Motorcycles, Travel & Adventure

Motorcycle TourMagazine

Having piloted a motorcycle for many years, Mark has many thoughts floating in his helmet and he's ready to share them with us.

Name: Mark Byers

Current Rides: BMW R65, R1200RT and R1150RS, Suzuki DRZ400, SV650 and DR200, Honda TLR200 and TL125…

Favorite quote:

If you have ten thousand regulations you destroy all respect for the law.

- Winston Churchill

Six Miles

I had a magical ride tonight: all six miles of it. Most motorcyclists would consider that pretty pathetic. I wouldn't even bother to get my bicycle out of the garage for that distance, as it takes my aging cardiovascular system at least ten miles to reach operating pressure. This was different, however; this was a stolen ride and it was motorized. It was barely above the speeds achievable with pedal power, but I didn't care. Tonight I had one of the best motorcycle rides of the year.

A few months ago, I bought a used Suzuki DR200 from a friend. It looked clean, but it was a minor mechanical basket case from lack of love - I think he and his sister rode it 200 miles in four years. The tank had a crop of internal rust fostered by lack of gas and use. That fouled everything downstream, from the petcock to the carburetor. A friend with a deft mechanical touch got it going, but each tank of gas loosened more rust and it clogged again. The rust laughed at the inline fuel filter. The beast left me stranded a mile from home and after my wife rescued me, I nearly unloaded it from the truck by simply pushing it over the side.

Fortunately, I started lighting candles vice cursing the darkness. I got a coating kit for the tank. A 14-tooth countershaft sprocket replaced the stock 15-toother for more low-end punch. Kenda provided more aggressive, street-legal knobbies to replace the pathetic Trail Wings. A new petcock, air filter, and a cleaned-up carb completed the ensemble and I was ready to roll: all I needed were the right circumstances. Tonight, karma delivered.

Work stinks lately and I had a particularly long day. Momma's SUV needed an oil change. It was humid as hell and thunderstorms had been depositing random, wet chaos all over the county. I was lucky to get the oil changed without getting wet or electrocuted, but fate gave just a hint of a smile. The oil change went like clockwork. I was absolutely shagged and the humidity pasted my shirt to me, but there was still some light left in the sky. As I put the last tool away, the DR was sitting there with a coy, come-hither tilt to her front end.

On boots, on jacket, on goggles, on helmet, on gloves, on ignition, on Dasher, on DancerÖ The next thing I knew, I was buzzing out of the garage and onto the street, enjoying the sweet rush of cooling, dusky air through the vents in the Vanson. The knobbies hummed a little tune as I toodled through the neighborhood, squirming to remind me not to get too crazy on the bitumen. "Save it for the soft stuff" was the sultry admonition from the soft shoes. The gearing left me no choice but to behave, as the little 200 barely gave the neighborhood BMX'ers a run for their money.

I could feel the heat draining away from me in equal parts with the stress and frustration. The country road to a local wharf beckoned and I blissfully complied. Off to the northwest, big cumulus clouds flickered blue neon lightning in the fading light, the promise of a new storm to come. The wind blew cool, but dry and my shirt no longer stuck to me. In the fields alongside the road, deer stood grazing in the belly-high grass, contemplating my passage, and an osprey took flight from a nest atop a telephone pole to pace me for a while. The failing sun cast purple colors on the water of the wharf. Thanks to the new gearing, on the way home the throttle was pinned and my face was grinned (and it was all perfectly legal).

A tour of the neighborhood was in order to end the day, and I skirted tweens with skateboards and giggling girls in tow as I surfed the cul-de-sacs like the Brits surf roundabouts. No dual-sport ride would be complete without the obligatory offroad foray and my freshly-cut yard was the venue. The rock riprap below the culvert was conquered and I drove the dog bat-shit, circling the house with a big, stupid grin on my face, gunning it between trees. Finally, I pulled into the garage and cut the motor. As I sat there listening to the tick of cooling metal, I realized six miles never felt so damn good.