An Antique Adventure

On a 1937 BMW

Every so often, we get an urge to cross the Atlantic in a rowboat, dress up in armor and hack around with a broadsword, take a GP bike around Daytona, or to take up some other foolhardy adventure that could result in adventure or in disaster. It's human nature.

Having recently completed the restoration of a 1937 BMW R12, the idea of riding it to the two BMW rallies held in Colorado in July of this year was irresistible. There were "oldest bike ridden to the meet" awards to be collected, and a few shake-down rides had convinced us that the bike had a good chance of making it, and might even return under its own power.

There are many reasons why long rides on antique motorcycles are seldom undertaken. The possibility of mechanical failure is high, the probability of repair is low, and they really don't keep up with modern traffic very well. Equipped with military sidecar gearing, the top speed of the R12 is about 50 mph, with 45 being a comfortable cruise.

Vintage suspensions range from primitive to none (the R12 is a hardtail), and they lack certain amenities, like headlights capable of illuminating more than ten feet of road, or brakes capable of stopping the machine in distances shorter than football fields.

On the other hand, riders of the era thought nothing of throwing a leg over their Indian or Excelsior and going on a thousand-mile journey, on roads that we would only consider useful for enduro races. With this rationale in hand, we started planning the trip.

Usually, antique bikes on lengthy excursions are accompanied by a recovery vehicle of some kind. Although a perfectly good Ford van was available, my companion for the trip elected to ride a 1961 BMW R69S, not wanting to miss out on the adventure. We set out on two bikes with a combined age of 92 years!

The Top o' the Rockies Rally, hosted by the BMW Motorcycle Club of Colorado, is an annual event held in the little town of Peonia. It attracts about 700 attendees every year, and is such a boon to the local economy, that the city fathers allow riders to camp out in the town park. Although it's a little crowded, the well-kept grass and shade makes for a pleasant, low-key event. Rally activities actually start on Friday, and an early start on Thursday, July 20th, would give us a day-in-hand if we ran into trouble.

Peonia is about 200 miles from our launching site in Denver, and can be reached by several routes. The most scenic of these include a ride over Independence Pass, a beautifully twisty 12,000 footer that's miraculously closed to long vehicles, thereby saving the motorcyclist from the dreaded RV. Unfortunately, these routes are remote, and with fears of a catastrophic breakdown lurking in the back of our minds, we elected to take Interstate 70 all the way to Glenwood Springs.

As far as superslabs go, I-70 west of Denver isn't really too bad, but the 45 mph cruising speed of the R12 caused a couple of tense moments on the western slope of Vail pass, where the semi's run at 85 mph in the slow lane. On the grades though, the low gearing was a big asset. The old bike was able to climb the steepest ones in top gear, maintaining its momentum with no trouble at all.

It's a fifteen-mile jaunt to Carbondale from Glenwood Springs on State 82, then State 133 winds and sweeps through the Crystal River canyon, past Redstone and Marble, and up and over McClure Pass. This is a delightful ride through a verdant valley, with breathtaking alpine views ahead of snowcapped peaks.


West of McClure Pass, the scenery becomes more western, with red buttes and scrub cedars. The road is smooth and twisty, perfect for recreational riding. An hour's ride from the top of the pass brought us to Peonia.


When we rolled up to the registration area in the town park, a bystander immediately took a look at the R12, pulled his wallet out, and asked, "How much?" It was an indication of how the next three days might go.
We spent the weekend of yakking about the bike until we were hoarse. At one time I thought about putting up a sign with three lines, "1937", "750 cc's", and "expensive." These would have answered the vast majority of questions, especially the "expensive".

We managed to escape a few times, for catching-up sessions with friends seen once a year, and to ride around the back roads of the area. The bank in the town of Hotchkiss, only a few miles from Peonia, is owned by a first class motorcycle collector, and an antique of some kind is always in the front window. It's always worth a ride over there to see what's in the window, and this year it was a 1929 Model JD Harley, in perfect showroom condition.

Because of the proximity of the BMW national rally, the Top of the Rockies was expected to be heavily attended. To make more room for tents in the town park, bikes had to be parked on the street rather than in the park itself. For some reason, attendance was only about average at 700 or so.

The awards ceremony is an ordeal at every BMW rally. Since the R12 was most likely the "oldest bike ridden" winner, attendance was mandatory. Other people received plaques for having ridden the longest distance, or being the oldest, or the youngest. But the expected plaque for "oldest bike" apparently hadn't been ordered from the trophy shop, and they would mail it to me, thank you. Oh well, another was to be won in Durango the following weekend.

It's only 120 miles from Peonia to Durango, so we dawdled on Sunday morning, packed up the bikes, took a leisurely ride down magnificent, unmarked back roads, then accidentally wound up exactly where we wanted to go, the town of Cedar Edge. After a pretty good burger in a little cafe, and a brief visit to the grocery store for supplies, we headed up the windy road to the top of Grand Mesa. We camped out next to a pristine mountain lake that just brimmed with trout. I unlimbered my trusty pack rod, and caught a beauty within a few minutes. We released him due to lack of proper cooking equipment.

Our destination on Monday was the Ridgway State Recreation area. This is new area, and is unfortunately built to suit RV travelers. The fee was $3 each for the two motorcycles, plus $10 for camping totaling $16. In front of us, the huge, diesel-belching duallie pickup, with a fifth-wheel travel trailer the size of the Queen Mary, had paid $13. After all, he was only one vehicle, and we were two.

The next day, however, was the highlight of the trip. US550 from Ouray to Durango, the "Million Dollar Highway" is one of the most spectacularly scenic stretches of road in the US.

The road winds first over Red Mountain Pass (11,018') and drops into Silverton, the northern terminus of the Durango & Silverton Scenic Railroad, the famous narrow-gauge line. The train's engineer wandered over and inspected the motorcycle, and asked some very knowledgeable questions. I tried to do the same while admiring his locomotive. Antique motorcycles and antique trains have a lot in common, although it's a bit harder to collect trains.

Molas Pass (10,910') is on the route from Silverton to Durango, and we were treated with another dose of spectacular scenery. We wound up that evening camping at a little National Forest campground across the road from the Purgatory ski area. It suited us much better than Ridgway had, being considerably more rustic, and was decorated with an array of columbines in full bloom.

It was only a 30 mile hop into Durango on Wednesday, and we found the county fairgrounds, site of the BMWMOA national rally, without difficulty. Although registration was not due to open until Thursday, tents were already being pitched under the few available trees, and shade and grass were already in short supply. We managed to find just enough space under a shade tree for the little dome tent, although the location was inconvenient.
Barrier tape, in safety orange or "DO NOT CROSS" yellow, had been strung up all around what little decent camping area existed. Various groups of rallyists had marked their own little territories out, and were attempting to prevent outsiders from entering them. We found an unmarked corner just big enough to pitch our little tent, but it required us to cross the barriers to get in and out. This led to conflict throughout the weekend, as the pursuit of space with shade and without dust caused tents to be erected cheek-to-jowl on every square inch of the area. It was a scene reminiscent of the Sooners descending on the Oklahoma Territory.

I had been invited by Larry Sparber of the BMW Vintage Motorcycle Owners to help judge the bike show on Saturday morning. Over the years, Larry has developed an excellent judging sheet, far simpler than any other that I've seen, that works well even with novice judges (like me). I worked with a very knowledgeable group, in the class for 1955 through 1969 models, the so-called "/2's." It was tough to be hard-nosed enough when the bikes were as pristine as these, and most of them had been ridden to the meet. Our '37 was the only entry in the pre-war category, so it won a nice red ribbon by default.

The interminable awards assembly that evening featured the Mayor of Durango, who told a story about how he had actually ridden a motorcycle one time, but had fallen down, and didn't like it. But if one is to win an award, one must tolerate these things. Curiously, although the R12 was announced as the winner of the award for the oldest bike in attendance, no trophy was forthcoming. It seems that once again, the awards committee was a bit remiss in actually acquiring awards.

We managed to get an early start on our return voyage on Sunday morning. Our route followed US160 from Durango to Pagosa Springs, then over the breathtaking Wolf Creek Pass (10,850'). With thunder clouds ahead of us, we donned our rainsuits and headed for South Fork. The rain didn't start until we entered a rather lengthy construction zone, with mud aplenty. It was a real cloudburst, but the R12 glopped through the mud in fine style until it began to sputter, followed shortly by silence from the left cylinder. We pulled over under a tree, and with the engine still running on one cylinder, discovered that water had collected on the sparkplug wire, and had made its way into the magneto, shorting the ignition on that side. All it took to fix it was to flip the wire the other direction, so that water led away from the mag, rather than toward it. Under the tree, engine heat dried the magneto out in just a couple of minutes, and we were on our way again.

This, and a broken zipper on the left boot, were the only mechanical troubles on the entire trip.

The rain stopped immediately upon leaving the construction zone, as soon as we were on pavement again. It seems it was there just to get as much mud on the bikes as possible.

We continued toward Denver, picking up US285 near the little town of Center. Calling it a day at Fairplay, an old mining town 75 miles from Denver, we had covered 275 miles at 45 mph.

We spent the night at the Fairplay Hotel, a wooden relic from the turn of the century, with bathrooms-down-the-hall. It is well-kept and historic, and is a perfect place to stay when riding old motorcycles. The 75 mile remainder to Denver went without a hitch. Perhaps this business of riding around on antique bikes isn't so loony after all. It was a most satisfactory adventure.

Noot: Dit verhaal is eerlijk gekopieërd van een site in Amerika, met dank!