The Left

A Sunday ago I rode the R1200R to Cedar Crest. This is a ride I do often, 100 miles for a cup of joe. I know the road well, I clear my mind.

There’s a coffee shop in the village where motorcyclists hang out, and a certain amount of “mine’s bigger than yours” goes on in this crowd. That’s a vibe I’m more than happy to skip, so I go to another place, easy to miss, tucked on the end of a little strip mall. The place is quiet, the coffee is good, I like the people and they like me. I’m almost a regular and almost always the only motorcyclist. Over a cup I peruse the latest car mags. No motorcycle mags, must speak with the proprietor about this oversight.

Heading back to Santa Fe, north of Golden past the old Ortiz Mountain Ranch the road is straight as an arrow. I pass a few slow moving cars, but not at an exceedingly fast pace. There may be a Karmic component to speeding tickets so when the road is boring, a.k.a. straight, or when I’m passing through a village, relaxed is the pace. This way, I save up my Karma points for the curves and I can let it rip. Can’t remember the last time I had a close call with the law in the curves, so it must be working.

In a moment I see three other motorcycles have also passed the cars and are reeling me in. In a triple-digit flash they are right on me. I keep a constant and moderate speed and hope they pass. I don’t like leading a parade, or being any part of one for that matter; unfortunately they hang on my tail.

The road then climbs into the Ortiz Mountains. It’s a steep grade and some delicious curves lie beyond. I decide to see what these nimrods are all about and grab a handful of throttle and open it. The BMW pulls hard, I check the speedo, I’m doing 80. Sixty in here is cruising, 70 is quick, and 80 is my limit. When I had the Ducati, it was 80 through here every time. That was then, this is now. Up the grade the three bikes are with me. Still climbing, it’s a sweep to the left, then a right. I pull some distance on them. A wicked little grin of, I admit, smugness creeps across my face. Another left at the top of the pass, and then the road descends in a right, and drops yet more quickly into the mother of all lefts.

Motorcycles are just as adept at turning left as right, but many riders, most even, find one or the other less comfortable. It’s a funny thing. Lefts, in my case, spook the hell out of me. It’s completely irrational, but there it is. You can see it in the wear on my bike’s tires. On the right side the bulk of the wear is out toward the tread’s shoulder. On the left, it’s a bit closer to the center.

Going down hill the road surface is dropping away from the tires. The result is less available traction and the feeling in a curve, at speed, is a palpable airiness. This left is cut into a hillside so sight lines are limited, and it’s bound by a guardrail on the outside beyond which is a cliff drop into a canyon. All the while, the pavement drops like a trap door. The speed advisory is 35.

All things considered I usually take it at 40-45. This time, plunging down the slope at 80, I shut off the gas. For better or worse, one of the attributes of a high compression engine is a lot of engine braking; on the approach the bike slows, the curve comes up. I glance at the speedo: 65. At this rate, 95 feet goes by per second, a sobering thought. Things are happening quickly, I am in too deep to brake, and well beyond my comfort zone.

The engineering and design of this bike are the stuff of brilliance, superior to any other I’ve ridden (including the Duc), and this is especially apparent now.

Thank you BMW.

So little in life, today, requires any real nerve. I swallow my heart, keep my chin up, look into the curve and get on the gas, just enough to transfer load to the rear. I lean a sharp angle to the left. The bike hits a series of spots where the most recent layer of asphalt has broken away. The chassis twitches ever so slightly before the steering damper calms things down. Most of my weight is on the outside foot peg, my rear end is slightly elevated from the seat, my hands barely touch the grips, everything, including time, floats… ninety five feet per second… I stay on the gas, and I am around the bend.

I check my mirror, my followers are things of the past. The sweeter this is the greyer I get around the muzzle. The road straightens, and lo and behold there they are again. I grin. No smugness. Just satisfaction.

Gordon Bunker