Long-Distance Runners

May be this Article should be titled The Lawlessness of the Long-Distance Runner, since most of the bikes pictured here are against the law. Or, more accurately, the law is against these machines--the absurd law that man shall not travel faster than 55 mph. Perhaps it's the Shah's way of getting back at Lawrence of Arabia, who was known to turn a (text continued on page 184)Runners(continued from page 107) ton (i.e., break 100 mph) on a Brough Superior. These bikes start at 55 mph. Flat out, they have better gas consumption than most four-wheel vehicles have standing still. If there is an exception to the rule of bureaucrats, this stable of touring bikes and café racers should be it. To contemplate owning one, you must be prepared to...uh...live outside the law and the sometimes meaningless restrictions of the society of man. But, then, that's the point, isn't it? Escape.

Of course, it is possible to own a Harley-Davidson or a BMW or a Suzuki and not break the 55-mph speed limit. But someday, we suspect, you might be seized with the desire to shift into second gear. Anything less is a crime against nature.

Maybe someday an astute reader of Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance will take a case to the Supreme Court, to argue that the pursuit of happiness is a religious freedom best conducted at speeds above the legal limit. Toward that end, Associate Editor James R. Petersen compiled the following testimony:

The Harley-Davidson XLCR: The distributors in Tustin, California, were apologetic. Seems that the special-edition XLCR to be tested was the only one in the state. Consequently, it could be allowed out of the shop for only an hour or so. I pointed out that I never wear a wrist watch. The mechanic grinned and offered a solution. "Set the trip odometer at zero and come back in a hundred and fifty miles."

The trip odometer read 152.3 miles when I returned an hour and 30 minutes later. It would have been sooner, but I stopped for lunch.

The Harley is fast. Really fast. The throttle fills your hand. The torquy 1000-c.c. V-twin is a powerhouse, putting out something over 68 horsepower at 6200 rpm. If you're not satisfied with it, drop in a Harley XL750 racing engine (which puts out around 100 hp), then watch out. The classic Harley four-speed gearbox will last forever. Only four? It's more than enough. Shifting into third is like slamming home the bolt of a .30-'06. You go from here to there as fast as you can drop your wrist. The bike breathes easy at 95 mph and wants to go faster, to lengthen its stride and fly. The speedometer is calibrated to 150 mph and you'd better believe it.

When I handed in the bike, the mechanic asked what I thought of the brakes. "Can't recall that I used them." I spent most of the time on a road in Silverado Canyon that is to motorcycling what Bach's Chaconne in D Minor is to a violinist, a melody of switchbacks, S curves and sudden changes of terrain that take your breath away. The bike took corners marked 25 mph at 80 and 90, all the while looking over its shoulder as though to say, "Aw, come on. Let me run."

"Well," asked the mechanic, "how did she handle?"

"Can't recall that I ever had to handle her. Bike seemed to just scare those corners into straightaways."

The mechanic looked at the wheels. The rubber was marked almost to the hubs. "Musta done some leaning. None of us have had it that far over."

Maybe. The XLCR has a sleek, narrow profile that makes the bike its own monorail. There is a direct line from your crotch to the road. The single-seat saddle, the clip-on handle bars, the snubnosed fairing all declare the XLCR a thoroughbred. Spirited. High-strung. The riding position is the half crouch of a jockey, which is appropriate, if not necessary. You'll have to decide whether the tension coursing through your gut comes from the gymnastics or from the all-out thrill of being on top of a true high-performance machine. With the XLCR, Harley-Davidson has reversed the direction of American motorcycling. Used to be that you got the bike and then you got the girl. Now you get the bike and you get it on. When you show your girl-friend a picture of the black beauty, she will point to the single seat and challenge: "Where do I go?"

She'll have to get her own.

The Kawasaki Z1000: Back in college, I had a weird friend who liked to devise new uses for tape measures. His favorite trick was to unwind a foot or so of tape, put a drop of honey on the end, then sit back and wait for a fly to arrive. When the helpless insect landed on the sweet spot, the friend would press the retract button and Z-Z-Z-Z-Z-T. Splat! When you climb aboard the Kawasaki, you feel like the fly that found the sweet spot. Only it's the size of the tachometer. The Kawasaki puts out 83 hp at 8000 rpm and will outpull just about any machine--from a Corvette to a Porsche Carrera.

In this case, the tape measure got pulled out about a quarter of a mile, ending at the turnoff to Santiago Canyon. I covered the distance in something less than 13 seconds. Splat! The highway patrolman who was waiting at the end was very impressed. So was the judge who set my bond. I explained that I was on assignment for Playboy and that my boss had agreed to pay for all speeding tickets. "Nice," said the judge. "Does he also pay for your sex life?" No. He gave me a choice, and I took motorcycles.

The Suzuki GS 750: This time out, I avoided the highway patrol and chased a warm Santana wind out to Silverado Canyon. The dogs sleeping at the side of the road didn't even look up when I went by. The bike is deceptive: The soft-spoken whistle of the four-cylinder air intake can turn into a wasp-nest snarl the first time you crank it on (60 hp at 8500 rpm). Quite frankly, I scared myself. The bike did a 12-second quarter, just like that. After the adrenaline subsided to mere tidal-wave proportions. I found that the bike handled like a dream. Great steering geometry and perfect rubber equals pure delight. The Bridgestone tires could be convicted of having unlawful carnal knowledge of concrete.

In Silverado Canyon, things got transcendental pretty fast. The wide handle bars are a treat after the clip-ons of the Harley. You have the sense of holding a valuable picture at arm's length, turning it this way and that, to get the best view. Yes, you like it. You'll buy it. Throw the bike into a curve and it rejoices. You feel like a kid on skis, kicking up your heels, flexing your muscles, strutting your stuff. Shift your way through the five-speed transmission and an L.E.D. readout lights up on the dash to tell you what gear you're in. (It also balances your checkbook. Those Japanese marketing guys think of everything.) Not as fast as the Harley but more fun. The bike seems to want to cruise at 75, but lean on it and the engine takes you to 120 with no effort. And no matter what the speed, you experience the confidence of being in absolute control.

Sometime during the day, a dude on a Honda 750 blasts past. Arrogant bastard. For the next 20 miles, we engage in a classic dogfight. I'm ten feet behind his tail. No more, no less. Imagine his surprise. He can't shake me, through a series of corners that pass like clouds. And he knows the road; let him worry. Exhausted, he waves me by.

The Yamaha XS 750D: As my old buddy Fred used to say at times of great duress, "Sometimes you get the elevator and sometimes you get the shaft." This is the year of the latter. Yamaha has introduced a very neat touring machine with a self-contained shaft drive that adds up to one smooth ride. The bike made everybody's ten-best list, and the reasons are obvious: creature comforts and classy styling. Buy the optional fairing and you have a very civilized long-distance runner. Light. Responsive handling (though you may tend to scrape the three-into-one exhaust pipe on hard right turns). If you're one of those guys who think the ultimate sexual experience is a 750 motorcycle, a winding country road and a large-breasted girl glued to your back, this one's for you.

The Honda Gold Wing 1000: The Japanese wanted to build a shaft-drive giant that could compete with the BMW on its home turf--the interstate highways--and they succeeded. Ride the Gold Wing for a day and you'll entertain thoughts of reviving the pony express. Imagine a fleet of motorcycles, complete with saddlebags and Vetter fairings, making the cross-country run. If nothing else, the mail service would improve. Climb on board the Gold Wing and it feels like you've straddled a section of four-lane blacktop. Solid. Heavy. Ain't nothing going to scare this beast from making its appointed rounds. The 1000-c.c. engine is humongous--it can run all day at 80 mph and never stop snoring. The roll-on power is impressive--if some 18-wheeler tries to blow you off the road, just lean on the throttle and it'll eat your dust from here to Shaky Town. The bike is a tourer, which means that it was not designed' to be fast off the line or snaky through the corners. The Gold Wing has the steel-rail momentum of the BMW--and at a cost of only $2938--some $1657 less than the German bike. A nice saving; you won't spend it all in one place, will you?

The BMW R100RS: The BMW looks a lot like the B-1 bomber, complete with swept-back wings. Almost costs as much, too. Climb into the saddle, check the console built into the integrated fairing. Tach. Speedometer. Clock. A button for air-to-air missiles. And a nice light that will flash to tell you that your brakes are failing. We suspect that you will already be aware of that fact, should it occur. Still, a nice touch.

Out on the highway, the bike is as fast as you want it to be. At 95, you have the sense of running in place. The seat feels like a large, soft boot, kicking you comfortably in the ass. Twist the throttle and whoomph. Field goal.

The State Department of Transportation in California, in its infinite wisdom, has chosen to etch tiny little rain tracks in the surface of the highway (etched by the fingernails of screaming bikers as they are dragged away from the wreckage of their bikes). Supposedly, the things increase traction in rain, but it never rains in California, so most of the time the wavering lines give bikers nausea, causing most cycles to skitter across the highway. The BMW didn't even notice the damn things.

You could ride this bike forever. Get on it in New York, point it toward San Francisco and say, "Home, James." On a winding country road, the handling is something else. Good, but not the fluid drive of the Suzuki. Reminiscent of the Blue Angels' or Thunderbirds' precision-flying act. Approach a corner and you push the bike over. Click. Come through the corner and you push it upright. Click. Whatever the BMW sacrifices in handling, though, it makes up for in looks, the astonished, envious glances of those poor souls imprisoned in their four-wheeled dungeons.

"Used to be that you got the bike and then you got the girl. Now you get the bike and you get it on."