My friend, on the other hand, had always ridden Harleys. From conversations that we have had over many a cold beer at many a riding destination and mainly from the experience gained that will be later divulged in this article, I have determined that he had the same skewed perception as I in regards to BMW riders.
With all of the touchy, feely, getting in touch with my chrome side stuff aside, I am a Beemer rider. I currently ride a R1100S Super Boxer that is my pride and joy. Notice how I refer to my bike like it was one of my children? Here in lies the first connection I have made about Harley riders and Beemer riders; we both absolutely love our bikes. Not so much for the whole cool factor of owning them; that would be the RUB, but more for what they are; beautiful, loud, temperamental creatures that we must stroke and message with the finest oils and creams to make happy. For my Beemer brothers that might be reading this, RUB stands for Rich Urban Biker, as my friend has so educated me. Well, rarely are any of us rich, some do live in urban areas, almost all of could be classified as bikers. So I guess that kinda makes us SHCRUBS. Some How Categorized as Rich Urban Bikers. Yep, that'll do.

At any rate, in both cases we tend spend more care, time, and affection on our bikes than we do our wives. A point that my wife has on more then one occasion pointed out. I'm reminded of a time when I once asked by wife to shoot some pictures of me riding my bike. Being the wonderful wife that she is, and with a great deal of reluctance, she agreed. After I had made several high speed passes and knee dragging turns in front of her lens, she had gotten some pretty good shot and to her delight we were through. As we were packing up my wife said, "I feel like the photographer at my own husbands prono shoot. I gonna go take a shower." Anyway, on with the story and more revelations.

Danny, my aforementioned friend, and I had been riding together for sometime and had always bantered back and forth with good nature about his "Over weight Hog" and my "Krauch Rocket" (Pronounced Cr-ouch Rocket). One day we were out on an all day jaunt when the idea hit me. "Hey, why don't we switch bikes for a while?" You've never rode a Beemer, and I'll give your "Hardly" a try." He agreed and after a brief lesson in the idiosyncrasies of each bike we were off. It was quite a site. Me with my full face helmet and Vanson racing leathers sitting on top of this chromed out, tassels flying piece of American Iron and Danny with his leather chaps, skid lid complete with bomber's glasses, and leather vest, on back of my sleek German machine. The Harley was exactly what I expected, but I had to admit it was a hell of a lot more comfortable then my Boxer. Danny, on the other hand was being very timid with the ole' right wrist while on the back of my steed. At our next stop I asked him what was wrong and why he wasn't trying in out. He said, "Man this thing's got a lot of power. I'm a little scared." I told him not to worry, she might have the horses but she was forgiving. With that we were off again, only this time Danny jacked the throttle and all I heard was the exhaust bark, a little chirp from the back tire, and Danny uttering loudly and expletive that had heavy emphasis on "it".

The next several miles passed quickly with us both enjoying our borrowed rides until we quickly came up on an unexpected stop sign. Although I am a very experienced rider with many thousands of miles under my butt, advanced riding courses under my belt, a full understanding of center of gravity, weight shift, and traction versus acceleration I had in fact forgotten on very important fact. My Boxer has enormous brakes and relatively little weight, the Hog on the other hand has enormous weight and relatively little brakes. As I am approaching the stop sign at a rate of closer that was well outside of my comfort zone, I experienced what I had only heard about for years; brake fade. I started down shifting rapidly and doing everything I could to get the beast to stop before I ended up out in traffic. Just as my front tire crossed the white line I finally stopped. Danny, being always ready to give me more than just a little grief when I make a mistake, pulled up next to me and said, "Gotta think a little a head on that one don't cha'". To which I replied, "Give me my d**n bike back." He laughed, we switched back, and all was right with the world once again now that I was back on my bike with brakes that actually work.

As the sun set and we were approaching home Danny says, "Hey man, let go get a beer at the Chatter Box." The Chatter Box was a well know biker bar that those not of the Harley persuasion did not dare darken the door of. An unknowing chap once rode up on his Honda and plopped down the stand only to come back out of the bar to find 10 of his not so closest friends throwing his bike onto the roof of the bar. I know this not to be urban legend as I saw the pictures that were taken and framed over the bar showing the bike on the roof were, to my knowledge, it stayed until the place was torn down a few years ago. So with that being said my reply was "Are you out of your God d**n mind!!!! This is a $17,000 bike that was never meant to be a weather vane!" Danny assured me that because I was on a BMW that no one would have a problem with me being there. Skeptical, I agreed under the provision that if I even got the hint that someone was unhappy, I was out of there. Danny just laughed and said "Don't worry man; you and your bike will be fine. It's probably the safest place you'll ever park your bike. You won't even need to take your key out." To which I said, "d**n right I'm not taken the key out, I'm not even getting off. You can bring my beer out to me."

So as we arrive at the bar what little confidence I had was fading quickly as I counted the vast number of choppers, pan heads, shovel heads, and the veritable plethora of other shinny iron parked in the "Harleys Only" parking lot. There was a little voice going off in my head saying "Man there about a thousand ways this can turn out and none of them include you leaving with your bike, or health, intact." But, being the risk taker that I am, I decided to at least go inside just to say I had been there. So we park and go inside to get a beer. As I walk through the door this place looks like a ZZ Top look-a-like convention. Guys and gals of all shapes, sizes, and "colors" were strewn about the bar in various stages of inebriation, but no one even looked at me twice. I was expecting the music to stop with a screech and all heads turn to look at the funny guy wearing a racing suit with nothing but the sound of crickets playing my theme music. But no, this wasn't the case at all. This was just like any other bar that I had ever been to. Still skeptical, I thought, "Okay, it's just the alcohol has dulled everyone's mental processing speed to that of a Commodore 64 and it's only going to take a minute or two before someone sees me and realized that someone dressed like me obviously didn't ride a chopper." That time came and went, still nothing. Danny ribbed me with his elbow and said, "See, told ya." I did settle down and really had a good time talking with various patrons and tilting back a single beer that I somehow managed to make stretch out over an entire hour. Mainly because I don't drink more then one beer while riding, but also because I was still a little skittish and didn't want anything to dull my senses should I need become nothing but smoke and a streak of a tail light. Danny and I wondered out onto the front stoop of the bar to recant the days ride and finish our beer when I heard in the distance the most raucous, rude exhaust coming from right down the street.
As he turned into the parking lot, I saw the master of that sound hunched over the sickest looking pan head rat chopper with his arms stretched way above his head, draped over a skyscraper high set of ape hanger bars. At the sight of this guy I went weak in the knees and all of my new found enjoyment of the Harley culture disappeared as quickly as a drop of water falling onto a hot frying pan. Even Danny said, not at all offering any sympathy to my feelings of impending doom, "Uh oh." When this Sasquatch adorned with leather chaps unfolded himself off of his bike I pegged him at about 300 pounds and 6'4. As he lumbered up the side walk, looking at every bike with the inspecting eye of an Army general inspecting his troops, he spied my poor little Beemer from a distance and took on the greatest look of disgust mixed with anger affect that I have ever seen a bipedal humanoid ever produce. My heart sunk, and slow motion video of my beautiful Boxer flying through the air and coming to rest beside the rusting hulk of Honda on the roof not mere feet above my head played through my mind. When he was about 5 feet away from my bike he noticed the blue and white Roundel (The BMW Symbol) on the side of my front fairings and the look on his face changed from hate and disgust to surprise and intrigue. Next, with just a lowered and slight tilt of his head, he looked me up and down, obviously identifying me as the owner of this alien in "His" parking lot. He walked up to me, who was now weakly sitting / leaning up against the low wall outside the bar, and said in a voice no doubt toned by many years of open road air, various local hand rolled shrubberies, and countless gallons of blindness inducing whiskey, "That your Beemer?" When I replied, "Yes", my voice cracked like a 13 year old boy. He said, "Nice bike. Didn't know BMW made a sport bike." and patted me on the shoulder as he walked through the door and into the bar. To say that I was stunned would be a huge understatement. It actually took a minute for me to realize what had just happened and for a rare moment in my life, I had been taken completely off guard. With my pulse no longer pounding in my ears, I looked at Danny and said, "I think its time to go now." To his credit, Danny didn't object.