Get Yourself an R100RS, Get Yourself a Ring.
Photo by Tracy Graham
I’ve always loved hearing how people find their motorcycles. More often than not, it’s a weird labyrinth of twists and turns to find their soul bike, and it’s always a good story. Sit right back, and I’ll tell you a tale of how we found ours.
The story of how Tracy and I got our first motorcycle is inextricably linked with the one of how we got engaged. The bike, a silver-blue BMW ‘78 R100Rs, was owned by Tracy’s stepdad since its birth year, but had been acting as a shelf in his and his Mom’s Las Vegas garage for the last ten years or so. Tracy would walk past it every time he visited for Christmas, saying, “Whenever you’re ready to sell, I’ll be here.” After one more push, 2019 seemed to finally be our year. After getting my dad onboard to help us house the bike in San Diego and fix it up (a true family affair), we were off on a plane to Las Vegas to pick up the gorgeous Shark, as she was to be known.
We rattled our way out of the sky, hopelessly delayed, thanks to a storm over the Sierras. We had spent the whole flight vice gripping each others’ hands, sure we were goin’ down, but telling ourselves that if the flight attendant didn’t seem worried, we were probably OK. Hours later than our intended arrival, and already at our wits end from nerves, we found ourselves in a parking lot at midnight in a particularly seedy side of town to pick up a Uhaul, our ride for the weekend. Our Uber driver dropped us off, looked around apprehensively, and said, “Just be careful, you guys,” before heading off. After a movie-montage worthy effort of hiding our bags in the bushes to not attract attention, not being able to get into the truck, and sitting behind the wheel of the Uhaul to stay under the radar as the denizens of the neighborhood conducted their business around us, we eventually made it into the truck and back to Tracy’s mom’s house for a few hours of sleep.
At 6AM the next morning, Valentine’s Day, we were up and at ‘em, Tracy pushing the R100RS up onto the ramp. Side note, if you have never tried to wheel a lifeless 500+ lb piece of machinery UP a narrow ramp, try watching a few Youtube videos before attempting. I’m sure that research saved Tracy’s legs and also the bike from toppling over onto the driveway. We strapped it in, and were on the road, our lone cargo in the back. All the while, the storm continued and seemed to follow us over the mountains between Las Vegas and San Diego, and we bumped along, our truck like a sail in the wind.
Unbeknownst to me, the bike was not our only cargo that trip. A little engagement ring had also been making the trek over the Sierras, through the seedy parking lot, and over the mountains to San Diego. As we hit hiccup after hiccup, derailing his carefully laid plans, Tracy’s nerves surrounding this little stowaway were steadily increasing, and his visions of a beautifully sunny beach-side proposal were washing away in the deluge that followed us all the way to SD. Meanwhile, I was just clinging to the truck for dear life. When we made it to San Diego, we rolled the bike out of the truck and into my parents’ garage, with gravity as our friend this time to make it a relatively easier transfer.
Now on dry land, I’d hit my ADD-brain’s limit, so I skipped on inside with my Mom. My Dad and Tracy followed their usual routine of drifting deeper into the garage to my Dad’s own bike collection. I truly wish I could have been a fly on the wall for this part. Both my Dad and Tracy are traditional guys, so as Joe (Dad) was waxing philosophical about the latest trip he’d taken up Palomar Mountain, and which bike had done it best, Tracy began trying to interject and ask his permission to propose, but quickly, before I wandered back outside. The catch—my father is quite hard of hearing after his lifetime of touring and drumming, so it took a handful of increasingly desperate interruptions before “I WANT TO MARRY YOUR DAUGHTER” finally broke through. My pops slowly turned away from his GS to look at Tracy, and stared at him, frowning for a few moments, trying to make sure that was really what he had just heard, before raising his eyebrows with, “I guess this is happening!” and clapping him on the back.
That weekend, with the backdrop of a lovely (albeit very rainy) staycation in Encinitas, the ring found its new owner, with just the two of us on Moonlight Beach, and the R100RS served its catalyst purpose. To this day, that bike remains an integral part of our story together, and whenever we get to hop on it down South, we fall in love with it and each other more and more. In true learning experience (and protective Dad) fashion, our dreams of fixing up our first motorcycle ourselves pragmatically fell to the wayside in the name of safety. After some cringingly expensive TLC by the BMW Dealership, it’s now up and running, and a fantastic desert mountain-er, although decidedly too big for our San Francisco home’s city streets. Tracy’s search began for bike #2, mine began for bike #1, but unbeknownst to us, the next BMW to join our family was waiting just a few hills over in a garage North Beach.
So while I’m not sure if getting yourself an R100RS will actually get you a ring, in my limited experience, “60% of the time, it works every time”.
