The Ramapo 500 July 15 & 16, 2000 You appreciate good things more when you know what hardship is. This weekend's Ramapo was an illustration of that. The first day was pouring rain and difficult travel; the second day was glorious sunshine, dry roads and fabulous riding. 14 of us said we were going. Only 5 showed up at the meeting place: Jaime, Bob, Mike, Rich M. and me. Mike was the first to bail, only minutes after we left. Jaime and Bob turned around at the Red Apple and gave up there. Rich M. lasted about an hour into the ride: he said he thought we'd get lost from being unable to see street signs. I think the real reason he went home is because the rain kept putting out his cigarettes. Thus, it was just me to represent the entire Nassau Wings. An awesome responsibility which I bore with pride. Or at least a determination to show the rest of you wimps that someone in this club has balls. Fortunately, I had company on the trip. Chris C., who joined us for last year's Ramapo, rode the entire two days with me. He's a great companion: an excellent rider, easy to travel with and a nice guy. Chris used to work at Precision BMW (which is where he met Jaime); now he works at Computer Associates. Chris sold the ancient (1976) BMW he rode last year; now he's on a 1999 BMW sport-tourer (R1100RT). A 10-year rider, Chris squeezed that bike for all it had: we pushed the limits and rode on the edge. It was sheer joy to chase him through the twisties. As you know, Saturday was heavy rain all day. It never stopped. Everyone got wet, even those guys in the expensive one-piece riding suits. I'm not going to bullshit you: it ain't fun to ride when your underwear is wet. But it was worth it for what followed. At the sign-in, many minds contemplated whether to go on. 350 people actually registered and started the run. Of these, only 70 made it to the campground Saturday night. All the rest bailed out during the day. Riding in heavy rain felt like scuba-diving: I was surrounded by water and could see only partially through a fogged visor. I kept waiting to find fish floating alongside me. The party at the campground was fun. An easy comraderie arose among those crazy enough to endure the day's discomforts. Chris knew many of the riders there and we hung out with them, including an entertaining trio from the Chai M.C. Dinner was barbequed chicken and baked potato; they had way too much food for 70 people so seconds were given out. It was tasty. Prizes were given: I won a plastic model of a sportsbike with a clock in its middle. An amusing piece of kitsch. The most harrowing experience of the weekend was the 90-minute ride from the campground to our hotel. Travelling pitch-black country roads in the pouring rain, with no lights, reflectors or other traffic was terrifying. Of course, the roads twisted and turned, so you knew a second's forgetfulness would toss you into a ditch. Plus, the lack of street signs meant some wrong turns and mounting frustration. After being awake since 4 a.m., this type of travelling around midnight was taxing to the extreme. Eventually we got to "The Flip Inn", whose owner Rosie welcomed us heartily. She treated us like royalty and the next morning she charmed me with conversation. I tipped her 50% of the bill and she hugged me. I love these encounters you have while travelling. After breakfast at "Flamingo's", Chris chatted with a 5-year old boy who asked for and was given permission to touch "the big motorcycle." A future rider was borne. Starting out Sunday morning, there was no rain and the roads were dry. After riding a few minutes, I turned to Chris and said, "Why is this so easy? Where's the challenge?" He laughed and felt the same way. It was strange to have conditions be so comfortable. Be careful what you wish for, however, because an hour later we hit intense fog in the mountains. So thick you couldn't see 5 feet in any direction. I couldn't even see Chris's taillight 10 feet in front of me. It was worse than the darkness of the night before. We were on twisty mountain roads whose direction was unpredictable and kept changing. This produced a healthy amount of adrenalin as my body sensed the danger. But we rode through it without mishap and didn't have a problem the entire trip. Then, around noon Sunday, the weather cleared. The sun came out, the roads dried and the route got challenging. We felt like guys just let out of prison -- so eager to lean our bikes, twist the throttle and let loose. And we did. On some fabulous roads (especially 47 and 52), we rode like fighter-pilots, swooping and swerving down those Ramapo roads. It was like the Ramapo of two years ago, when the roads were incredible and the riding was at the edge. Several hours of this made the entire run worthwhile. We took off our raingear and enjoyed one of the best rides of my life. All of you who stayed home missed something special. We finished the run at the Red Apple around 4 p.m. and picked up our patches. Only about 20 people had done the second day. A lucky 20. At the end-point, Byrd apologized for not having rain the entire two days: he said that one-and-a-half days of rain was the most they could arrange. I got home at 6 p.m. after battling some traffic. There was a price to pay for all this excitement: my arms were so tired I couldn't even lift them. My body felt like it weighed 1,000 lbs. But it was a good kind of weariness. Battle fatigue. Oh, and one other thing. Toward the end of the day Saturday, my exhaust got louder and louder. Turns out I rusted a hole in my exhaust system. That answered my question about what the Venture would sound like with straight pipes. It can wake up a sleepy neighborhood just going down the block. Plus, the Venture now backfires when I slow down with loud pops: it sounds like Frank after a bowl of chili. Ralph