From as early as I can remember, I had an infatuation with anything with two wheels and an engine. My first two-wheel love was not really a motorcycle, but a Puch Magnum moped. I remember getting my parents to take me to the local Puch dealer in a large barn-like building in Long Island. Sadly, my parents were not inclined to pay for the bike no matter how much I begged and made bold promises of garages to be cleaned, lawns mowed and behavior to be of the highest rectitude.

Disappointed at my dream thwarted, I nevertheless marveled at that moped with its red gas tank and cool Puch logo. Around that time, I happened upon pictures of BMW motorcycles and found a new love. I loved the lines and shapes of those bikes. I marveled at how different BMWs looked compared to the more common Japanese bikes I saw buzzing about on the road or the Harley Davidsons that seemed designed more as a noise maker than a fun ride. It was the quirkiness of the BMW bikes that drew me to them and held my attention so tightly. There was also a coolly capable air that the bikes exuded through the pages of the magazines I read or when I spotted a BMW bike zipping by. As it turned out, it was an obsession that I never got over. The BMW R 65 all black with its odd boxer engine was the bike I wanted. But as much as I obsessed over these bikes and tracked the classified for used BMWs on sale, there were always other priorities or life events that, as a young man that somehow always got in the way of the ride.

A decade later, purchasing a bike and actually learning to ride was a personal triumph, as in every beginning dwells a certain magic. I bought my first bike while living and working in Taiwan, shortly after finishing graduate school. It was a 125cc Sanyang, similar in design and form to a mid-range Kawasaki or Honda motorcycle. It is a bike that today you can find in other Asian countries that are following the same frenzied arc of development that Taiwan went through in the 1990s.

It was not a BMW, but I loved the Sanyang’s lines from the handlebars to the blue gas tank and the classic bench seat. The bike was also indestructible and forgiving of its initially, inept rider. I really had no idea how to ride a motorcycle. With no training and no license, I put my money down at a dodgy bike shop near my home and the Sanyang was mine. I could not have been more thrilled. Finally, I could ride.

The night I rode the bike home from the shop is the only blank space in my otherwise rich memories of riding that bike. The next day, boldly riding to work for the first time, the bike stalled in front of a group of traffic policeman handing out tickets for real and perceived slights against a vague traffic code. As I fumbled around trying to get the bike to restart, the police moved towards me while reaching for their ticket books. Terror gripped me as I realized my lack of license and motorcycle registration could land me in jail or net a large fine I could not afford. Luckily, as the police drew closer, they realized I was a foreigner and not worth the trouble. They probably already knew that both biker and bike lacked the right papers.

I got the bike to start, slipped into gear and roared away, laughing in relief but soaked in sweat. The run-in with the traffic police was a bonding moment for man and machine. We were getting to know each other. It would be more than a month before the bike and I really understood each other and we were operating as a team. The bike was patient as I awkwardly mastered the use of gears to maneuver around in city traffic or make it up and over a steep hill in the countryside without overheating the engine. 

Writing this post, I discovered I could find no pictures of the Sanyang. I searched high and low and deep back into storage boxes in the garage, but no pictures were found. My mind’s eye is filled with images of that motorcycle paired with many memories and stories to go with each image. 

From a practical point of view, my motivation in getting a bike was that I needed dependable transformation to commute to work. I did not want to board the dreary, crowded bus each workday. My real reason for getting a bike was that I always wanted one. I was a motorcycle guy at heart even though I had never actually ridden a motorcycle before.

With motorcycle skills improving rapidly, my desire to be out and on the road exploring Taiwan was constant. Taiwan is a fascinating island and deserves more recognition both for its beauty and its varied countryside. The mountains are tall and stunning. The coastline rivals that of Maine or even California for dramatic beauty. There is nothing more enjoyable than riding along a country road flanked by paddies filled with bright green shoots of young rice. I really came to know Taiwan, with all its beauty riding the twists and sweeps of road from the back of my Sanyang. I also honed my motorcycle skills to a sharp edge in Taiwan.

Anyone who has driven in Asia knows that driving there is a contact sport devoid of rules or order, requiring bravery, skill and lots of luck. To this day, I am immensely proud of the fact that I never had an accident the whole time I rode in Taiwan. It is a fact I remind my wife and children of at least once a week. There were many close calls and friends of mine were sadly not as lucky. There was a Taiwanese way of driving I somehow mastered and used to anticipate and evade disaster as well as effortlessly enter the river of scooters and motorcycles that flowed through every town and city of Taiwan. My driving skill and confidence on a bike only added to the joy I felt each time I switched on the engine and roared off down the road.

It was also on a motorcycle that I came to intimately understand the Taiwanese people. If you need friends or want to meet people, ride a motorcycle! BMW MOA members know this well and the social aspect of riding a motorcycle is a large reason for riding in the first place. Taiwan is no different and was even more so for me, a lanky foreigner who also spoke Chinese. When I rode into a village or stopped to get a drink at a convenience shop, someone would approach me with great curiosity and a conversation would begin. Fellow riders were always quick with a tip on a little-known turnoff that offered yet another amazing vista. The Taiwanese people are a very unique lot. Taiwan’s own culture is an amalgam of culture from Japan, China, southeast Asia and an indigenous culture jammed together during several tumultuous centuries. The result is an immensely proud, passionate, sometimes opinionated but always human and ultimately compassionate people.

One evening riding home from work, I saw a scene that for me summed up the Taiwanese people in a nutshell. Two cars approached each other on a narrow side street. Neither driver yielded and both cars became wedged against on either side of the small street. Epithets flew back and forth and the drivers emerged, exchanged threats followed up with punches. The spouses or girlfriends got out of their respective cars and they too started to brawl, clawing each other and yanking hair. A young boy got out of one of the cars and screamed at his parent to stop fighting to no avail. Onlookers followed the battle but did not intervene.

I looked on in amazement at the viciousness of the fighting, which continued until both couples, exhausted by hurling haymakers and yanking at each other’s hair, ended up leaning against one another, propping each other up. Their anger and venom dissipated, they began speaking with one another and before long were helping each other to wipe away hair and blood. I heard apologies exchanged. My last image from the scene before I drove away was of the two drivers walking together arms in arm into a bar to share a drink. I have no doubt both couples became great friends and probably laugh each time they reminisce about the time they met and beat each other to a pulp. 

My time in Taiwan came to an end several years later and so too did my riding. I handed over the keys of my beloved bike to the next American who would take my place in Taiwan. I actually teared up as I walked away from the Sanyang for the last time. Career, marriage, children and moves to Hong Kong, China, Seattle, back to Asia and once again back to Seattle all ganged up to prevent my getting back on a bike. Every now and again I was able to jump on a scooter for an occasional ride during a holiday, but it was not the same. I could not find the same joy that I found in Taiwan. The memories held and that urge to get on a bike remained for the intervening years. I saw bikes pass by on the road and promised myself that I too would ride again once life allowed. 

The road called to me again eventually. I knew I wanted only one type of bike: BMW, the bike I always wanted. My first thought was to purchase an R 65 and I found one locally. However, the seller also had a pristine K 75 for offer. I delved into the background on the two bikes and the more I read about the K 75, the more the bike intrigued me. It is a quirky bike even by BMW standards, but has a beautiful form and legendary performance. At the test ride, I asked to try the K 75 first. The minute I pressed the ignition button, I knew it was the bike I wanted. I didn’t even ride the R 65.

The flying brick has nothing in common with a 125CC Sanyang motorcycle, but somehow the K 75 brought back the same feel and vibration of my old bike in Taiwan. My mind drifted back to the memorable rides I had on Taiwan. As we wrapped up the paperwork, he shared with me his time working for an American company in Taiwan. A great conversation followed as we talked about the Taiwan we knew decades ago. I proudly told him I never had an accident while riding a motorcycle in Taiwan. He was understandably impressed.

Just as this American learned so much about Taiwan on a motorcycle, I am now an American learning more about America from the back of my K 75. I marvel at roads and countryside that I have driven many a time in a car only now reveal themselves and their beauty as my bike and I roll by. The thrill of the ride is there and I could live in no better place to ride than the Pacific Northwest. The terrain here is just as varied as what I enjoyed in Taiwan.

There is also the discovery of US riders and enjoying the social side of riding. American bikers are passionate about their ride and sharing tips on their favorite stretch of road or rally. Age has made riding a different experience, however. In Taiwan, my rides in the countryside were rough improvisations filled with whims and an aimlessness. Today, I plan trips with military precision, the aid of GPS, weather maps and itineraries down to the minute and the last ounce of gas. The ride is no longer about the thrill of man and machine chewing up the miles but a sort of meditation in motion. I seek out a sense of peace as I roll on the throttle and cut a line through turns and across sweepers. I rejoice when road, man and bike combine in a singular hum I can only liken the swing Daniel James Brown describes so elegantly in his book The Boys in The Boat.

There is a peace found in that unity and a fullness that nothing else matters until the next slingshot out of a turn. The K 75 makes that unity and the ride so easy. Like its owner, the bike is not young but the engine is strong and the bike handles with road with nimble performance. The other day, after a terrific late fall ride through Mount Rainier and Gifford Pinchot National Forest, I looked at the K 75 now parked in the garage and it struck me that the bike bore an odd resemblance to that old Puch Magnum.