I Bought a Beginner Motorcycle Across State Lines

Photo: Steve DaSilva

Have you ever planned something really, really dumb? Something that you knew was a bad idea as soon as it hit your brain but that became a really bad idea once it was too late to turn back? Have you listened to every bit of advice on a topic, then come up with an idea that flew in the face of everything you’d heard?

I have. Because I, a person with about four miles of motorcycle experience, decided to buy a bike out of state and ride it home. And you know what? I’d do it again.

Photo: Steve DaSilva

Yesterday, after weeks of searching and shopping, I picked up my new BMW G310GS. After two bikes that didn’t really work for a beginner, the baby GS is functionally my first bike — I’ve taken the MSF and ridden my old Honda around the streets of Rochester a bit, but that’s more or less the sum total of my riding experience. But I want to adventure, to explore new terrain, and I want to do it from the seat of an ADV bike — just, one that 130-lb me can actually pick up out of a bush.

But sometimes adventure isn’t, as Fortnine’s Ryan F9 so eloquently put it, “blowing six figures in six weeks of vacation playing Obi-Wan Kenobi.” Sometimes it’s just looking at a route that is absolutely, unquestionably above your skill level, and thinking “I can make that work.”

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Nineteen miles, from a New Jersey BMW Motorrad dealer to a bike garage in Brooklyn. I’ve ridden four or five miles, what’s another twenty? But this route is deceiving: It involves two water crossings, and the connection between them in Manhattan.

First, you go through Jersey back roads. I imagine those are fine. Then there’s the Holland Tunnel. Then Canal Street. Then the Manhattan Bridge. For a rider who’s only ridden under cover of darkness in chilly Western NY winters, that route is a tall task.

My coworkers agreed, offering help in the form of offers to pick me up should I bin the bike somewhere in Jersey City, or advice in the form of “I’m writing your eulogy blog in my head already.” But with the spirit of adventure and a whole bunch of shiny new gear behind me, I elected to send it.

Photo: Steve DaSilva

That confidence lasted all of thirty seconds. I emptied my dry bag of gear, then refilled it with complimentary BMW merch and ownership paperwork and lashed it to the rear cargo rack. The dealer’s salesperson pushed the bike to the parking lot, where I immediately almost tipped it over upon sitting down. Shit. This might be rough.

Rather than heading to the street, I found my way to the building’s back lot. Circles, laps of the pavement, starts and stops. Getting the basics back down, after years off the bike and mere minutes on it. A bit of confidence returned, but the caffeine jitters had started to take my hands. Now or never, there’s food on the way.

Photo: Steve DaSilva

I left the bike — my bike — in the Wendy’s parking lot while I ordered my typical road trip dinner of breaded chicken. I ate it outside, not wanting to leave the GS unlocked for too long. I don’t even own a lock. Why don’t I own a lock? Why am I on a divided six lane road? What am I doing?

The six lanes gave way to a service road, and that to back roads in turn. Traffic was lighter, but pot holes were plentiful. Even puddles, puzzlingly, proliferated, despite a lack of recent rain. I haven’t even figured out where I want my mirrors, and now I’m riding through standing water?

Photo: Steve DaSilva

The mileage ticked up on the trip odometer. My confidence slowly grew, aided by a wave from a someone on a sport tourer. Right. I have to do those now. I get to do those now. I’m… in? I bought a bike, I’m riding it down these roads, and that’s all it takes? Can other riders, real riders, not instantly clock my nervous energy and unsure movements? Or do they notice, and just not care? Do I count now?

More seat time brought yet more surety in my abilities. By the time I got to Jersey City, I was already doing little monologues to my helmet-mounted GoPro. Sure, they were things like, “how the fuck does Zack Courts stop these things without putting a foot down,” but still. Progress.

Photo: Steve DaSilva

The Holland Tunnel is entirely underwhelming to ride through. As expected, traffic hits the speed limit as a peak, not a minimum. The hard part was determining whether to be in the middle of first gear or the absolute bottom of second.

But the Holland Tunnel exits onto a road far worse, with far rougher pavement and far more unpredictable drivers. Canal Street is a bad street to drive down. The little monologue for this part went “I know, I skipped the exits for Brooklyn. Because I don’t know what I’m doing, and I’m not taking the BQE. Instead, I’m gonna take Canal Street, because I’m an idiot.”

Photo: Steve DaSilva

But I made it through Canal Street. Even after the GoPro died, I made it over the Manhattan Bridge. And once I was back home in Brooklyn, on the streets I know well, the feeling of adventure came back. The feeling of having the end in sight, knowing you’ve actually completed your trip.

I, a brand new rider, took a brand new motorcycle on an hour-long trip that far exceeded my skill level. But by the time I reached the end, I’d gained the skilled needed to make that trip. It’s trial by fire, it’s dumb, it’s dangerous, and it was the best evening I’ve had in a long time.