Motus operandi, part two: The 4,413-mile test ride home

Our Motus Era begins with a red-eye flight from Seattle to Atlanta followed by two hours in a rental car to Motus Galactic Headquarters in Birmingham, Alabama. We navigate to a modest building in a light industry area and a nice man pokes his head to the door to ask the two shuffling, jet-lagged, half-zombies before him if he can help us. We tell him we’re here to pick up our new bike and he beams, greets us by name, and invites us to enter the inner sanctum of the entire operation.

Editor's note: This is part two of the story of deciding to buy a Motus MST and riding it home from the factory. See part one.

Motus is a lean outfit. There are a few small offices, no receptionist, a small area set up to show off a bike or two, a rack with three kinds of T-shirts and two kinds of hats, and the rest is dedicated to design and production. And there, show center, gleaming all new and shiny, is our bike. Gulp, it’s b-b-b-b-beautiful.

We are introduced to Glenn, the builder of our bike, and Matt, another builder who will be doing the delivery inspection and familiarization with us. Carlos, a Motus owner and therefore a member of the family, is there also and helping.

An aside about the Motus family thing: It sounds like marketing shtick, but I’ve been hearing about it since I started researching the bikes and there may be something to it. As evidence I offer Carlos, who bought a Motus and put 26,000 miles on it before totaling it in an accident. He promptly bought another and arrived this morning from his home in El Paso, Texas (1,270 miles one way) to have the factory perform the 6,000-mile service. When he showed up, he and Matt exchanged hugs in greeting, and Matt told me later that Carlos once put the Motus crew up at his house when they were passing through.

Another anecdote: Knowing that we were picking up our bike today, Lee Conn calls to apologize for the fact that he and Brian Case, the cofounders of the company, are out of town on business and therefore won’t be there to personally deliver the bike and thank us for our purchase.

Matt now starts the delivery process, and he takes me around the bike for over an hour, utilizing a two-page checklist to ensure that everything is covered. There is impressive attention to detail there, including virtually all functionalities and correct “clocking” of various items.

That done, Teri and I unpack our dunnage and transfer it to the soft bag liners, then into the hard cases. We also have some farkles to install, and Matt doesn’t blink about taking the time to help. Soon, the bike is on the lift and we install a strap-mounted tank bag, a phone mount, USB chargers and wires, and helmet locks. Carlos, too, pitches in.

We’re finally finished, and Matt recommends cranking in pretty much max preload on the rear spring due to our load, does it for us, and we mount up. The entire Motus crew comes outside to wish us well and, after pictures, we’re off.

Teri and I have never long-distance toured before, and before flying out we agreed on some Guidelines, Rules, and one Immutable Law.

Guidelines:

• We are not in a rush
• Anyone can call stop for any reason
• 50 miles before breakfast

Rules:

1. No slab
2. No chain restaurants
3. Rules can be broken at any time

The Immutable Law:

• Thou shalt not wheelie

Birmingham to Chattanooga, Tennessee

We depart Birmingham and I immediately invoke Rule 3 in order to break Rule 1. We planned a twisty back roads route to our first overnight in Chattanooga, figuring it will be perfect for both fun and breaking in the engine, but I decide that I’m just too damn tired. Our day started the night before on the red-eye flight, I’m running on very little sleep, we're on a fully loaded, varsity-level motorcycle that I’m unfamiliar with, and Beloved Wife is on pillion, trusting me.

So, our big trip starts out on slab between the two cities, with me trying to do a proper break-in by not exceeding 5,000 rpm but never lugging, speeding up and slowing down to vary engine speed, and generally doing what I can to baby the Baby Block as pistons get acquainted with cylinders.

In other words, to adapt a phrase lifted from Mark Gardiner’s “Riding Man,” I am riding like a complete wanker.

Nonetheless, I keep my shit together long enough to make it to an Airbnb in the woods on the side of Lookout Mountain. We park the bike, unload, enjoy local brew with bread, cheese, and salami on our deck, and listen to the birds as darkness infiltrates the woods. I fall asleep questioning this whole self-indulgence of mine, but changing my mind now would be like a skydiver changing his mind after jumping out of the airplane.

Chattanooga to Corinth to Memphis to West Helena

In the morning, feeling fully functional again after a full night’s sleep, I walk out to my shiny new bike to find cat tracks all over it. Oh, well, I bought this bike to ride, not to display. We load, saddle up, and roll out.

I’m still riding like a wanker during this engine break-in period, but we get onto an hour-long section of twisties perfect for getting acquainted with the bike. The MST is loaded to the max but handles everything with aplomb and Beloved Wife is riding perfect pillion, never affecting my balance as we dance together to the rhythm of the road. I could get used to this.

There are a few nits to pick, however. Matt warned me during the delivery brief that the Motus has a somewhat less than usual maximum steering lock. I’m glad he warned me, because even with the heads up I’ve hit the stop sooner than expected during low-speed parking lot maneuvers and it has led to a few awkward moments. I’m also not yet used to the clatter at idle from the flywheel/torque compensator, a Motus characteristic similar to the rattle of a Ducati’s dry clutch. Finally, our dual-heated seat is not heating the pillion at all while roasting my buns beyond comfort, and the rear brake emits an occasional low howl at coming-to-a-stop speeds.

None of these things are earth-shattering, of course, and when I say the jury is still out on my relationship with the MST it’s simply because we’ve not yet spent enough time together.

We ride through monsoon rains to the Memphis Motus dealer for our previously scheduled 600-mile break-in service. Travis Alexander, the general manager, greets us, surprised that we pressed on through the downpour. The bike is on the lift within 15 minutes, and Teri and I leave our rain gear dripping in the dealership to walk across the street for lunch at The Sidecar Cafe. We heed the sign on the door that says we’re not allowed to fly one percenter motorcycle club colors on the inside.

Back at the dealership Travis tells us how impressed he is with the whole Motus operation and he believes that the member-of-the-family concept is not BS. I call Motus to report the seat issue and they apologize and promise to ship a replacement directly to my house. (It is indeed there waiting for us when we finally arrive home.) The slow speed rear brake sound is a known issue. They are redesigning the housing, and a fix will be coming. 

Break-in service complete, bike off the lift, us on the bike with rain gear in place and Travis takes our picture and asks us to keep in touch. We head west, reach dry roads under clear skies, and with a full-power-authorized Baby Block in the house I slip the leash and unwittingly (honest) commit original sin.

“I said no wheelies!!!”

Yes, dear readers, in my exuberance I have violated the immutable law. Sincere (no shit) and profound apologies pour forth to Beloved Wife via our comm system. It’s for the best that she can’t see what may or may not have been a stealth grin behind my visor. The punishment for this, meted out later, shall not be recorded here.

West Helena to Murfreesboro, Arkansas

Bits of equipment, still wet from the day before, are tied to various parts of the bike to dry as we ride across most of Arkansas. There is only light rural traffic, but the hot rod is begging to be let loose and my policy is to let her rip and make each pass instanter. Hee-hee.

There seems to be a local shortage of passing zones and Beloved Wife, from the pillion, promptly informs me of a new rule, Number 4:  No crossing double yellows. I acquiesce, refrain from pointing out that this bike needs about a tenth of the space a typical cage needs to pass, and instead mutter something under my breath about Rule 3 (any rule can be broken).

Farms morph into pine hills and the road gets really good. The MST gets into it, carving the corners as I slide my butt side to side and get my nose near the bar ends. BW matches me, the perfect pillion, and we three waltz through the woods.

We heed Rule 2 and stop for lunch at what turns out to be a great local barbecue joint. Over the ribs I mention what a great stretch of road that was.

“I could tell you were having fun.”

“Absolutely. Were you?”

“Umm... sure.”

What a woman.

As marvelous as the Motus has been I’m still not completely sold on it. Another niggling gripe is that in my opinion the low-speed, off-idle fueling could be better. It ain’t no big thang, just a quirk, and all bikes have quirks. The main factor holding me back from fully embracing it is me. I’m slow to form relationships, and this courtship hasn’t gone on long enough yet.

Diamond Digging, Crater of the Diamonds State Park

We stop for two nights in Murfreesboro, Arkansas, to dig for diamonds. Our goal is to find enough to pay for the bike, but a day of rooting around in the dirt yields no carats.

Three big, beautiful new Indians are parked next to us at the Crater and three couples come out to their bikes just as we’ve mounted ours. I tell them (sincerely) how great their rides look. They say thanks, flick their eyes over the MST, register nothing, and fail to return the compliment. Sigh.

Murfreesboro to Devol, Oklahoma

We exit Arkansas via marvelous roads with linked sweepers and undulating hills. The MST is entirely willing to swoop-swoop the curves, rev match the downshifts, and loose the hot rod howl out of the corners. We could do this all day.

But, it’s across the border into Texas and unavoidable straight-line highway. Mitigating that somewhat is that Texas sets high speed limits and then seems to view them as mainly advisory in nature. With the electronic cruise control (!) set to 85 we get some mild suspension porpoising over expansion joint whoops, but a brief stop to dial some stiffness back into the rear solves that handily.

Back on the highway with the cruise set to a high speed the heavily loaded bike is utterly unruffled. We make a quick five-car pass on a long straight and it’s a three-digit number on the speedo once we’re back in our lane. I got this, is the message from the MST.

“Everything about this bike feels understressed,” Teri says over dinner. Today might be the day I fell in love with it.

Devon to Logan, New Mexico

Wind wind wind wind wind wind. Even more wind. Did I mention the wind?

We break Rule 1 all day long as we slab at high speed across the panhandle while boring into a 30-knot gusting to a 40-plus quartering headwind. The cruise is set to a Texas number and the Motus powers into it, leaned over to hold the track and waggling to the gusts. I spend most of my time on the tank bag to reduce sail area and Beloved Wife conforms to me.

It’s actually not very much fun, but we lay down the miles. The MST simply executes the mission.

Logan to Taos, New Mexico

We start the day on remote, straight-as-a-string New Mexico two-lane roads. Fenced both sides. Unlimited visibility. The throttle rolls on, that hot rod howl climbs in pitch, and the world blurs. It is sustained high mach supercruise.

Teri spots a pronghorn out in the sage brush — God knows how — and we slow, do a 180, and go back to take his picture. The magical mystery mood is broken, however, and we dial it down to relatively sedate motorcycling until the road transitions to canyon-climbing sweepers and switchbacks. We swoop right to left, left to right, as we gain a few thousand feet of elevation to a high plateau small New Mexico town where I’ve planned a fuel stop. Turns out it’s a very small town. No fuel.

Hmm.

Quick calculations reveal that we can maybe, probably make Las Vegas, New Mexico, which will certainly have fuel, but hopefully there will be some at Trementina, the only spot on the map between here and there with a name.

We press on with the Motus now in max mellow motoring mode as I wonder what is the most fuel-efficient rpm for the engine. Oddly enough, Beloved Wife is more worried about running out of gas in the desert than she was concerned about traveling through it at warp speed earlier.

She’s funny that way.

We reach Trementina, our hoped-for fuel stop, and there’s nothing there. Literally nothing manmade other than sun-baked chip seal. BW picks out a sage bush a little thicker and taller than its fellows and stomps off muttering invective against the Google Map morons who put a name to this featureless stretch of road.

We return to max range motorcycling and the MST earns my eternal gratitude by rolling up to the pumps in Las Vegas with the engine still sipping fuel. This history shall not record how much gas it took to fill the 5.5-gallon tank.

We pick a local diner filled with locals and sup on superb sustenance. A few miles out of town Beloved Wife invokes a Guideline and we pull over at a roadside hot springs to soft boil our toes. Back on the bike we seek out a Butler Maps Gold Route over a 10,000-foot pass and drop into Taos behind a hurried driver in a fast Chevy.

I’m happy to use him as a rabbit with local knowledge and, even heavily loaded and two-up, the MST is superb. Confirmation bias be damned, I’m loving this bike more and more.

Taos to Grants, New Mexico

The Taos High Scenic Bypass lives up to high-falutin’ moniker, but beyond Albuquerque we reluctantly roll onto I-10 slab and, holy shit, the evil wind is back with a vengeance. The next hours are a miasma of cruise control on 80 and crouched over the tank bag and leaned over against the crosswind and skittering past tilted semis and jitterbugging RVs and dust blowing and here comes the rain and this kinda sucks. The clouds are getting blacker and lower ahead and screw it this is no fun.

We raise the white flag and exit the interstate to check into a hotel. Wise move — thick hail pelts down as we walk to a restaurant.

Grants to Rio Verde, Arizona

First thing in the morning it’s clear skies, no wind, and temperatures of 28 degrees. Oof. We don every stitch we have and regret the replacement heated seat awaiting us at home. We put in our 50 miles before breakfast and peel off layers in a genuine Route 66 diner in Gallup.

At an overlook in the Petrified Forest National Park, an Australian spots the bike, looks puzzled, and comes over to ask questions in his way-cool accent. Over the entire 4,400-mile trip, exactly three people had heard of Motus motorcycles before they came over to chat. Other than that, it was mostly WTF from the many people who asked about the bike. We stopped for fuel before leaving the outskirts of Birmingham and four local riders, standing two miles from the factory, were mystified.

Rio Verde to Glendale, California

Another long, hot superslab day in the saddle. The desert temperatures hit 111 degrees. I keep an eye the bike’s coolant temperature (not a problem) and consider what an achievement the Baby Block engine design represents. Imagine what must be the difference in R&D budgets between startup Motus and, say, Harley-Davidson, BMW or Honda.

Thinking these thoughts while clinging to the bike, with my wife clinging to me, at those temperatures and speeds frankly causes me to question my own judgement in acquiring one. But, I’m here to tell you that we rode the bike, loaded to the max, from sea level to over 10,000 feet, from 28 degrees to 111, from narrow, one-lane poorly patched roads to high-speed sweepers to cruise-control mile-making and it performed superbly throughout.

Glendale to Pismo Beach, California

Working our way out of the Los Angeles basin allows me to try my hand at lane splitting. Kinda scary but manageable. I rapidly realize that if the mirrors fit through traffic the side cases will, too. The added utility to motorcyclists and other traffic is obviously immense. Who do I need to kill to get this legalized in my home state?

We climb up into the hills via the Mulholland Highway headed towards The Snake. I’ve watched many YouTube videos of the famous road, and I’m hoping one of the photographers will snap pics of us going by two-up. Woe is us, it’s Monday, the Rock Store is closed, and the only bikers we see are pumping pedals. Teri dismounts to get a few pics of me going back and forth solo. Ah, well, riding the MST alone, even with four loaded bags, gives fair promise of performance solo rides to come.

Pismo Beach to Half Moon Bay, California

It really doesn’t get any better than this. We roll out of town in fog and hit Highway 1, an all-planet road, and motorcycle along as sun breaks through. A massive slide has closed the highway ahead but our map shows a thin squiggly line connecting us to 101 inland. One local says we should be fine and the other says we shouldn’t try it on “that bike.” Challenge accepted.

This foothills road is scenic, narrow, twisty, unstriped, and the pavement patches are patched over with patches. The MST spends some of the time in second gear, most in first, and some of time in first with slipping clutch as we swivel our heads like owls to look through the switchbacks. No complaints from the bike.  

We see only four cages in the entire 40 miles. When we stop for photos we hear turkeys calling and gobble gobble right back at ‘em.

Half Moon Bay to Jenner, California

101 gifts us more picturesque Pacific Coast, then leads us through the streets of San Francisco and across the Golden Gate. We exit immediately to tour the Marin Headlands and we leave the bike in second gear and just gaze. This is followed by still more Highway 1 with cliffs of insanity seemingly around every bend. The pavement finally turns inland and bends and esses and ups and overs and downs past picture-book ranches with cattle belly-deep in green grass and spring wildflowers.

People, MST or Mini 50, the motorcycle doesn’t matter, just be sure to ride California’s Highway 1 at least once in your life.

Jenner to Brookings, Oregon

We whoosh onto the Redwood Highway. It’s an unusual mix of divided four-lane and two-lane twisties through canyons where, if you’re lucky with traffic, you ride at a well leaned-over pace. By the way, we may well be the first folks to ride a Motus through a tree.

Brookings to Gig Harbor, Washington

The gravitational pull of home grows stronger the closer we get. This turns out to be our longest day of the trip in terms of miles and hours in the saddle, and we cross the finish line in a dead heat race with darkness. We wheel the MST into the garage, unload the bags, turn out the light and shut the door, leaving the Baby Block quietly ticking to itself.

It carried us 4,413 miles and performed superbly. It averaged 37.8 mpg while breaking in its engine and spending hours at very low, middling, and very high speeds while always heavily loaded. It burned three-fourths of a quart of oil in the 3,900 miles since its break-in service in Memphis. Embarrassingly, we wore the crown of the tires flat, but we made up for that by wearing away most of the siping from the sides, as well. The Hot Rod needs new shoes.

Start to finish line, repeat, The Ridge Motorsports Park

I click buttons, hit Place Order, and as a result the kind folks at RevZilla are nice enough to send me a new set of OEM-spec Pirelli Angel GTs. I arrive early at the track to get them mounted and, as I ride off on the new skins, I get an "Ahhhhh" feeling as I realize what it's like to ride on tires that don't have shoulders worn into them from too much slab time.

It turns out that the MST is a ball on the track. Well, of course it is.

Unburdened of touring loads, ridden solo, rolling fresh rubber, it is just too much fun. I'm mindful that my own personal between-the-ears Motus software is still on version 1.1 as I brake for corners and roll throttle at apexes. No rider aids. YOYO mode.

With advanced electronics I could certainly turn faster laps by simply clamping the brakes at the start of a corner, pinning the throttle at the apex, and letting a silicon overlord sort it all out. Instead, for better or worse, I'm programming, updating, and reprogramming my own organic CPU as I waggle the rear with a bit too much aft braking, discover that the center stand scrapes first on left turns and the heat shield on right turns, and that, so far, I don't know exactly how much throttle she'll take at the apex before the rear gets sketchy on exit.

I like it that way. YMMV.

The song of the day is sung by the Baby Block's exhaust note with the throttle pinned. A buddy tells me, "I kept thinking I was hearing a Corvette heading down the front straight, but it was you."

Final thoughts, June, 2018

Contentment is the only real wealth. — Alfred Nobel

I sit typing this with a Motus MST in the garage approximately 18 months after I first became aware of the company and its bikes. I’m doing my best to clear my head of the tendency to make oneself feel good about an acquisition by being predisposed to assess it positively. At the same time I had very, very high expectations for the bike, so it is perhaps equally easy to be disappointed in the reality.  

First, it should go without saying that a Motus is not for everyone but, there, I went ahead and said it anyway.

For max comfort, ultra cubic storage capacity, built in quadrophonic surround sound, etc, one of the various rolling road sofas would be better suited for two-up, long-distance touring. If you want hyper-speed-with-cases there are faster missiles. If rider aids are important to you there are also state-of-the-art WunderTech bikes. There certainly are cheaper rides.

The Motus is its own unique package of sound and fury, sophistication and fundamentalism, refinement and simplicity. Quality? Absolutely. The welds aren't robotic hi-tech sequences of binary programming perfection but, rather, hard metallic evidence of a highly skilled human hand. Critical fasteners have torque specs on their heads. Wire runs are semi-rigid cased and lay perfectly. Component clocking and reference marks abound. You can see that thought goes through and through it.

As I contemplate the overall bike I see a design mind that understands engines, the road, the wind, and and a human body on two wheels. The top line of the fairing drops back and perfectly joins the line of the chassis tubing. The sculpted black tank grip area flows into the sculpted black area of the fairing and shapes into a V that might have been formed in a wind tunnel. The headers convey V-four goodness to the world and drop down at a perfect, slightly forward angle before sweeping straight back to another perfect angle upward.  

More details strike me, some that I can't express, and I'm already waxing too poetic.

Am I satisfied with the bike? Do I regret my self-indulgence? Should I have put the money into mutual funds?

There are those who are glad that Eve ate the apple. For myself, I will simply say that I am very, very happy that I bought a Motus, picked it up at the factory, and gave my wife a ride home.