Angry skies followed us out north of Wenatchee that September day, dark and menacing they were, rumbling all the while, waiting for the perfect moment to drench us in their fury. When the skies cracked open they poured out their anger in an intolerable rain that drenched the forested land, hammering away at us and our bikes, a misery from which there was no refuge. We had to keep going. Stopping just prolonged the agony.
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When these manufacturers make motorcycle tires for the common folk however, they draw on that racing pedigree to build sport touring tires with high grip, high mileage and good wet weather performance. But how well do they really grip? How long do they really last? What are they like to live with through everything a hard core sport tourer can throw at it over the course of the tire’s life?
Road Dirt is going to find out.
Triumph has taken the naked hooligan Speed Triple 1200 RS, added carbon fiber and plastic, bolted on ridiculously low clip ons and rearset pegs, a single round headlight, race quality brakes and electronically smart suspension. Triumph calls the result the Speed Triple 1200 RR and it is one wicked sportbike. Given the invitation to ride one, I flew down to the outskirts of Triumph America’s headquarters in Atlanta, Georgia and took it for a spin.
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“Let’s go rescue Max!” I exclaimed to Rob.
Rob Brooks is Road Dirt’s owner, editor, chief cook and bottle washer and I was in Rob’s living room, having flown from Washington State to his house outside of Atlanta, Georgia to ride Honda’s CB1000R Black Edition and Triumph’s lovely Speed Triple 1200RR. As I fed Rob’s dog Dez copious amounts of cookies under the table, Rob was using social media to track the progress of Max Flinders, MotoAmerica Superbike racer and all around good guy, whose tow rig puked transmission parts, stranding him in Alabama. Rob’s reaction to my suggestion was predictable.
Some find rest on a couch reading a good book, some recharge their batteries on a beach tanning under the sun, others find solace doing yoga poses on stand up paddle boards and as much as I find bliss in a snowy mountaintop view, I love a busy garage: the smell of gasoline, the sound of bad music, the cold metal and the hot blowtorch, the clink of a dropped wrench and tinkle of ice in a mason jar of scotch. Todd’s shop is special in this way, crowded with bikes and tools here is the place where bikes and riders properly worship the God of Speed and ply The Carb Whisperer’s expertise. This is the Garage Mahal, a Mecca with every tool you could think of, all the expertise you need and all of the reasons to never leave.
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He was an old man with a tan wrinkled face and blue overalls, like Uncle Jesse from Dukes of Hazzard. He sported a long white beard like Santa Claus, a small black skull cap helmet with tan leather gloves and black work boots astride an early 70s vintage Harley Davidson Electra Glide. Naturally, I gave him an extra long look.
He gave me the finger.
Technology is everywhere- at our fingertips, on our wrists and in our bikes. Silicon wafers have their proper place but one time they should be put away is during trip planning. Here, old school is best.
As in maps, large maps, big sheets of two dimensional land spread across tables or floors, unfurled like a relentlessly expanding universe. These are what true planners use to fertilize their imagination and ripen plans of adventures to come. Deep thinking riders hoard maps like greedy pirates and cling to them like treasure. In the motorcycling world, Butler Maps have no equal.
Our life is but a blip in the expanse of time and tomorrow is guaranteed to no one. Money, fame, and millions of Facebook or Instagram followers will not buy anyone an extra day. God decides that. It made me reflect on how I would end the sentence on the board. If I had the chalk, what would I write? Years after taking the picture, I know the answer.
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Our plan was grand: my cousin and riding buddy Dave “White Girl” Wensveen and I would tour Yellowstone, Beartooth Pass and Glacier National Park in one giant sweep, gathering them all like kids plucking pastel eggs from the green grass on Easter morning. We crammed White Girl’s Dodge diesel pickup camper full of provisions, stowed our twin VFR800s in the trailer and pointed the Dodge’s hood east. Things went wrong as soon as we left the driveway.
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