Well, my introduction is a ride tale, so I guess I'll just leave this here.
My name is Matt, and I'm a die hard Buell fan, but I just picked up my first BMW. I got a good deal on an 07 K1200GT in Tampa, FL and flew down to pick it up yesterday morning. I couldn't pack all my gear in my carry on bag, so I boarded the plane wearing Alpinestars race boots and a Joe Rocket jacket. I felt a little over dressed, but I figured if there were terrorists heading to Florida with me, I could at least kick them really effectively. How do you say, "Please remove my toe slider from your mouth" in Arabic, anyway?
The owner met me at the airport and took me to his house, where I exchanged cash for the bike. The weather was beautiful, and I rode north for Atlanta with a smile on my face. Here's the first place I stopped for gas:
Unfortunately the blue sky didn't last. I brought overpants and a Frog Toggs jacket with me because the forecast called for "scattered storms" in GA, but I had no idea what I was in for.
About an hour south of the GA/FL border, I rode into a massive thunderstorm. The rain was cooooold, and between the water on my visor and the fog on my glasses I couldn't see much of anything. I pulled off at Jennings, the last FL exit, to take a break. There's a race track there I've ridden a few times, and you can usually hear bikes off in the distance from this spot. The racers are apparently smarter than I am, though, because none were out that day.
The rain slacked off enough that I could see for the next couple of hours, and I made it to Perry, GA before it really dumped on me again. I stopped at another gas station there to warm up for a bit and put on more clothes. I made such a wet mess that the clerk brought out a mop and starting cleaning the floor reproachfully. I found a $10 bill on the floor, though, and that cheered me up.
If that gas station had been a hotel, I probably would have just stayed there. The rain lightened up some, though, and the clerk was giving me the evil eye, so I swam back out to the bike and hit the road again. Another three hours of frigid rain brought me almost back home, and I capped off the trip in true Atlanta fashion with a bumper-to-bumper traffic jam.
Five lanes of I-285 were closed right at my exit because of an accident, and the last mile was dead stopped. By that time I'd been riding for eight hours and soaked for five of them, and I felt really, really cross with the world. I was too tired and cold and wet to give a crap about other drivers, so I jumped over onto the shoulder and rode it all the way down to my exit. For the first time in hours I was glad to be on a motorcycle.
Finally home, I had near terminal prune hands:
But I had a K1200GT in my garage, so it was alright.