This article was originally published in Motorcycle Shopper magazine, back in the mid 1990s. Motorcycle Shopper was precursor to what has become TheMotorBookstore.com.
The old saying goes something like this: "God watches over fools, drunks, and small children". I don't drink and only my wife thinks I fit the last category, so I'll leave it unsaid what group I'm in. A case in point is a test ride I experienced several years ago. That in itself is pretty amazing. Just try walking into a motorcycle dealership hundreds of miles from home and ask to take the hottest thing on the floor out for a spin. After the laughter dies, you might convince them to let you sit on it for a couple of minutes while you make Vroom-Vroom sounds to yourself. That's the most "test ride" dealers will agree to. So let's just say I was more than slightly amazed when a Harley dealer offered his own personal Buell motorcycle to me, a perfect stranger, with only a check of my driver's license. Don't ask me who or where this was, I don't want to embarrass them. You'll see why, later.
Like any two-wheeled lover, I never pass up a chance to check out what the locals are up to when I'm traveling. Such an opportunity presented itself while visiting relatives in the Summer of 1991. When they asked, "Would you like to go anywhere?", my first response was, "Where's the closest Harley dealer?". Shortly after, I found myself looking at a shiny new Buell, standing next to the door of the local Hog Shop. You gotta understand that I rode Harleys all through the '70s and into the '80s before my lust for speed and handling led me to the quicker, nimbler sport bikes from Japan. My last Harley was a 1978 XLCR Cafe Racer, but it couldn't compare to the latest crotch-rocket rice burners. I always told my Harley buds that it would take a for-real sport bike from Milwaukee, to get me back on a Harley. That's why I was intrigued with the Buell. So, when the dealer offered me a test ride on his personal 1990 RS1200--so I would stop drooling on the bike--I took him up on it. I mean, I may be crazy, but stupid I'm not!
So here's the picture: new, rare, powerful & expensive motorcycle and adrenalin-hyper, speed-crazed Texan cut loose on unfamiliar streets, hundreds of miles from home. Yeah, that's a formula for fun. Or disaster. I'll let you decide.
At any rate, after being fitted with a borrowed helmet two sizes too large and being shown where the controls were, "switches and levers come straight off a Harley, no problem", I eased into traffic and cruised down the street. It didn't take me long to figure out the Buell is not a city bike. A touch of throttle spurts you ahead of everyone else with amazing quickness. Gotta find a highway soon so I can get it out of second gear. 40- to 60-mph acceleration is incredible. I'm blastin' past cars like they were parked! I get to the fast lane and test the 60- to 80-mph acceleration. Just as impressive! Right about then, I come to my senses and realize that Texas is not the only place with speed limits. I know where and when I can get away with it at home, but I'm a long way from home. So I coast down to the speed of the traffic. Since I find no twisties on the freeway, I amuse myself with testing the brakes and chassis on off ramps. I plunge down the ramp too fast, two-finger the brake lever as hard as I can, then lean around the exit, only to take the next on ramp and do it again. The Buell has an incredibly tight and secure feeling. And a Harley never had brakes this good.
Then it happens... the big motor coughs and sputters and threatens to die! Sounds like it's running out of gas, so I instinctively reach under the tank for the petcock to switch to reserve. Uh-oh, nothing there! By this time, the bike has slowed to about 40-mph and the car in the fast lane behind me is threatening to turn me into one expensive hood ornament. I've got to reach the shoulder, but traffic is too heavy to find an opening, and there's nothing on the left but a barrier fence. With the motor finally dead, I signal a lane change and drift right. Honking horns and squealing brakes accompany my journey to the shoulder which feels like it takes years. I finally make it to the side of the road and breathe a sigh of relief. Then I do what every idiot does when his or her car or bike stops running. I push the starter button and pray, hoping that a minor miracle has occurred and it will start. But of course, it doesn't. Just to make sure, I check the gas tank. There's not much gas, but there's enough to make a sloshing sound, so I just need to find the reserve switch. Now, every bike has a carburetor and the carb is connected to the gas tank somehow. And somewhere between the two is the fuel shutoff, which usually has a reserve position. The single carb on any Harley motor is very easy to find. It's that hunk of metal that's responsible for the nasty sore spot on the inside of your right leg. Long-time Harley riders have developed a natural kink in their right leg to compensate for this. Anyway, I follow the fuel line from the carb and get lost somewhere on the left side of the fairing. I can't see where it goes to, but on the left top of the fairing is an unlabeled rocker switch. Figuring I've got nothing to lose, I flip it the other way and thumb the starter button. VA-ROOM! Such a sweet sound! Lousy bums could of at least marked the button.
So off I go, back on the highway. Enough thrills for one day, let's head back. Not so easy on a superhighway. I don't know how far reserve will take me or even how far it is from the Harley shop. Better find a gas station. I don't remember seeing any stations at all on the trip so far, but I ride several miles further hoping to find one. No luck, so I take the next exit and turn around to head back, hoping somehow foolishly that reserve will take me further than the regular tank did. Much too soon, the engine coughs and dies. I can't believe it! It must have a teaspoon of reserve capacity. But I gotta believe it, 'cause here I am again, sitting on a $15,000 out-of-gas motorcycle in a strange place with no gas station in sight. In the distance, I see what looks to be some sort of hotel or such. There's sure to be a phone there. It seems to be almost a mile away, so I'd better move the beast off the highway as far as possible and lock it. Wouldn't you know, no fork lock. Oh well, who would bother to stop and pick up a motorcycle sitting alone on the side of a highway? Yeah, right! Well, I gotta take my chances because it's beginning to get dark. So, off I go. Only problem is, the hotel is on the other side of the superslab and I'm talking six lanes of crazies wanting to get home or to the nearest bar after a hard day's work. Ever try for your best 40-yard dash in boots? Well, believe me, an 18-wheeler nipping at your butt will definitely help you put your best effort into it!
I'll spare you the gory details, but I made it to the hotel and called the Harley shop owner. I have to give him a lot of credit. There was a remarkable lack of cursing considering the situation. Not only was I over an hour into my "test" ride, but I had left his personal $15,000 beauty on the side of the road, unlocked, and I didn't even know what road it was! After roughly describing my route from his place, so he could track me down, I walked back to the bike, hoping it was still there.
It was.
Thank God.
Steve Hooper is owner of MotoMini, a mail order company that specializes in scale collectible motorcycle models from around the world.
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