- Joined
- Jul 17, 2025
- Messages
- 53
- Location
- Atlanta, GA. USA
- Bike
- 2023 BMW R18C ------- 2024 Kawasaki Ninja Sx 1000
The Gateway BMW dealership in Chesterfield, St. Louis, Missouri, buzzed with excited customers and curious men. It was a welcoming spot, and there sat my brand-new BMW R 18 C, ready for pick up. Its black-and-chrome body shone like a steel knife under the lights. A technician gave it a thorough once-over, checked the tire pressure, and finally nodded with satisfaction. "She's ready," Outside, the Gateway BMW owner, stood tall in his denim and cowboy hat. He shook my hand with a knowing smile—the grin of a seasoned rider. "Ride safe," he advised, congratulating me on my new purchase.
It was Saturday, 11 a.m., and St. Louis was scorching under a brutal sun hitting 98 degrees. I straddled the R 18 C, gripped the clutch, and pawed the red starter button. The engine roared to life with a deep, surprising rumble from the Vance & Hines pipes . I navigated the menu, switched to "Rock", reset the trip meter, and hit the road. Shortly, I smelled burning new paint . Nice!
My Shoei Neotec helmet's ventilation kept my head from overheating. As I cruised out, the urban sprawl melted into rolling emerald hills beneath an endless blue sky. The bike handled the curves like a pro, its analog gauge becoming my trusty companion. Shoutout to Google Maps and the Moman helmet speakers. Another new fond admiration for our government: At least they do one thing right- they design and maintain great Interstates.
But the heat was relentless. By noon, sweat was trickling into my boots, and my shirt stuck to my skin . At a gas station , I grabbed an ice-cold water bottle and dumped it over my head— instant, shivering relief. Bonus discovery: stuffing ice cubes into your jacket pockets works.
My Friend . A word of warning: Don't push past 110 miles without refueling. Out of nowhere, a yellow warning lit up, followed by the empty tank icon on the speedometer. It claimed I had just 3 miles left—scared the shit out of me. I eased off the throttle, and the estimate crept up to 8 miles. Two miles later, a gas station sign appeared like a lifesaver. I whispered a prayer and rolled in slowly. Turns out, my last fill-up was with the bike on its side stand, which didn't top it off fully. This time, I kept it upright for a proper fill. Note to self: The bike guzzles more gas on hilly terrain and at high speeds. What do you think—any tips?
I stayed in Nashville for the night, and woke up at six to take advantage of morning cool. Later, at a Waffle House, my server Brittany—a distracted twenty-something, who had a penchant for carelessness,—messed up my order: no silverware, no creamer, no jelly. Probably a newbie. Hey, I've made plenty of dumb mistakes (and still do), so I left her a generous tip anyway.
The highway unfolded through verdant forests and hills shrouded in misty white fog. Every mile felt like stepping into a painting, drowning out the world's noise. Lovely Tennessee rivers, gorgeous mountains shrouded in fog made me a believer.
Is this bike comfortable? Absolutely! It’s a very comfortable machine. I’m a 70-year-old man, 5 feet tall and 160 pounds, and the bike didn’t tire me out at all. I experienced no neck, arm, or back pain, and was pleasantly surprised to find I’d covered many miles without even realizing it.
In an unknown town in TN, a Starbucks emerged like an oasis. The cool blast of AC caressed my head. My socks and underwear were sweat-soaked , so I ditched them in the restroom . As I settled into a comfy lounge chair my gaze rested on a pink indigo drink, probably for touchy feely types. Anyway, I ordered it along with a lemon pound cake. —I felt recharged and confident. Back on the seat. I cranked it to 85–90 mph. The engine's steady hum was mesmerizing. Frankly it made me feel like a Superman of sorts. The bike glided effortlessly and gobbled up the miles. This is a rare bike that does not induce tiredness. I shifted between 5th and 6th to vary the RPMs—after all, this was the critical break-in period. And get this: Leaning into twists at 70 mph was effortless.
After another 100 miles of enjoying the road, I stumbled at a Buc-ee's gas station, a fat Harley Road King rider, with a furious beard, eyed my ride. "Fuckin’ huge," he said, blowing smoke through his nose . I nodded—no names were exchanged . On the road, brand doesn’t matter. Brotherhood does.
By Sunday, Atlanta's skyline glittered on the horizon like crown. The Bavarian Queen cruised in smoothly, unfazed after two days and over 600 miles of blazing heat, quirky strangers, and infinite pavement. I arrived home with newfound respect for Bayerische Motoren Werke.
Time for a cold one.
It was Saturday, 11 a.m., and St. Louis was scorching under a brutal sun hitting 98 degrees. I straddled the R 18 C, gripped the clutch, and pawed the red starter button. The engine roared to life with a deep, surprising rumble from the Vance & Hines pipes . I navigated the menu, switched to "Rock", reset the trip meter, and hit the road. Shortly, I smelled burning new paint . Nice!
My Shoei Neotec helmet's ventilation kept my head from overheating. As I cruised out, the urban sprawl melted into rolling emerald hills beneath an endless blue sky. The bike handled the curves like a pro, its analog gauge becoming my trusty companion. Shoutout to Google Maps and the Moman helmet speakers. Another new fond admiration for our government: At least they do one thing right- they design and maintain great Interstates.
But the heat was relentless. By noon, sweat was trickling into my boots, and my shirt stuck to my skin . At a gas station , I grabbed an ice-cold water bottle and dumped it over my head— instant, shivering relief. Bonus discovery: stuffing ice cubes into your jacket pockets works.
My Friend . A word of warning: Don't push past 110 miles without refueling. Out of nowhere, a yellow warning lit up, followed by the empty tank icon on the speedometer. It claimed I had just 3 miles left—scared the shit out of me. I eased off the throttle, and the estimate crept up to 8 miles. Two miles later, a gas station sign appeared like a lifesaver. I whispered a prayer and rolled in slowly. Turns out, my last fill-up was with the bike on its side stand, which didn't top it off fully. This time, I kept it upright for a proper fill. Note to self: The bike guzzles more gas on hilly terrain and at high speeds. What do you think—any tips?
I stayed in Nashville for the night, and woke up at six to take advantage of morning cool. Later, at a Waffle House, my server Brittany—a distracted twenty-something, who had a penchant for carelessness,—messed up my order: no silverware, no creamer, no jelly. Probably a newbie. Hey, I've made plenty of dumb mistakes (and still do), so I left her a generous tip anyway.
The highway unfolded through verdant forests and hills shrouded in misty white fog. Every mile felt like stepping into a painting, drowning out the world's noise. Lovely Tennessee rivers, gorgeous mountains shrouded in fog made me a believer.
Is this bike comfortable? Absolutely! It’s a very comfortable machine. I’m a 70-year-old man, 5 feet tall and 160 pounds, and the bike didn’t tire me out at all. I experienced no neck, arm, or back pain, and was pleasantly surprised to find I’d covered many miles without even realizing it.
In an unknown town in TN, a Starbucks emerged like an oasis. The cool blast of AC caressed my head. My socks and underwear were sweat-soaked , so I ditched them in the restroom . As I settled into a comfy lounge chair my gaze rested on a pink indigo drink, probably for touchy feely types. Anyway, I ordered it along with a lemon pound cake. —I felt recharged and confident. Back on the seat. I cranked it to 85–90 mph. The engine's steady hum was mesmerizing. Frankly it made me feel like a Superman of sorts. The bike glided effortlessly and gobbled up the miles. This is a rare bike that does not induce tiredness. I shifted between 5th and 6th to vary the RPMs—after all, this was the critical break-in period. And get this: Leaning into twists at 70 mph was effortless.
After another 100 miles of enjoying the road, I stumbled at a Buc-ee's gas station, a fat Harley Road King rider, with a furious beard, eyed my ride. "Fuckin’ huge," he said, blowing smoke through his nose . I nodded—no names were exchanged . On the road, brand doesn’t matter. Brotherhood does.
By Sunday, Atlanta's skyline glittered on the horizon like crown. The Bavarian Queen cruised in smoothly, unfazed after two days and over 600 miles of blazing heat, quirky strangers, and infinite pavement. I arrived home with newfound respect for Bayerische Motoren Werke.
Time for a cold one.
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