I got a call from my buddy Carl at the beginning of the week, asking if I'd like to take a ride to -- of all places -- Verhalen, Texas today.

"Verhalen? Why Verhalen?" I asked in a what-are-you-trying-to-get-me-into-this-time sort of tone.

For those of you who don't know, Verhalen is a little ghost town just north of Balmorhea at the northern edge of the Davis Mountain Range. About five people live there -- literally.

But I've gotta hand it to Carl. When it comes to finding vintage bikes stashed in out-of-the-way places, the guy is like a supernatural moto-medium. And when he explained that we were going to see his friend Jim Franklin's vintage bike collection, I was immediately onboard. So this morning around 11:30, Britt and I made the ride to the Odessa Starbucks, where everyone was meeting to make the trip.

Heavy Bus Racing's Marie and Carl Peterson, and Dingo Sanctuary drummer Britt Parker tanking up on snacks and caffeine before the ride:



Our first stop was in Monahans, where we grabbed a late lunch:



I thought I had some good shots of our awesome Mexican cuisine, but I was unfortunately using the wrong macro and none of them turned out. I did manage to get a pretty good shot of the tablecloth, however:



Our next stop was in Pecos, where we refueled and met another group of riders for the final 20-mile (or so) leg into Verhalen. The Flying J is your friend in the remote badlands of West Texas:



Not long thereafter we had arrived at Mr. Franklin's place, The Goat & Guinea Cafe:





The place is not an active restaurant as far as I can tell. In fact, it's a place right out of The Three Burials of Melquiades Estrada, and is guarded 24/7 by a rather unfriendly looking fellow next door who has a penchant for glaring at you silently while shouldering a double-barrel shotgun. You don't want to be around this place without permission, make no mistake.

We, on the other hand, were invited guests -- and I couldn't have been happier about it once we got inside. The first thing that caught my eye was this beauty:





Yes, it's the real deal. A non-military variant Famous James, complete with original open speedo gear assembly:



In a side room, there is another Famous James awaiting resurrection:



Hiding in the dark between a couple of old pinball machines, I found this:



Jim is apparently a Hee-Haw fan:



Vintage MZ, anyone?



But the highlight of the visit was when Mr. Franklin said, "Let me get these old BMWs warmed up so you all can ride them."

'Did I hear that correctly?' I thought.

Apparently so, because before I knew it, Jim's 1973 R75 and 1980 R65 were purring like kittens and being wheeled out the front door.

Carl was the first to take the R65 for a spin:



The R65 is a former road-race bike that has been put back into street trim. Turn up your volume and bass all the way, and listen to Carl make a pass on a vintage example of German greatness:



I rode the R65 shortly thereafter, and by that time, Marie and Britt had both ridden the R75, which was equally awesome in its own way:



Back inside, we explored the old building:





Britt tickles the ivories on a piano that hasn't been tuned since 1935. It wouldn't have mattered anyway. Stick to playing drums, old buddy:



You are in:



Well, needless to say at this point in the story, we ended up screwing around a lot longer than we planned and the sun was starting to get low in the sky. It was cooling down and we had a long ride back. But as we were getting ready to go, one of the Odessa guys, Jeff, noticed that he had a leak in his rear tire. So it was off to Jim's house between Verhalen and Balmorhea to plug the tire.

By the time we were done, it was sunset. The time change, combined with poor time management throughout the day, was going to now result in a cold, dark, 125-mile ride home. I looked to the south just before we left, the Davis Mountains looming in the distance as a stark reminder of just how far from Midland we were. Suddenly, I had that strange, urgent, out-of-place feeling you experience sometimes in dreams. It was time to go:



Feeling no need to take it easy on his fresh plug and running in excess of 100 miles per hour on several occasions, Jeff's tire was unsurprisingly flat again as we entered Pecos. This held us up even longer, as we waited for him to get a bicycle plugging kit from the local Wal-Mart and re-repair the repair. Thirty minutes later, he was plugged again and it was getting cold and dark. We finally made it onto the interstate at dusk.

I arrived home under a full moon and starry sky. I was cold, tired, hungry, and ready to get off the Z-Rex. All-in-all a wonderful day, but I was never so happy to be home. I arrived just in time for dinner and a back rub from my lovely wife, so things are definitely looking much better now in retrospect.

Total mileage for the day was 255 and the weather was thankfully perfect for November. Despite the problems and late return, all made it home safe and sound. It was a fantastic experience.

Thoreau once wrote that one should come home from each of life's adventures with new experience and character. I think this weekend's trip to the Three Sisters definitely provided those intellectual commodities to all of us in one capacity or another.

Four friends (Carl, Marie, Weasel, Charles) and I left Midland around 8:15 on Friday night, arriving approximately five hours later at the motorcyclists/bicyclists-only D'Rose Inn on the south side of Leakey. You can't miss the D'Rose. When you pull in, this fellow greets you at the gate:




After a few hours of sleep we awoke with much enthusiasm for the day, got ready, unloaded the bikes, and headed for Vanderpool, where we met our first group of friends from the Two-Wheeled Texans motorcycle forum at the Lone Star Motorcycle Museum:











The museum's cafe makes great meat pies:



The fries were good, too:



Surrounded by all the Brit bikes at the museum, Charles waves in such a fashion as to make the UK proud:



Eight million pics of the museum bikes have been posted to the Internet already, so I'll spare the minutia. However, I think I have decided on the exact shade of orange I will be painting my restoration-project 1973 S1A:



After lunch, we went back to Leakey for fuel before heading out on the hundred-mile loop. There, we met more Two-Wheeled Texans:





From there, it was all corner-shagging all day in a clockwise traversing of the Three Sisters on a perfect autumn day. Traffic was light, we saw not a single cop, and enjoyed a spirited but generally non-excessive pace. I don't think we ever used more than 85 percent of maximum lean angle and kept speeds below 100 pretty much the whole time. We had a few Three Sisters noobs with us and didn't want to leave them too far behind.

Unfortunately, our buddy Weasel tossed it in one of the tight sections near Prade. The corner snuck up on him and he fixated on some gravel near the edge of the pavement. The front end tucked at about 25 or 30 and the bike went into a rock wall.

The upper was mashed from hitting the wall, the lower left bodywork and frame slider were toast, a mirror was lost, and the clip-ons received various damage. I think the front forks could be a little tweaked too. We're still waiting for a full assessment from Weasel:





With the bike operable and Weasel (banged up but) able to ride, we headed into Leakey and rested at The Hog Pen:



Weasel had some bruised ribs, a heat-induced strawberry on his side, a ruined helmet from smacking his head on the pavement, and a ruined set of racing leathers to go with his crashed R6. That said, ATGATT did its job in a major way. Injuries were very minor.

From there, we headed back to the D'Rose, cleaned up our bikes, and got ready to ride to dinner. My old-school ZX-7R still shines up nicely:



Weasel and Charles decided to load-up their bikes and head home at that time, but Carl, Marie, and I were all looking forward to enjoying a beautiful hill country evening. We took one last ride around town as the sun set, then stopped for an excellent meal outside on the patio at the Feed Lot.

After returning from dinner, we hung out on the porch with some other motorcyclists who were staying at the Inn. Oddly enough, most of them were from Odessa. By 9:30, we were tired and turned in for the night. I found a condensed version of Eisenhower's autobiography, 'At Ease' in my room and ended up reading it for about three hours, finally falling asleep well after midnight. It's a good book, by the way. I learned things about Ike's upbringing, family, and his education at West Point that I had never known.

I was wide awake at 6 a.m., missing my wife terribly and fighting a bad case of Go Fever. But rather than waking Carl and Marie for an early start, I got ready, made coffee, packed all my stuff, and enjoyed some quiet time on the porch before sunrise:



When the sun came up, I took a few more pictures. My room, built in the 1930s and endearingly rustic:



Great interior walls:



Here's one of D'Rose's cabin units. Very nice:



When was the last time you stayed at an inn where the original owner was entombed on the property? Dig it:





By mid-morning, the rest of our gear was loaded and we were on the road:



We stopped in Camp Wood for lunch, then looked around a bit before heading north. Here's an obligatory shot of the well-known bike on a stump in Camp Wood:



We took the long way home from there, examining some back roads north of Sheffield for their motorcycling potential. We also stopped to visit our friends Dana and Nancy in Iraan. They own Mesquite Wood BBQ and host the Sportbike rally every year:



The last 70 miles home were the longest, and I was glad to finally get there. I slept harder last night than I think I've slumbered in a very long time.

Thanks to Carl and Marie for the transportation. I enjoyed traveling with them. Another special thanks to Deb and her frequent guest/helper Mike at the D'Rose. Finer people, you will not meet, and I'll definitely be returning there for another visit.

A video on Buell's website today shows an emotional Eric Buell announcing the apparent end of the brand at the hands of parent company, Harley-Davidson.

"The decision has been made," Eric Buell said in the video. "We will no longer be making Buell motorcycles."

The news of Buell's liquidation -- along with the liquidation of Harley-Davidson's other pet brand, the recently acquired MV Agusta -- comes on the heels of H-D's third-quarter 2009 financial report, which revealed an 84 percent decline in profits. According to Market Watch, the Milwaukee-based motorcycle company posted a profit of $26.48 million (11 cents per share), a gigantic drop from the $166.54 million (71 cents per share) of a year ago.

Reports indicate that all Buell and MV Agusta employees, approximately 190 in total, will be laid off by December 18, 2009.

Buell stirred up controversy in AMA road racing earlier this year when the company's 1200cc, Rotax-powered supersport platform was allowed to compete in the Daytona class against motorcycles with less than half the displacement, then went on to win the championship. Further controversy followed when Buell was allowed to run a non-homologated race package in the Superbike class. The advantages Buell's race bikes were given drew the ire of many in moto-journalism and throughout the blogosphere, including we here at The Superbike Blog.

These embroilments aside, the impending absence of Buell from the world motorcycle market is a clearly negative development. Despite the aggravating amount of preferential treatment Buell received in American road racing to make them competitive, the company has unarguably built lots of really good street bikes since its inception in 1983. It was also the first to develop and/or successfully utilize fuel-in-frame technology in mass production, among other innovative proprietary features. These firsts should be commended as the sun sets on America's first (some would say, "only") sportbike manufacturer.

The Superbike Blog sends its best wishes to all the soon-to-be former employees of Buell and MV Agusta during these trying economic times.

At least not for now.

As is my usual modus, allow me to preface a somewhat critical piece with a bit of balance: I have nothing against the concept of an all-electric motorcycle. Truth be told, I actually think it's a pretty great idea. In fact, I've often said that the day some very bright engineering and design team releases onto the market a 150-mile per hour, 6,000-dollar, all-electric motorcycle with a 200 mile range and a 10 minute recharge cycle, I'll be the first in line to buy. I mean that sincerely.

Unfortunately, that's not where the technology is right now. The average all-electric motorbike has a range of about 30 miles, a top speed of about 40 miles per hour, a recharge time of about eight hours, and a pricetag that'd get you a Hayabusa or Ducati race replica. And I won't even mention the costs associated with replacing worn out battery packs.

Yet, industry insiders and outsiders alike -- particularly in the mainstream media -- repeatedly represent the all-electric motorcycle as if it were a fully perfected, cheap, dependable mode of transportation. It's not. Far from it, in fact. In all but a precious few real-life riding applications, the electric bike is a generally useless purchase for anything other than helping holier-than-thou eco-mentals feel superior to their petrol-burning neighbors.

The way electric vehicles in general are marketed is partly to blame for the misconceptions surrounding the true state of the technology. For example, the Tesla Roadster, an ultra high-dollar, all-electric sports car, is marketed as having an almost 250-mile range. However, on the BBC television series Top Gear, the Tesla was found to have a range of only 60 miles. It was also noted that the 109,000-dollar car requires a battery pack replacement every 30,000 to 70,000 miles at a cost of almost $30,000.

All too often, these truths eventually come home to roost for the electric vehicle industry in for form of failure. Motorcyclist Magazine recently reported that the Vectrix electric motorcycle company is apparently on the verge of bankruptcy right now after pumping over 50 million dollars and more than a decade of R&D into its all-electric line of scooters and bikes. It makes one wonder if those who dropped 12 Grand or more for a new Vectrix will be left in the cold from a support standpoint should the company fold completely. And it's not just Vectrix. The list of financially troubled or failed companies producing similar products is considerable.

My aim here is not to trash the concept. As I said, it would be great if someone made all-electric technology tangibly viable, and I hope efforts continue. My aim is to make sure that you, the motorcyclist, are thinking critically so that you are not duped into a purchase you might later regret. Look to the realities, not the hype. Unless the buying public expects and accepts only the very best from the electric motorcycle market, it likely won't get it.

The first real nip of autumn was floating in the West Texas air when I awoke this morning. Summer is over now, and it won't be long until green turns to yellow, then yellow to gray as we move into the cold months.

The onset of autumn, for me, has always carried with it a certain somberness -- but more so this year than in years past. You see, I turn 40 this autumn. Yep, the big four-o. But as if that isn't enough to become introspective about, I also get the added bonus of having been laid off a few weeks ago from an Art Director job of almost five years which I absolutely loved. Sadly, it seems I'm yet another casualty of the lingering economic contraction. So here I am now, sending out resumés and scrambling to prove my professional value to people I generally don't know, all as the hour glass of my life is being flipped at its statistical halfway point. It's a lot for me to process right now, I'll honestly admit. The whole situation has left me a little depressed, and whenever I get depressed, I sometimes find myself lost in the happier memories of my past.

A sizable portion of that nostalgia, as you might imagine, has to do with motorcycles and motorcycling. I think of the many bikes I've had, the trips I've taken, the friends I've made, as well as the friends I've lost to the ride. Honestly, I don't know if doing so ultimately helps me or not, but these flowing mental tapestries of the past are what I use as a cloak of escape from time to time when I need a break from my stresses and anxieties. So imagine my surprise when I found a thread on a local motorcycle message board by a kid who now owns the beloved 2000 ZX6R I sold a few years ago to make room in the stable for my Kawasaki 1200. Talk about memories flooding back.

The bike (pictured above with me when it was new in 1999) has not fared particularly well since I sold it in 2007, having changed hands several times. I could write a very long story on how I got that bike, how thankful I was to have it, and all the blessed memories I made while riding it alongside lots of truly great people -- some of whom are still my best friends, some of whom I've unfortunately lost touch with, and some of whom are no longer with us. The guy who owns it now is using it partially as a stunt bike, which likely means it won't be around for much longer if the videos he posted in the thread are any indication. It could be worse, though. At least it's still running and on the street for now.

I say that because my most pressing fear when I initially decided to sell the bike was that an inexperienced rider would get ahold of it and be killed in a high-speed crash. For a short while, I even pulled it off the market and decided to keep it. It was only when a guy named Toby (a level-headed 37-year old) approached me about selling it to him, that I changed my mind again and finally decided to let it go. It was disappointing to later learn how Toby sold it after only a few months of ownership, but these things happen. Motorcycling isn't for everyone, and I totally understand his decision to sell. Still, when I learned the news, a heavy sense of regret over my selling it was thereafter with me.

Via the video, it was a bit difficult to watch the old girl looking so banged up and being flogged, especially after I had spent eight years' time and money keeping the bike in mint condition. I thought of how clean I had kept it, the valve adjustments and oil changes I had given it, and the otherwise letter-perfect periodic maintenance the motorcycle had received. And now, here was some 20-year old guy wringing its poor little neck in a parking lot, cracked bodywork, noisy valvetrain, ruined suspension and all. I kept thinking, Get off my bike! You're destroying it!

But it's not my bike -- not anymore, I thought. And in the very next moment, I fully realized that I needed to let it go. Once and for all, turn it loose. It's not healthy to hang onto things in such a way. Whatever happens to that bike physically in the future has no bearing on the joy it brought me or the things it taught me. It's ultimately just a hunk of plastic and metal, and a material thing which -- like all material things -- will eventually go away.

Maybe that's partially what I'm struggling with over this whole 'turning 40' thing. Part of me wants to be 25 forever. But I can't be. None of us can. Much like with the times I spent riding my old ZX6R, perhaps I just need to hold onto the valuable things I gleaned along the way like experience, friendships, knowledge and wisdom, and let the rest of it go in preparation for life's next adventure -- professionally and otherwise.

George Carlin once said that life is just a series of dogs you own. If there's any truth to that, then for me, life has been a series of motorcycles. And that particular ZX6R was a very important chapter in the life and times of Tim Kreitz. It was, in a sense, my twenties and thirties -- the summer of my life, now past. And perhaps that's why I couldn't part with it emotionally until just today.

I enter the autumn of my life in the autumn of the year. Fitting, I suppose. I know the winter will come soon enough, but for now I suppose I must remember that there is crisp air, a clear sky, and plenty of riding still left to do. It would be a shame to look back in the coldest moment of winter's grasp and realize that I didn't enjoy, for its own sake, the natural beauty of falling leaves, graying hair, ripening pumpkins, and love and friendships that grow even stronger over time. I pray that God will grant me the ability to do this as fully as possible, and that I might also bless others in the process.

There seems to be an alarming trend developing in motorcycle culture. More and more often, riders are wearing over-the-top gear and garb designed to attract the attention of cagers in negative ways. The shirt pictured at right is a good example. Or should I say, a bad example?

As motorcyclists, we all get frustrated with cagers from time to time, especially this time of year. They cut us off, encroach on our lanes and space, tailgate, and a myriad of other offenses which can result in mishap. But in my opinion, we cross the line when we wear offensive language or symbols intended as some watered-down form of retaliation. It's a poor idea for many reasons.

I know few experienced riders who would recommend doing anything that could potentially result in provoking a cager. You won't ever win against a car or truck, no matter how tough your shirt implies you to be. For the frustrated **** shoveler in the '82 Chevette behind you who is on his way home from his worst day of work ever, an inflammatory message on your shirt could be the straw that breaks the proverbial camel's back.

Moreover, wearing this kind of stuff does more to make us look bad than it does them. We're the ones who appear lesser in intelligence and common sense, no matter how effectively the garb actually does deter the probability of going unnoticed by the average inattentive driver.

Studies have shown that the two things which make a rider most visible (aside from proper lighting) are bright-colored safety gear and retro-reflective material such as decals or tape. If you've never seen how retro-reflective decals work at night, you'd be amazed. They can actually be more effective than a bike's own lighting on some models. In any case, it's a much better method for making your presence known than by intentionally trying to piss people off.

This news story from the paper in my hometown of Midland, Texas is apparently making the email rounds with the local motorcycle crowd. I just received it today. And while the story is about a bicyclist who was run over and killed by an inattentive driver who was texting at the time of the incident, it still resounds strongly with experienced motorcyclists. On a regular -- sometimes even daily -- basis, we are practically assaulted by the gaggle of jackasses that comprise the cager demographic.

Now mind you, I realize that ranting about the fact that most American drivers are apparently retarded is preaching to the choir with those who read this blog. That's not my aim with this entry. My aim is to point out the mild slap on the wrist the driver received for essentially murdering another human being. Prepare to be angered:

"A driver who was distracted on his cell phone and fatally struck a bicyclist from behind last year has pleaded guilty to a charge of manslaughter and was sentenced to five years probation by the 385th District Court."

That's right, no jail time and only five years probation. But wait, there's more:

"Judge Robin Malone Darr ... also ordered him to pay a $2,500 fine."

Gasp! A whole 2,500 dollars? Such cruel, cruel punishment.

What a joke.

The message? "Go ahead, American drivers. Eat those bagels. Drink those lattes. Send those texts. And do it all while driving. Sure, we'll make you pay a little fine or some-such if you kill a biker or cyclist, but only 'cause we hafta. The important thing to remember is that all those two-wheeled riders out there on the roads deserve whatever they get. After all, they shouldn't be riding those stupid contraptions in the first place. They should be driving Hummers while watching DVDs like the rest of us. Don't worry about taking personal responsibility for your actions -- we abandoned those ideals as a country long ago, anyhow. We'll just blame the victim or call it an accident, and still be home in time to watch American Idol or some other pop-culture crap that makes us even stupider."

The idiocracy is fully upon us.

The man who has dominated AMA Superbike for a decade, Mat Mladin, announced his retirement from racing last week, effective at the conclusion of the 2009 season. The end of an era is upon us.

If you've been reading the Superbike Blog since its inception some five years ago, you might think I'm ecstatically happy about the announcement. I've been manifestly brutal to Mat on occasion, sometimes deservedly, and sometimes -- I honestly admit -- out of my own frustration with the guy. In any case, I've given him both barrels at every opportunity. I've called for him to move on to WSB or MotoGP. I've criticized his past treatment of the press and his fans. I've blown up at the attitude he sometimes took toward his fellow racers. I even accused him of using at least some degree of traction control long before it was made legal, a claim I still believe to be true. In short, I've been perhaps his worst critic in all of moto-journalism, and certainly from within the blogosphere.

Strangely, with the reality of Mladin's permanent absence now confronting me, I'm not nearly as happy to see him go as I thought I would be. In fact, there's a part of me that's actually a bit sad -- and it's not because I'm losing one of my favorite whipping boys. Mladin, despite his sometimes insufferable public nature, provided a force of direction to the series and gave it a large measure of its total purpose. It's a benchmark that will be gone forever in a few more months.

What do I mean by that, you ask? Well, when a new factory rider entered the AMA grid, he had a herculean task before him -- beat Mat Mladin. Not many could. Those that did on a consistent basis showed their worthiness to move onto the world stage. He was, in many ways, the ultimate litmus test. For the poor privateers of the Mladin era, it must've been like bringing a BB gun to a skeet shoot. Most were usually relegated to backmarker status by the end of the first lap.

But perhaps the worst thing about Mladin's eminent exit, though, is the circumstances under which he is leaving. He's fed up with years of bad series management, and who can blame him? The AMA was a terrible sanctioning body, and so far DMG is proving itself to be even worse. Mladin's not quitting because he can't do it anymore, he's quitting because he doesn't want to deal with incompetence anymore. He's tired of having his hard work and dedication to being the best trumped by a bunch of idiots who can't read their own rulebook. As he said in a recent press release, it's not fun any longer. That's not how I wanted it to end for Mladin. I wanted a little redemption for both him and the series before he turned away.

What's done is done, though, and Mladin will soon be gone from the grid. But regardless of my frequent air raids on Mladin and his camp, I want the record to show that I never lacked respect for him as either a racer or a businessman. Mat Mladin is a man of excellence, and will certainly continue to be so in whatever ventures he decides to pursue post-retirement. He has the heart and mind of a champion, and such is to be complimented. If I'd had half the drive and ability of Mladin, I might be doing more right now than hacking it out on some obscure blog in the middle of cyber-nowhere.

So long, Mat, and best wishes. The vacuum created by your absence will undoubtedly take years to fill. Sure, you were wrong a lot, but you were also great a lot. No one can take that away.