Off-Road Riding at BMW’s Performance Center
The Northeast had a very cool spring this year. Very cool. In most years, I sneak in a ride or two as soon as the calendar officially bids winter goodbye. But not this year. The sun refused to shine, and the air was as damp as it is beneath a tarp tossed over a woodpile. (I know, because this past winter I was under that tarp many, many times, getting wood for the stove.) Then I received the call. Would I be interested, on short notice, in heading to BMW’s Performance Center in South Carolina for an off-road riding course? I was sold as soon as I heard the word south, because South Carolina teases warmth like the North Pole promises adventure. And it was to be two full days of riding. That was a far more appealing prospect than waiting for temperatures to venture into the mid-40s where I was.
It could well be that I don’t get out of the house often enough, because I was shocked to learn that the Performance Center, which caters to drivers as well as riders, is adjacent to a BMW factory — one that makes four-wheeled vehicles only — of alarming size. On and on the buildings ran. Eight million square feet of covered factory in all, just around the bend from the Performance Center. In addition to a paved track and skid pad, the Center has an off-road course with a multitude of challenges. After a brief orientation and a final stampede for the washroom and more coffee, we suited up and assembled in the parking lot to saddle up. As I cinched my helmet snug, I realized I felt the tingling edges of nervousness creeping in.
Slow Down, Look Up and Don’t Forget to Breathe
As much as I enjoy riding off-road, I don’t do as much of it as I’d like. Though I live in the country, good off-roading is a good distance away from me and, as with much in life, choices must be made. Which means I’m primarily a paved- and gravel-road rider. But even if you’re like me, or even if you never venture off the paved path, it can be convincingly argued that off-road training is the best rider training of all.
I’ve seen it time and time again, from friends and strangers alike: riding a twisty road with a tight blind corner covered in loose gravel kicked up by a driver who can’t keep on the road. As soon as the rider sees the gravel, they panic, straighten the bike up, and run wide into an oncoming lane. Mercifully, I’ve not witnessed a disaster, but I’ve seen a few that could have very easily gone horribly wrong. In every case, a little off-road training would have helped immensely. Like the kind I was about to receive, as soon as I selected a bike.
Motorcycle options for course attendees are either the F900GS or the R1300GS. As much as I love the long-legged nature of the big boxer for the open road, the kind of low-speed maneuvering that tested our mettle seemed to suit the lighter and narrower parallel-twin-powered F900GS. I needn’t have waited long to find out how my steed and I would fare. From the parking lot, we rode to a course of pylons set out on pavement — and rode straight into a heaping course of humble pie.
As soon as you remove the gyroscopic effect of two spinning wheels, there’s no hiding, as I was made painfully aware, from a skill set gone rusty. I was pretty good on the first challenge, weaving through pylons staged in a straight line. I kept my eyes up, my arms loose, and firmly sawed the handlebar from side to side. It didn’t stay easy for long. Next up were two small circles joined together in the middle to make a figure eight. Full lock to the right, then full lock to the left, and if that handlebar came off the steering stop for a heartbeat, you’d blown the course. Around me, bikes were tumbling to the ground. I nearly did the same, saved from a crash only by my generous inseam and a mighty heave-ho.
The key to success for much of the course, of course, is as old as motorcycling itself: look where you want to go. Once I had my neck on a swivel, things began to fall into place. Eventually. Another course attendee, a very good off-road rider, stopped beside me and said that having your confidence bruised this early in the morning was depressing. I sighed and confessed that a long winter of door-shimming and drywalling on my home reno had left me ill-prepared for exercises this rigorous. It would be easy to fall back on an old hockey injury — I’ve many to choose from — for my so-so start to the day. But I’m keen on any opportunity to improve my skills.
Eventually, I got into the groove, weighted the inside peg, kept my outside leg against the bike’s flank, and got my eyes off the front fender and into the direction I hoped to travel. Then we were off into the woods.
Putting Practice into Play
My mantra, ever since I gave up on flossing daily, is this: let a motorcycle go where it wants to go. Admittedly, this mantra has its limitations. If you’re headed off a cliff, intervention is encouraged. But if you’re challenged with a course of loose gravel and deep sand far from a precipice, just throttle up, lean back, and have faith in momentum. While it’s true that the more refined among us pick their way through the obstacles, and a few foolish souls even stop completely and start up again before a foot dab is necessary, making life more difficult than it needs to be seems counterproductive.
Despite some inelegant riding in tight quarters — I levered my forehead off a tree to unhook a handlebar snagged in its branches — my riding had greatly improved. That is, until the grassy knoll. After running elegant, tidy lines around the paved track, my natural domain, I forgot to toggle the traction control from Road to Enduro Pro when we headed off road again. Halfway up a modest little hill, as the drive wheel lost traction, the bike’s computer believed I was about to meet my Waterloo and all but signed off on forward motion. What followed was a half-backwards slither down to the base of the hill, in which I appeared as composed as a man wrestling a pair of toddlers and three backpacks onto an escalator.
On the Road, Straight Out of the State
Our first day at the Center was a version of what anyone who attends the course can expect to receive. The second day, however, was to be a ride down into the backwoods and backroads of northern Georgia. Long ago, I’d heard riders speak glowingly of riding in Georgia, but it wasn’t until I made the trek myself that I realized what a special place it is for motorcyclists. I couldn’t wait for the day to start. Though we were warned that if rain arrived overnight, then the Georgia mud would turn as slippery as grease.
All night I kept an ear out for rain. At dawn, I peeked out the window toward the Hampton Inn parking lot. Dry. My spirits soared. By 7:30 a.m., I was on my gently warming bike, heated handgrips toasting my fingers and ready for the signal to pull in the clutch, select first gear, and get the day underway. A straightforward blast on scenic — if relatively straight — roads was a welcome way to start the day. It allowed the morning’s caffeine to work its magic and for me to shake off the cobwebs. I’ve always wanted to be a morning person, but alas, why must mornings come so early in the day?
The trails, once we reached them, were rutted, sandy, hilly, but wide enough for a Jeep. In other words, they were nearly ideal for large-capacity adventure bikes. Having had a full day of closed-course training, I hit the dirt with confidence. My eyes were up, my core was tight, my legs held tightly to the bike’s flanks, and my arms were loose. Maybe too loose. Right when I felt as if I could do no wrong, I whiskey-throttled into a berm in third gear and felt the bike begin to leave my grasp, but I squeezed my knees and my hands found the grips again just in time. My glaring weakness was slowing down on steep hills. Even with rear-wheel ABS disabled and with as hard a tug on the front brake as I dared, I took to sawing the handlebar to and fro to wag the hind end enough to create more friction. I’m not sure how it looked, but in the end, it worked.
Fear Not the River That Flows to the Sea
All through the day, I had concerns in the back of my mind about one element of our journey: the water crossing. All we were told ahead of time was that it was “substantial.” I began to picture a torrent I’d seen in an old John Ford movie, the kind that swept cattle downriver to their doom. The night before, concerned about this crossing, I called an expert off-roader friend for advice. He was succinct. “Ignore the water,” he said. “Feel the wheels beneath you and listen to what they have to say.” “But what if the wheels speak to me in a language other than my own?” I said back. He laughed. “You’ll be fine,” he said. And thankfully, I was.
There may be no greater thrill in motorcycling than when we overcome our doubts and trust the process — and ourselves. The water crossing wasn’t particularly deep, nor was the current overly strong, but who knew what lurked beneath? Moss-covered stones? Sharp-edged, tire-puncturing shale? The remains of a washing machine tossed into the river? When it was my turn to cross, I tossed my concerns out the window, looked at the far bank, and rode across. Just like that. Nothing to it.
What made the day for me was the variation in terrain. After a handful of miles in the dirt, we’d come back to pavement for some of the tastiest twisties this side of a racetrack. I’m also convinced that whoever the state of Georgia hired to plan its road network must have been a motorcyclist. How else could you explain why nearly every road allowed a good degree of lean angle without the need for excessive speed? All the best roads I’ve ridden, from California to Cape Town, despite running through wildly varying terrain, seem to share an elusive commonality that evades simple explanation. Is it the radius of a curve that speaks to me? Is it the camber? Is it the surface? All that matters, ultimately, is that I found what I was looking for in the unexpected beauty of northern Georgia, gaining some experience and new skills in the process. As soon as I can swing it, I’ll be back.
Neil Graham
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