The author hamming it up with new license plate.

Shelia enjoying early morning rest stop atop the Cherohala Parkway.

Resting at an abandoned church in rural West Virginia.

Having now ridden motorcycles for more than 37 years, the last 7 on BMW's, I've always considered myself a devotee of route planning by use of maps. Yes, good old fashioned, dog-eared, well worn, paper maps. I derive great pleasure in studying their features and plotting fuel mileage, butt mileage, eateries, attractions, and especially the squiggle lines. So it was with some reluctance that I recently accepted an offer to borrow a friends GPS unit to try out for the day. After all, my vanity plate reads NOGPS. So after a few minutes of tinkering in the garage, the device was powered up through my Autocomm and mounted to the handlebars of my '96 R1100R, prominently poised to teach me the errors of my navigational ways. 

             Starting from the northern suburbs of Cincinnati, I somewhat awkwardly programmed a southerly course for central Kentucky which offers many world class roads and inspiring scenery. No sooner than I had gotten under way than the new voice in my helmet began instructing me on my directional requirements as I negotiated the freeways and urban surface roads leading to the bridges that cross the mighty Ohio River. I couldn't help but notice that whenever I disregarded the instructions the voice would say "Recalculating, recalculating" in a firm but pleasant female voice.

            Heretofore, my only experience with directional assistance while 'on the fly' has come from my wife and pillion of 31 years, Shelia. She will sometimes say, "pull over, pull over," at which time we refer to a map, argue briefly, and resume riding with a new understanding of each other's expectations.

             After successfully passing through town by the same route that I've traveled countless times, I arrived in rural Kentucky at the head roads of my favorite riding region. So far, so good! Then as fate would have it, I turned onto an interesting but previously undiscovered road. There was the synthesized voice again, "Recalculating, recalculating" it cackled, in what I swear was a more authoritative tone than before. I must say that it was somewhat disconcerting as I leaned into a big sweeper at speed. OK, I justified; she's just trying to help.

             As her electronic logic adjusted to my apparent disregard for reason a road sign appeared describing a covered bridge just several miles to the east at the next road crossing. Hoping for a photo opportunity on such a nice day, spontaneous adventure laid its irresponsible hand upon my shoulder and I turned left in search of the bridge. "Recalculating, recalculating" rang the voice in my helmet as I began to liken this experience to the pre-menopausal days when Shelia would suddenly need chocolate in the middle of a nice ride.

            Arriving at the covered bridge I happened upon one of those idyllic settings that can only be discovered while exploring off the beaten path or while lost, another facet of riding that has led to many a memorable experience. Adventure is why I ride. I pulled the Beemer onto the gravel hardpan beside the bridge trying to position it just perfectly for that illusive magazine quality photo. Upon dismounting the bike I was overwhelmed by the beauty that surrounded me, the silence punctuated only by the ticking of the boxer engine now cooling in the shade of the bridge. I removed my helmet, took a drink of warm water from my water bottle and sat on a large rock to rest and contemplate.

             As I began to snack on some dried cranberries from my pocket, a young dog appeared across the water. He was running and bouncing along in joyful innocence when suddenly he stopped, sat, and cocked his head as only an inquisitive pup can. Deploying my pocket binoculars I realized that he was watching a duck that was feeding from the bottom of the stream while poking its butt and feet into the air. I began to quietly chuckle, when in a brief moment of clarity, it hit me. The dog was not confused, he was not ignorant, he was simply "recalculating." Both the pup and I had assumed a neutral position of relaxation to purposefully digest our immediate environment in an effort to expand our knowledge base. We were learning; we were evolving.

             Suddenly the moment was disrupted by the sound of rapidly decelerating motorcycles. I turned around to see two fully geared riders on well appointed Ducati bikes poised on the edge of the asphalt, not willing to commit to the gravel. The lead rider flipped his helmet open and asked "Everything OK?" to which I sheepishly responded "Yep... just recalculating." It was a defining moment.

             I then noticed that the other rider was frantically pushing buttons on his GPS in an apparent attempt to coax his helmet voice into saying what he wanted it to say. We humans love to master our mechanical devices. Suddenly, and with a new found certainty, he proclaimed that there were hamburgers just ahead and they hastily departed in a cacophony of Italian brevity. Feeling as they had somehow interrupted my moment I realized that they had graciously stopped to check on a potentially distressed fellow motorcyclist and would have been helpful had I been in need of mechanical or medical assistance. It was a gesture that shall be reciprocated.

             Turning back to my scene, the dog was again running around in animated glee and the duck had returned upright, in short, the moment had passed. Somehow, all was right with the world. I walked to my bike, gently disconnected the GPS unit from its perch and swaddled it in a piece of flannel normally reserved for cleaning delicate face shields. After all there was a voice residing in there right? I safely and securely tucked the voice box into my tank bag and mounted my bike. As I resumed my ride (still heading south), I soon passed the two Ducati's now parked at a franchised burger joint with the two riders inside enjoying a respite from their electronically guided tour. "How sad," I thought. If only they knew to "recalculate." Hungry myself, a voice in my head urged me to continue riding in search of more palatable cuisine. No sooner did that thought pass that I came upon a nondescript, mom-and-pop style diner serving what proved to be the best blue plate special I've ever eaten. And the pie, oh the pie!

            Returning home with a full belly and the contentment of a great day spent exploring by motorcycle, I reflected on the day. I realized that the voice in my heart was fulfilled, the voice in my head was proud to be in control of my own destiny, and the voice in my soul was peacefully anticipating the next opportunity to "recalculate."

            Respect your voices, see you down the road.

Bill is an active member of the Greater Cincinnati BMW Motorcycle Club and enjoys touring with Shelia at every opportunity. He has also written for the Fire & Emergency Medical service as well as the NTSB. He is a retired firefighter/EMT and currently works as a school bus technician. Bill has renewed his vanity plate registration.