Chicken soup: or the inevitability of a BMW.

Taking stock‍

Looking back, I suppose a BMW was inevitable. I had ridden many and even enjoyed them. But owning one was, well it just never happened. I’ve been through a few bikes, from Japanese to American, British to Italian, but never a Bavarian steed. My close friend Tom, a fellow Londoner who still rides his R80GS daily since he left the dealership on Park Lane in 1989, abused me for years for not buying a ‘proper’ motorcycle. But my ego kept getting in the way. “They’re for old people!” I would retort and since Tom is older than me, in my naïve mind it made sense [I love you Tom!]. Besides, every time I came across BMW owners, it was like this thing I couldn’t connect with or a sect I wasn't part of. You meet these splendid chaps in their BMW jackets or Touratech gear at petrol stations or a roadside cafe, and as soon as they realize your bike doesn’t have the blue and white disc on the tank, paralysis sets in, their eyes roll back and the conversation rapidly shifts to a subject neither of you has any interest in, much less knowledge of. When I finally put my ego aside 3 years ago, Tom and I agreed on one thing: I had left it too long. At that point, I bought a defunct R75/5 and revived it for my wife, a story for another time. This is about a slash 2 that found me at a swap meet hosted by Scottie’s Workshop in 2018.

‍

The mentor

I met Peter Schildhause 5 years ago when I moved to San Francisco. A career doctor, he was just about to retire from decades of sticking broken people back together at the emergency room in Truckee and riding a meticulously restored R69s. “I know,” he said, “not many doctors ride motorcycles. But this is different, it’s a BMW. A slash 2 more specifically.”

I’d seen them in books, at shows and occasionally on the road. I was also aware some celebrities had owned them, namely Steve Jobs and Oliver Sacks were well documented on their black 60’s Beemers. I’d written them off as a “cliche.” They look too nice to be used daily and the technology is outdated I thought. They’re just a “design” statement. Could such an old bike even be reliable, or better yet, deliver an enjoyable experience? I wasn’t expecting performance or concerned about handling necessarily: having shared words that would make Satan proud with my ’92 Ducati 900ss when it let me down roadside on a regular basis, I was keen to choose a ride that could get me to my destination without needing a PhD or a computer to sort out basic issues. “So you’ve never ridden one of these then,” Peter affirmed as he waved off my Italian sob story. “Best you come with me tomorrow morning.” And with that, I turned up at his place where I discovered that he not only has an R69s, but a few more iterations of this BMW phenomenon. Some might call it a problem; he calls it “the only way to get around.” He selects an R60 from 1962: “If we’re going to pop your cherry, let’s ease you in gently.” The rest is history. Over the last 4 years, I have worked my way through Peter’s hareem of slash twos and threes: I take back everything I’ve ever thought about owning a BMW. My wife said: “Maybe you’re just getting old…!” Wait, WTF?

‍

A chance encounter

Last September, Peter and I set off to Scottie’s workshop one August Saturday for his annual swap meet. The plan was to bring all of A our unused motorcycle related items [read junk] that were taking up space in our lives and not return with more. So when this old crusty white clunker rolled out of an equally old van and into the middle of everyone's’ stuff, I couldn’t resist a taking photo and sent it to my better half, having sworn on all bibles, relevant lives and global well being I wouldn’t even dream of buying anything. “I found you a slash 2!” I texted jokingly. I expected a “don’t you dare” reply, but surprisingly, the response was: “Cool! How much is it?” Where I come from, this is known as a ‘red rag to a bull’.

‍

‍

The Journey

Aside from the “barn find” effect, what drew me to this bike was the story behind it. Virgil, the gentleman who brought it to the meet, was selling it on behalf of a recently deceased friend. But as the story unfolded [‘coz there’s always a story], it turns out the bike previously belonged to another guy named Pete, who brought it back from Sweden in the early ’70s. Intrigued, I tracked him down to find out more: “I bought it in 1971 from a Ministry of Defense auction in Stockholm.” he said, “I rode it all the way to the North Cape, back down through Eastern Europe, Italy, France and ran out of money in England. So I got a job as a merchant seaman and headed back to the U.S. We docked in Baltimore and I rode cross country all the way home to Santa Cruz CA.” But he wasn’t done yet, so he took off shortly after and headed South down the coast of California, into Mexico and all the way to the Yucatán Peninsula. He went on further South still into Guatemala and eventually things took a turn when he crashed in Belize. “At that point, it was touch and go. I wanted to go on but the bike was running really bad and there was nowhere that could fix it. Mexico City was the nearest place. So I limped all the way there. Over a thousand miles, some of it on one cylinder even!” Having repaired the bike in Mexico City, Pete rode all the way back to Santa Cruz and after some time, retired the bike in 1980. Much later in 2008, Virgil and his friend bought it with the intention of restoring it to its former glory but when the financial world collapsed, needless to say, priorities changed and so it sat.

‍

‍

Buying a bike that old wasn’t so much an issue. The real challenge came when we started lining up all the documents for a vehicle that was “out of the DMV system” since 1980. After a few trips to the DMV [much patience required], a couple of visits to the owner’s widow to sign over ownership, cross her palm with silver and a final inspection at the CHP, we were finally legal and on the road. Now the fun begins: it needed to run.

‍

“Do the slingers!” Sound advice from Virgil’s wife, a fellow /2 owner herself.

‍

The resurrection

Uncared-for, unridden and unstarted for almost 40 years, it was a tall order for me to embark on such a project. That said, I’d been through a similar experience with my wife’s /5, so how bad could this be? Most people I spoke too said it would cost thousands to do. Others said: “Just put oil and fuel, you’ll be riding back to Belize in no time!” So one Saturday morning, the Dr came over with a few spares and special tools from his archives, some surgical gloves and since I have no garage, a Panama hat. We had made a ‘to-do’ list earlier in the week and gathered all our basic ingredients with the ambitious aim of just firing up this ‘chicken soup’!

‍

‍

First I gave it a good clean so we could identify everything that was in need of replacing. We switched the fuel tank to one of Peter’s spare /3 tanks as the original one was leaking. [I’ve since relined it and had it fixed by Katie who got me out of trouble, again.] We then installed new spark leads and boots, plugs, petcock, fuel lines and filters. We cleaned the air box, the carbs, checked all cables and made sure the brakes worked on the off chance we got it running. An oil change was also performed and all fluids checked, with a view that once [if] started, all needed changing again within 100 miles. Since these can run without, I didn’t bother getting a battery. [Most police bikes from this era were converted to 12 volts, so it’s still on the to-do list.] We checked the valves: they were perfect. After a few hours of fettling, the Dr said: “I think we can have a go at starting it.” With that, I put fresh fuel in the borrowed tank, turned the petcock to the “ON” position, tickled the carbs for a few seconds and got on it. I stroked the kicker through it’s cycle gently a few times to get the oil flowing. I then kicked three times and guess what…? Nothing! “HA! What did you expect?” I thought to myself. Perhaps we had been unrealistic and it was going to be a longer process than I had hoped for. “Let me show you” said Peter as I stepped off trying to figure out the next trouble shooting step. He gently stroked the kicker again looking for compression, and kicked it, twice. Strangely, after his second kick, we heard another BMW coming up the street: as we looked over, we couldn’t see it. It was at that point that we realized that this old clunker, this German ex-Scandinavian M.O.D, ex-global nomad, retired old junker had suddenly decided to speak after almost 40 years of silence! As the Dr gently rolled the throttle, we heard her roar back to life. We both looked at each other in total disbelief… It actually started! I think Peter was more surprised than I was. His bikes are fastidiously maintained and are all in outstanding condition. When I first got this ‘thing’, I think he quietly wished I’d bought a running project and thought this could be a money pitt that could take years. The todo’s are on going and to date: I’ve changed all throttle and brake cables; installed a new pair of Metzeler Block C tires and completed 2 oil changes. The hydraulic fluids for the gearbox, shaft and final drive have been changed. I’ve also switched to a single seat, installed Euro handlebars and the original parade fuel tank is back in service. Soon, the slingers will get a much needed seeing to and the gearbox will be inspected by Blaise at Desco.

‍

‍

The taste of chicken soup

If I’d thought BMW’s were for old folk, it’s like saying Chicken soup is boring. Like many things in life, it can be. But as I’ve discovered over decades of riding motorcycles across the globe: “It’s not just about the motorcycle. It’s about where it takes you, what you see and who you meet.” With this bike, my focus was merely to get it running and in time mechanically sound. Nothing more. As I ride and continue to work on it, I discover it more every mile [2000 miles so far], and with every wrench, I turn on it, my experience deepens. With advice from the Dr and invaluable support from Scottie’s Workshop, I’m continuously inspired and surprised how straight forward this thing is. Its condition is far from showroom. It’s actually quite the opposite. But it’s all stock. Beyond the originality of the factory, the miles traveled during its years of service for the Swedish coppers and Peter’s contributions from on his global adventures are visible everywhere you look. Every ding, scratch, rust spot and dent tells a story. “Patina” is a special thing, but it has to be genuine. There are too many vehicles that claim authenticity when they’re anything but a few days in the hands of an artist who can recreate that worn-out look in a paint shop. Nothing wrong with that. I simply subscribe to the fact that it’s only original once.

‍

‍

Ignorance is a funny thing: I was also unaware of the extent of BMW’s racing pedigree way back in the '30s. Had I seen Troy Corser at Goodwood when I was a ‘know it all’ speed hungry teenager, I might have gotten there sooner… Currently, I am very fortunate to live in the Bay Area, which offers a landscape of roads, hills, and twisties with more curves than Marilyn and designed by the gods of motorcycling. Recently, I took some friends from out of town on a ride to Mount Tamalpais. I met them with their bikes at a cafe in Mill Valley. As I pulled up, one of them said: “Wow, you brought a knife to a gunfight?”

“Not exactly,” I said, “but I brought you Chicken Soup…”

‍

‍