I’d known this was coming for years. My parents’ lake house in North Georgia — forty years of memories, the place that became home faster than the place I actually grew up in — was getting sold. Someone needed to go up there and do the final closeout.
That someone was me.
However, the GS had other ideas.
Eight days in Savannah and the battery was already giving up on me. The GS started fine when we unloaded it from the semi truck. Then it wouldn’t start in the Walmart parking lot. The tender placated it overnight — or so I thought. A few days later it was laboring again. Then worse. By the time I’d been to the Kickstart and the Cycle Gear night, every thumb of the starter gave me that slow, grinding crank that makes you wonder if this is the time it just clicks and goes silent.
Savannah doesn’t have a BMW dealer. I’d asked around the riding community — nobody had a solid recommendation for someone who could sort a GS electrical system and get me roadworthy for a 250-mile ride north. I called over to Coastal Empire Moto, but by the time I got over there, they’d headed out early for the day. I missed the 🦋 on their hours of operation.
The nearest dealer in Atlanta was Woolly’s Cycles in Marietta. I could’ve gone to BMW Motorcycles of Jacksonville (closer, and they’ve got a shop) or Velocity Powersports in Charleson, SC, but I was headed to North Georgia anyway. Marietta made sense. I could then get the bike sorted on the way up and I likely could hang out with a friend in Atlanta. All the motorcycle needed to do was to start 5 more times. The voltage meter didn’t seem happy when the bike wasn’t running. On, running, and turned off are pictured below. My motorcycle battery post from more than a decade ago is now coming into focus.
Wednesday morning I loaded the bags and pointed the GS northwest. But first, I needed to swing into Home Depot for a 13mm wrench — the bike came with the Puig touring windscreen and I wanted to adjust it, and I didn’t have the right wrench at the house. The only 13mm available was a ratcheting wrench, which I’d somehow never used in twenty years of working on bikes. My broke 25-year-old self bought non-ratcheting because they were cheaper and I’d never replaced them. Three strokes and the windscreen was loose. Three strokes back and it was tight. I stood there genuinely delighted by a wrench. It was bright ray of sunlight in an otherwise dreary morning.
I-16 Through South Georgia
I-16 is not a motorcycle road. It’s a high speed connector for 18 wheelers from Savannah to Macon. At its core the freeway extends 167 miles across flat coastal plain that turns into Piedmont just north of the other end of the freeway. It’s Georgia’s equivalent of Interstate 5 across California’s central valley. It’s got four lanes of trucks and cars exchanging between Savannah and Atlanta with no one wanting to be right where they are on the freeway (except that car in the left lane that won’t pull over). Spring heat was already settling in by mid-morning, mid-80s with humidity thick enough you could feel it even with the jacket vents open.
Just outside Dublin the sky went dark and the rain hit. It wasn’t the gentle kind. Visibility dropped to maybe fifty feet. We all slowed down. I kept going — stopping meant starting the bike again, and I wasn’t eager to test that theory in a downpour with a battery already on borrowed time. I only had a few more miles to go as Dublin was my gas and lunch stop.
I pulled into a gas station in Dublin. With this rain even the roof at the gas station was leaking. I couldn’t not laugh at the situation around me. With my fingers crossed, the GS fired right up. Score!
I needed food and there was a Chick-fil-A down the way. I walked in, still damp from the rain, helmet hair doing its thing, and I was halfway through my lunch when I saw them.
My brother-in-law and his mom. Standing at the counter.
Both of us both stopped. Then we both started laughing. He saw me on the freeway earlier so at that point I was the only one surprised. He recognized me on the road as the GS sticks out around these parts.
“What are you doing here?” he asked.
“Heading to Atlanta,” I said. “You?”
“Same.”
We’d both left Savannah the same morning. We didn’t coordinate. We somehow ended up at the same Chick-fil-A in Dublin, Georgia — population maybe 15,000 on a good day — at the same time, both gunning for Atlanta for different reasons. The odds of that aren’t zero, but they’re close.
We sat down, compared routes, talked timing. He was in his truck. I was on a bike in the rain with a questionable battery and soaking wet gear. We finished eating, said we’d see each other back in Savannah, and got back on the road.
Of all the gas stations between Savannah and Atlanta, all the restaurants, all the timing variables that could’ve put us an hour apart — and we ended up in the same booth. Sometimes the world gets small in exactly the right way and inserts a smile when you need one. I needed one.
I-75 North
I-75 north of Macon is more of the same. Six lanes, heavier traffic, as Atlanta pulls everything toward it. The heat climbed into the upper 80s. I set the cruise to match traffic and let the GS hold it.
Driving in Atlanta is a blood sport. I knew this — I grew up in the Southeast, I’ve spent time here — but I’d forgotten the scale of it. Six lanes of people doing 85 in a 65, cutting across traffic without signaling, transport trucks that don’t particularly care whether you’re on a motorcycle, Prius, or the latest luxury SUV. I got soft in the Bay Area. Traffic there is dense and slow and miserable, but it’s not actively aggressive the way Atlanta traffic is. I kept the GS in the left lane for the margin to my left, stayed predictable, and tried not to become a cautionary tale.
I wasn’t thinking much about the ride. I was thinking about what was waiting at the lake. The battery started fine at the gas stop in McDonough, the traffic capital of the drive. Flying through Atlanta Traffic, I rolled into Marietta just after 3:30 PM.
Woolly’s Cycles
Woolly’s has been around since 2001 — family-owned, and well regarded as good people by the community here. I’d called ahead: battery’s giving up, and I’d done a brake bleed back in the Bay Area that I wasn’t confident in — could they check both?
The waiting area is a genuinely good place to camp out. Comfortable seating, solid internet, a shop dog wandering around with dog toys scattered across the floor like the place belongs to her as much as anyone. I settled in. They even had complimentary soft drinks and snacks. WOW!
I had at least an hour to wander, so I started poking around the sales floor. Simply put. I strongly dislike the looks of the 1300GS. The adventure is even worse. However, as BMW has taken the next generation styling platform to other bikes, the styling works better. The RS and RT seem to take on the more angular aesthetic more gracefully. I’m not yet ready to move beyond my 1250 and 1200 GS’s as I’ve got a combined 120,000 more miles to ride on them, but it’s good to know that there is some good out of this radical design change. Even my dealer back home noted, “you don’t have to look at it when you ride it!” Wow.
I’m waaaay to old for it, but wow.
Poking around the various memorabilia the shop had an award posted for riding 100,000 miles on a BMW. I did it on a Suzuki, now it’s time to do it on a BMW. This season is going to be the one to put on serious miles.
The reading library had two Jack Riepe books — Motorcycles Speak Louder Than Words and Conversations with a Motorcycle — sitting next to a BMW Motorrad centennial catalog. I’d heard of Riepe but never actually read him. I picked up Conversations with a Motorcycle and got a few pages in before the service writer called me back. Enough to know I need to find copies of both. That’s exactly the kind of rabbit hole a ninety-minute wait is good for.
“Battery’s done — we swapped it. However, when we looked at the rear brake, you’ve got a real problem. The pads and rotors were completely shot.” You need to be gentle on the rear brake until you can get it fixed. I also found out that Atlanta had another BMW dealer in Roswell, closer to the next part of the journey. They could fit me in on Saturday and they’d need to rush parts for $40, but they’d be here in time.
Fuuuuudge. Saturday. ugh.
I was heading to the lake tomorrow. Roswell would have to wait until after. I’d have to be gentle on the rear brakes.
He reiterated to go easy on the rear brake in the meantime — keep my foot off it, let the linked ABS do the work if I needed it. The rear brake is the less-used pedal on a GS anyway, but knowing it was compromised and riding on it regardless is its own particular kind of fun.
The new battery fired the GS up instantly. Clean, immediate, no drama — exactly how it should work as long as a tired battery was the actual problem.
I paid, loaded the bags, and sat there for a second before pulling out of the lot.
The battery was sorted. The brakes were not. Roswell was Saturday. The rain, the traffic, the voltage meter, the brake news — the day had done its level best to arrive at this moment fully worn down.
First, the lake.
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