The Devil and Dick Bregstein

January 2012 BMW Owners News

The remote hills and back roads of West Virginia provide some of the most breathtaking motorcycle riding to be encountered anywhere in the world, and this includes the Champs Élysées in Paris and the El Camino de la Muerte (Road of Death) in Bolivia. West Virginia’s highways fall into two categories: those that are beautiful beyond belief and others that double-back on themselves (hanging off cliff faces or over swamps filled with deadly pit vipers) in decreasing radii that are tighter than my jeans.

One way or another, the rider is left gasping for breath. Vistas can be as dramatic as horizon-wide perspectives of verdant valleys, or intimate snapshots of secluded glades. In between, guardrails are left to the imagination while the pavement twists through changes in elevation like smoke rising on a cold day. The West Virginia Department of Public Gravel makes sure that each mist-shrouded curve poses a stimulating challenge to the average rider.

Back Mountain Road, on the outskirts of Cass, is one riding experience I would recommend for any rider looking for a departure from the ordinary. (I am referring to BMW “K” riders, who generally prefer their adventures on paved roads, between room service breakfasts and cocktails served by pretty and agreeable barmaids. “GS” riders accustomed to kicking a spouse off the pillion to distract charging cape buffalo will be less impressed.) I hit a switchback on this road that was so tight that I found myself dancing cheek-to-cheek with my wingman, who was still 200 feet behind me. Worse, we encountered a package delivery van on a blind curve with absolutely nowhere to go. The driver opened the passenger’s door in the front and the overhead door in the back, allowing us to pass through the larger vehicle without having to slow down.

I have ridden West Virginia, in the company of Pete Buchheit, Dick Bregstein, and Clyde Jacobs, a number of times and can easily recommend the place as the “threshold of motorcycle heaven,” even though it can be hotter than hell (or at least as humid as purgatory) during the summer. In addition to endless vistas, secret valleys, and purple mountains’ majesty (where the the peaks are so tinted as the sun begins to set), the entire state is dotted with little communities, each sometimes no more than a handful of families that have been sharing the bank of a creek since the opening shots of the Revolution, or the Civil War, or the Whiskey Rebellion. (There is always some social event to join in these parts.)

These communities occasionally cluster around a picturesque post office, a cluttered general store, or a stunningly preserved railroad station (all the more wondrous, as Union soldiers ripped up the tracks 145 years ago). Chances are these close-knit groups of folks will give you a wave from the porch or the back of a tractor, provided you don’t pull over to share the details of life in New Jersey or traffic in West Chester, PA. If you are lucky, you’ll find yourself in a town with a tavern that was selling whiskey out of crocks when George Washington was still a boy. (There is generally one ancient geezer at the bar who swears he knew Washington.) Yet be forewarned! These glens and hollows (“hollers” in the local vernacular) have borne witness to some strange events and timeless legends.

These are places where neither the name of the Lord nor the devil is invoked lightly.

We didn’t realize this as we rolled into the hamlet of “Bog Wollow” (pronounced “Barg Waller”). It was getting on toward dusk and we planned to stop for the night at a country inn where musicians and the crickets compete with the stars and the crackling of the fire for entertainment. We found the log and stone building in the bend of a brook and parked our bikes less than 50 feet from the bar. The local talent was just getting tuned up and we made ourselves at home, ordering shots of a local whiskey to be chased by a local hard cider.

Now both Pete and Clyde ride K1200 bikes (2003 and 2004 models respectively), and I charge around on a 1995 K75, known to the masses as “Fireballs.” We have long since become accustomed to the mechanical perfection of our bikes and get it with each twist of the throttle. But Dick Bregstein mounts an iconic, coal-burning, whale oil-cooled, 2002 R1150R. The boxer engine created quite a stir among the other patrons in the bar, the majority of whom believed that motorcycle engines should be vertical and form the letter “V.”

Bregstein decided to set the crowd right. Despite our obvious stage signals that he should change the subject to something less volatile, like politics, group sex or the advantages of higher taxes, Dick continued to brag about the “R” bike engine, until he said, “There is no finer motorcycle engine this side of hell.”

Every person in the bar grew quiet... The lights flickered and went out... The fire flared up and roared... A woman shrieked, claiming her butt had been pinched (for which Clyde would later apologize)... A huge, incredibly evil-looking V-twin cruiser burst through the door and came to a stop in the center of the saloon.

“W.T.F.!” shouted Bregstein, using a common internet abbreviation which loosely translates to “Golly!”

The jet-black cruiser made a noise like thunder, though not quite as loud as the average Harley-Davidson, and lightning bolts flew from the twin exhausts. Its rider, a thin man with a Van Dyke goatee and a wispy little mustache, clad in smoldering black leathers, kept the bike running by blipping the throttle. A tiny, jewel-like headlamp cast a dagger-blade beam of light on the floor. At first, it seemed as if the headlamp was illuminated by swirling vapor, but it became apparent that the gas inside the bulb was burning at a furious rate, and in a kind of ongoing agony.

“Who dares to challenge the preferred motorcycle of hell?” asked the mysterious rider with an air of profound courtesy, such as one would expect to encounter in Congress, or seeping from a lobbyist’s office.

“He does,” ratted Pete and Clyde in a single voice, pointing to Bregstein cowering under a table.

“Well, not so much of a challenge as a mere comparison of specifications and statistics,” stammered Bregstein, attempting to back-peddle in midair.

“Allow me to introduce myself,” said the rider. “I am known as Old Scratch, Beelzebub, Lucifer, Satan, or the ever popular DucDude. Care to make a wager for pink slips?’”

“You mean if I lose whatever bet we make, you get the title to my bike?” blinked Bregstein.

“And your soul.”

“What do I get?” asked Bregstein.

“Anything you want.”

Bregstein has wanted a helmet communications package that put him in direct contact with Jennifer Anniston, a self-inflating seat that automatically adjusted itself to the tenderness of his butt, and a windshield that matched the prescription of his eyeglasses. He wanted his three riding buddies to wake up on “R” bikes the next day, and to acknowledge him as “Leader.”

“Deal,” said Dick.

The devil revved the cruiser from hell to its ridiculously low red line (and never published maximum horsepower), and in that instant it attracted the most beautiful woman in the bar. She threw one of her impossibly long legs over the pillion and laid her head on his shoulder.

“Do that with your “R” bike,” said Old Scratch, “and I’ll say that you won.”

Bregstein hung his head with anticipated defeat, as no “R” bike rider had ever accomplished what the devil had just pulled off.

“I might get a few bucks for the motorcycle with the sideways engine,” said the devil, “but my headlight will burn all the brighter for your soul.” It was then we could see that the cruiser’s headlamp was consuming the souls of riders who had bragged—without just cause—about their bikes.

Dick Bregstein has been my friend for many years, and the one of the very first riders I encountered when I joined the Mac-Pac, the premier chartered BMW riding club serving southeast Pennsylvania. I found it hard to believe his tiny, dried-up soul would even cause a flicker in the devil’s headlight, but I was ready to help him keep it.

“The engine is inconsequential,” I said to the devil. “What matters is the roundel. I am willing to bet you double or nothing that my bike can beat the cruiser from hell at its own game.”

“How can you bet me two bikes and two souls?” asked the devil.

“I’m offering you theirs,” I replied, pointing to Pete and Clyde.

“Deal!” said the devil.

I whistled in a low tone. I could hear my K75 start up outside, then smirked as it snicked into gear and pulled into the bar by itself. I slowly twisted the throttle and filled the air with the distinctive whine that indicates the engine is running in perfect, vibration-free balance. At 5500 rpm, the whine was replaced with Blue Oyster Cult’s epic rock classic: “Don’t Fear the Reaper...” The twin sister of the woman who sat on the devil’s pillion now mounted mine. The barmaid, a dynamic blonde, stopped wiping glasses and tried to shove her off. A third woman—a former beauty queen—pulled the barmaid’s hair when she, too, tried to mount the pillion. These three lovelies then initiated the cat fight of the century.

“Ladies,” I said. “I’ll be here three days... There’s no need to fight over me.”

The devil was enraged, but took his loss graciously. “You win. You get to keep your soul for now,” he said.

“For now?”

Looking at three of the hottest women in 200 square miles vying to get on my K75, the devil replied, “We’ll talk again.”

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Jack Riepe has been riding a BMW K75 since 2005, when he came out of coma in the gutter, where he had been abandoned by former wife #3. Riepe believes that the BMW K75 was brought to earth by ancient extraterrestrials, and allowed to be “rediscovered” by Bavarian scientists in 1986. Then again, he also believes that the US Congress works tirelessly on behalf of the taxpayer. Riepe is the author of “Politically Correct Cigar Smoking For Social Terrorists,” a book that has redefined masculinity in the US, and publishes Twisted Roads, a biker blog which can be found by Googling “Twisted Roads Jack.”

More at:   http://jackriepe.blogspot.com/