At this point in the saga I was in the middle of the Italian countryside without much idea where I was. Whenever I saw a native I shouted Roma at them but usually received a finger pointing up at the sky for my pains. There was a certain weariness in riding large mileages every day, and although the BMW was a competent companion it was beginning to irritate the shit out of me.
The twin disc front brakes didn’t help one tiny bit. Over roads that were basically little more than dirt tracks what I needed was mild sensitive braking. What I had was a spongy feel (from the daft combination of cable/hydraulic operation) that would either do nothing or howl the tyre. The rear drum had turned rotten about 400 miles ago, gone from a paragon of the type to wretchedly inconsistent with the nastiest habit of jamming on. The locked up back wheel did a wild slide over the gravel, making me twitch with a burst of gut churning fear, frantically pumping the lever until the brake released itself. The cause was obvious from the wear marks, the worn out shoes over-camming, but the solution was far from easy as I had no spare shoes on me.
The gearbox had celebrated 85000 miles by turning even clunkier than normal, wearing a hole through my boot that led to a big boil on my foot. Every time I stopped it was dive-bombed by every insect in the immediate vicinity. I'd burst it with a heated needle, wrapped my foot in a yard of bandage and repaired the boot with some leather cut from its top.
The gear shift had developed a kickback like a shotgun going off, which encouraged me to leave the engine in fourth, rely on torque to save the day, or at least my foot from premature amputation. The clutch wouldn’t take much slipping, though, its single plate a bit on the fragile side for a big boxer twin, lasting only 20000 miles when treated gently. That meant below 2500 revs the shaft drive chattered, threatened to ruin every bearing in its universal joint or maybe pick up on its natural frequency, resonate itself into oblivion. BMW shafts do occasionally break, leaving a pretty pathetic machine. I was becoming as paranoid as a sex maniac in a brothel where 95% of the women were infected with AIDS.
Of course, the BMW had many good points. Fitted with an RS fairing and panniers it was a brilliant long distance tourer, featuring comfort, protection and 100mph cruising amongst its qualities. All of which was meaningless at low speeds when it felt like an overloaded camel, the riding position placing too much mass on my wrists and shoulders. A couple of hours of this kind of riding left me feeling rather ragged, which in turn had the BMW all over the place. The answer was to pull off the road, have a home-rolled cigarette and let the mellowness of the moment settle in the pit of my stomach.
Didn't exactly make for brilliant progress, especially when for all I knew I might be going around and around in circles. Then salvation came in the form of a waif who walked out into the road, making me do the kind of skid that causes ulcers and dirty underwear. The waif was dressed in dirty enough clothes to pass herself off as a gypsy but would show me the way to Rome in return for a lift. Her weight made no difference to the BMW, which being Bavarian was made originally for a couple of 200lb Krauts.
I was almost jumping with joy as we hit Rome, with a fading sun and the front light turned up high to fight off the Wop drivers. A backstreet hotel with a space to keep the BMW off the street was found. The waif decided to sleep with me but it was the most expensive fuck known to man as I woke to find she’d run off with my passport and about a 1000 notes in loose change. She'd left the traveller’s cheques and five hundred quid of emergency money hidden in my boots. Neither the embassy nor the cops were much amused when the hotel manager thought she was only eleven or twelve...
I reckon the ideal machine for Rome's streets is a fully loaded and primed tank! It was a pretty dirty city full of macho twats, so I hit the road again before I killed someone. The BMW took this moment to grumble to itself, the rising crescendo of a timing chain on the way out playing second fiddle to a full complement of valves way out of adjustment. I sensed the level of vibes, reckoned it'd just about make it for the day and could safely be left until the cool of the evening. I had a spare timing chain and could do the valves in about half an hour.
There wasn’t much hope of taking it easy on the main roads, not unless I wanted to be run over by gross midgets in Fiat 500s. 90 to 100mph kept me up with the traffic flow but had the petrol tank, perfectly shaped to accommodate my desperate knee grip, thrumming away. The sleazy little weave out back, as if the tyre was slowly deflating, had the Wops going crazy on their horns, making mad gesticulations as they slouched past. The way boxer’s back wheel moves around always seems worse from behind. than from the saddle.
Naples was eventually attained, just before a sea mist closed vision down, giving me an excuse to ignore the maintenance chores. Next morning found me with dozens of engine bits around me, forcing the new timing chain on and setting the valves to perfection. I even tore the carbs off and cleaned up the floats.
More mist meant there was no point trying to travel so an entertaining taxi driver took me on a tour of the brothels and became incensed when I didn’t indulge. We'd agreed the fare before but he was expecting some commission from the bordello. I threw him the right money, walked off in disgust only to find him running after me and.trying to punch me into the gutter. I ducked and dived a little then gave him one hell of a right-hander. I left him screaming on the pavement and went to bed a happy man.
Next morning I had to ride through the taxi driver and half a dozen mates. They scattered, ran for their cars but I lost them in the traffic, denting a couple of Alfas with the cylinder heads in my haste to escape. Thought I'd better head north as fast as I could, the engine running well after the service, holding 110mph for as long as I was willing to weave between the autos, thankful for the brightness of main beam and the loudness of the horn. Helped along by fear and adrenaline, I held the crazed pace and made it to Florence in one piece with only three speed wobbles. That seemed far enough away to avoid retribution from mad taxi drivers.
I did notice that the stainless steel silencers were smoking a bit and that towards the end of the trek the motor was reluctant to push us along at more than the ton. I put it down to the frantic pace and hoped it'd be alright after having a night to cool down. The bike was running original pistons and bores which had finally decided they'd had enough but there was sufficient life left to get me back to Blighty albeit at a very slow pace. I relaxed and enjoyed the scenery; I had a spare pair of pistons and set of rings on board if we didn't make it.
Once home, examination revealed that all I need do was put in a new set of rings, both the bores and pistons in remarkably good shape after nearly 90000 miles. It's always a chancy business, putting new rings into a worn engine, but with 500 miles of careful running in they’d worked out fine, top speed back to120mph and 55-60mpg economy.
I've owned the BMW for about half a dozen years, we've shared lots of adventures together and always made it back to base in one piece if sometimes a bit battered and bruised. The RS fairing is a useful addition that I wouldn't be without. The panniers less so, as once or twice a year they fall off. The bike can be very irritating after a long day in the saddle but I keep coming back for more and more!
L. H. S.