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As the day went on, the smoke from the northern wildfires continued to grow thicker. When we left the hotel that morning, we had roughly a six-hour ride ahead of us, but as the heat, humidity, and haze rolled in, our pace slowed. With a few hours still left to go, we decided to hop on the highway to make up some time.
My right hand needed a break, so I finally decided to turn on the BMW's active cruise control and give it an honest try.
Over the years, I've used just about every version of cruise control imaginable. The throttle friction screw on my old BMW Airheads, Cramp Busters, throttle locks, and traditional electronic cruise control. In most cases, I never felt particularly motivated to use any of them. The exception was probably the Airheads. The throttle friction screw gave me just enough time to shake out a numb hand before the next fuel stop.
In my mind, that technology was good enough and I never thought I needed anything more.
I rack up a lot of miles every year, and when you travel on two wheels as much as I do, reliability isn't optional. That's why keeping one modern bike in the garage has always been a priority. When I upgraded to a BMW R 1300 RS, it came with a full array of technology.
After owning more BMWs than I care to count, I've gotten pretty good at deciding which features I actually use and which ones get ignored. The last few bikes have all come with apps that track ride statistics, lean angles, average speed, routes, and enough data to satisfy just about anyone. I usually ignore most of it. To me, every piece of technology is a tradeoff. More electronics can mean more expensive repairs and more distractions. I tend to let the cream rise to the top and use only the features that actually improve the riding experience.
As I continued putting miles on the RS, the list of things I liked and disliked became clearer. Most of them could be changed with a few simple modifications. The things I loved revealed themselves slowly, one long day in the saddle at a time.
It was on this trip that I realized aging doesn't arrive with some dramatic announcement. It sneaks in quietly through moments that only become obvious after they've compounded over time. This riding season I started noticing my hands tingling more than they ever had before. Every hour or so I'd loosen my grip, shake my fingers while rolling down the highway, and convince myself it was the seating position on the RS. New bike, new ergonomics. That had to be it.
It didn't take long for me to realize the problem wasn't the motorcycle. It was me.
That realization was harder to accept than I expected.
When something feels off, motorcyclists are quick to blame the bike. We adjust the handlebar, buy a new seat, install different pegs, change windscreens, or order another gadget online in an effort to fix it. We'll change everything except admit that maybe we're changing, too.
The longer I rode, the more those numb fingers showed up. Somewhere on that smoke-covered highway, I turned on the adaptive cruise control and gave my right hand a chance to recover. While I'd experimented with it before, this was the first time I'd really let the system do what it was designed to do. Instead of constantly rolling on and off the throttle or worrying about catching the slower car ahead of me, I found myself more relaxed. The bike quietly managed the distance while I focused on the road. My hand got a break, my speed stayed consistent, and I realized I wasn't thinking about the technology anymore.
I was simply enjoying the ride.
It's funny how a feature you never thought you needed can become one that's exactly what you need.
The value of tech isn't tech itself
When a new, tech-heavy motorcycle is reviewed here at Common Tread, some readers inevitably comment that it's just too much. I'm not the only one who has concerns about repair costs down the road, but it's more than that. Some worry that too much of the responsibility for the ride is slipping out of the rider's hands and into the motorcycle's electronics. And — let's face it — the older we get, the more resistant we become to change, especially to the machines we love.
The point I'm trying to make here isn't that technology makes us better riders. I also don't believe it makes us softer.
What if a piece of technology lets you keep riding 400-mile days without climbing off the bike feeling like you've been hit by a truck? What if one small improvement means you can still spend a full day chasing mountain roads instead of cutting the ride short because your body is giving up before your spirit does?
For years I assumed being a long-distance rider simply meant accepting the discomfort that came with it. I'm not so sure anymore.
I'll always have a soft spot for old motorcycles. I can still make a pretty convincing argument for why vintage bikes are better, and those opinions haven't changed. There will always be room in my garage for both old and new.
What has changed is this.
Growing older isn't about rejecting technology. It's about choosing which parts of the ride deserve your energy and knowing when to let the motorcycle handle the rest.
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