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It was early spring when I swapped my beloved Buell Ulysses for a 1983 BMW R80RT, which immediately stole my heart and became one of the most ridden in my collection this year. No matter the moto community you came up in, you'll have an opinion on the look of the old BMW airhead touring bikes. I've heard riders say they might be able to look past the questionable aesthetics, but the clutch and transmission are too rough and clunky. As I listen to them pitch why the bikes are no good, all I can hear them talk about is everything that connects and grounds me with the machine.
The R80 has been a platform of choice for many bike builders over the years. There's no questioning the refinement that stands with the BMW name. Even with outdated designs, so many artists use the bike as a blank canvas because of the reliability and the iconic look of BMW's flat-twin engine.
What makes it special is this: Whether you're building one or riding one, it somehow feels personal. So what some see as an awkward, aged touring bike, I see as an understated, elegant, timeless machine wearing a parka — protective, a little bulky, but hiding grace beneath the layers. Behind that parka is an extension of my existential longing for answers that can only be found on the road.
When I'm out riding my golden chariot, it takes me where I want to go while simultaneously bringing me to where I need to be. You see, the RT is more than just transportation, it's the connection to the dreams of the life I imagine I live. It takes me to a place where anything feels possible and everyone I've ever loved is there with me. While I'm navigating the streets of my celestial city, my body is in default mode, steering, leaning, and shifting the bike almost as if I'm being chauffeured.
Now, before you want to shake me and think I'm purely riding in a dream and being unsafe, I must explain that my connection to this bike is organic and so ingrained in my psyche that riding it becomes as natural as walking. If you've ever spent time around vintage bikes, you'll know they all have their own quirks. Currently, I have two BMW airheads in my garage, and while they're only a few years apart, they each start, shift, and move so differently.
As soon as I turn the key on the RT, another journey begins. I start by flipping the petcocks to the "on" position, then comes the choke and the starter button. During that process, I have to feather the throttle, giving it just the right amount of gas until it's ready to stay running. The ingredients may be the same each time, but the quantity changes quite often. Like most things that are more than 40 years old, some days are better than others. Sometimes it doesn't want to fire up, so I flip the petcock to "reserve" and whisper words of encouragement to get it going.
Once the old RT is warm, there's no looking back. Even though getting it to fifth gear and 4,000 rpm might take longer than on other bikes, it's the silent communication between myself and the machine that finds its groove with an open throttle, endless back roads, and no place to be. Every airhead rides differently, and every old mechanic has a better way to fix it. This is the reason so many of us are drawn to these old machines. Just as they are infinitely repairable, so are our souls, and riding the RT is just what the doctor ordered.
Lately, I've found myself slowly pulling away from technology. The tech explosion on motorcycles through the years has changed riding for the good in so many ways. It is much safer to ride a bike from today than the 40-year-old machines I spend much of my time on. The new bikes brake better, run smoother, and light the way brighter than ever before, but they also flood the ride with distractions: GPS routes, playlists, lean angles, and stats flickering across a TFT screen just out of sight. Coincidentally, all of the things I want to escape from are not found while riding an old airhead. It's just me, the machine, and the dreams I'm chasing.
What draws us to a particular motorcycle is so incredibly individual, based on so many preferences and biases. Choosing the right machine takes years and deliberate effort. Our journeys as riders should evolve in the same way our personalities do through adulthood. If we end up only riding one bike, brand, or model, it only limits our perspective and experience. Every bike tells its own story, and that story deepens with each rider. The chase for the perfect bike might be endless, but every once in a while, one bike can evoke something inside that allows it to rise to the top of our evolving list.
I used to think evolution meant moving forward. Lately, I've realized sometimes it means remembering how to stand still and look back. The R80RT doesn't pretend to be anything it's not, and neither should we. Maybe that's why I keep coming back to it. Writing about this bike, much like riding it, is all part of the endless search for balance and connection in a life of constant motion.
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