to 115 km (71 mph) -- and it returns something close to 70 miles per gallon.

Not too bad, all in all. But I think I'd prefer the modern technology and performance of my Honda CBF600SA. I've long wanted to own a German bike, but not particularly this one.

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What can I actually afford?

You will know, of course, that I have a tendency to swoon over just about every bike I see. I'm not terribly picky, though I'll admit that the stuff I get most excited about tends to be rather pricey. My grandmother has always accused me of having such tastes. When I was a boy she would take me clothes shopping and claimed I had a magical ability to immediately identify the most expensive item in the shop.

I got to thinking about this a few days ago, after posting my review of the Indian Chief Classic. I absolutely love that bike, but as part of the review I went to the trouble to work out that at my current rate of saving I would have to wait until my 50th birthday to be able to buy one (I am presently 38 years old).

And that got me wondering: what bikes could I actually afford right now? So, I started searching eBay, BikeTrader, MCN,  and various other bike listings to see what I could come up with.

The first thing to really catch my eye was the 2001 BMW K1200 pictured above.

"it had a collision. I sell it for parts," explains the owner. "seat are ok."

Glad to know the seat is OK. The bike comes in under my budget and, golly, it's exciting to think of owning a genuine BMW. I could make a project of this bike -- fix it up and thereafter have my very own top-of-the-line tourer. All I'd need would be a garage to do the work in, appropriate tools, money for additional parts, and a mechanical knowledge that extends beyond "Righty tighty, lefty loosey." I have none of these things, however, so let's move on.

At my current budget, the bulk of bikes available are 125cc machines from China that have very clearly been ridden and maintained by 17-year-old boys from England's less-desirable towns and cities. Here and there, one finds an old Kawasaki GPZ 550 with interstellar miles, looking like it might -- just might -- survive a lap or two at Dirt Quake before needing to be sold for scrap.

The best bike I can find for the money I have now is this one: a 1989 Suzuki GSX750F with 32,500 miles on the clock. We all know eBay is a haven for liars and thieves, but let's pretend otherwise and take the bike's seller at his word.

"This bike really rides very well and is unbelievable to think it's 25 years old," says the seller. "Like a 5-year-old bike, not a 25 year old."

He adds, however, that the bike is currently on SORN (Statutory Off Road Notification), which is a UK tax designation given to vehicles that are not being used on the roads. Usually you SORN a vehicle because it doesn't run. But it's not unheard of for people to SORN a bike over the winter.

Either way, it means the bike is not currently allowed on British roads, which: a) calls into question the owner's claims of how well it rides; b) means I couldn't legally test ride it; c) I'd be faced with a lot of paperwork before getting it back on the road.

Maybe it's a sweet find. Maybe I could get my hands on this thing and experience the joy of riding around on a modern classic. I think, though, that I'll just keep saving my pennies and dreaming of another day.

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