A 1977 R100S. Two 500cc jugs jutting out into the windstream. Dual front disc brakes. A horn that can only offer an anemic squeak. A tendency to weep oil from every joint.
To twist the throttle on her and feel her surge forward, her pistons thudding, the valves lashing away next to your feet ... it's beautiful. No crotch-rocket, she. A ponderous, fastidiously-engineered touring workhorse. At 75 miles per hour, the engine thrums between your legs at a leisurely 4000 revolutions per minute. You get the feeling that she could just eat up the miles, given enough fuel. The only limitation the rider's stamina.
The longest I've ridden at a go was a couple hundred miles. A winter project that has stretched well into Spring.
Sometimes, when I can't fall asleep at night, I picture myself on her, sliding across a vast expanse of desert. Bent down low, knees tucked in, a blue-silver shot of speed on an endless black ribbon of road.
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