On a decisive day last year [2000], following one too many schedule-busting mechanical failures, I said wearily to Mrs. Noxgaga: ‘That’s it. I’m going to give up motorbikes … and buy a BMW.’ It surprised me almost as much as it surprised her. That is ‘give up motorbikes’ as in give up dealing with a manufacturer which clearly did not give a toss about its customers; as in give up dealing with a manufacturer which swore blind that it had fixed an inherent engine-design fault, yet when the same fault resurfaced on another bike two years later, merely said ‘oops’ and ‘well, it’s out of warranty now, so how about a new bike, and just to twist the knife we’ll allow you 10% of three-eighths of the square root of f*ck all on the trade-in’; as in give up dealing with a UK manufacturer whose UK dealer network was full of holes. I could live with that if the bikes were reliable, but such was not my experience.

I had been riding Triumphs since 1993, the relatively early days of the Hinckley incarnation of the brand, owning two Trophies and a Daytona 900. The move to Triumph came after a long, ill-advised dalliance with a Benelli 900 Sei - which had been bought on the whimsical principle that no true gentleman motors behind fewer that six cylinders - because I wanted to support Triumph’s revival through the new company. So, guess who I was taking a swipe at in paragraph 1. Ah well, there’s nothing quite so bitter as a lover spurned. By the way, did you know that every single cabbie in London used to own a Triumph Bonneville? At least, that’s what they all claimed, whenever I was stopped beside them at traffic-lights. Strange that; perhaps it was the same one, which just got passed around the fraternity like a packet of WW2 black- market butter.

I currently have an each-way commute of just under 60 miles. That wasn’t the intention, but I seem to have got back into harness in central London and go there pretty regularly. My inbound trip comprises 45 miles of mixed cart-track and A roads, followed by 15 miles of combat commuting through south-west London. I need a versatile bike that will peel off the miles in comfort and reliability. I needed a bike with a dealer nearby. Finally, for reasons of my own, I just won’t buy Japanese.

Thus, the choice was between BMW, Moto Guzzi, Ducati and Peugeot. If Moto Guzzi hadn’t stopped making the Le Mans I could have been tempted, but the current range of cruisers and wannabe Ducati Monsters wasn’t right for the job. I couldn’t see a Ducati standing up to the daily duties either – a bit like wearing Versace to the launderette - so it boiled down to a straight duel between BMW and a Peugeot Speedfight. In a bitterly hard-fought mental contest, the Fatherland just scraped it.

Which model should it be, though? Well, if my prospective steed was destined to be a mad-fun bike or if I was planning either a world tour or the annexation of the Sudetenland, it would have to be the R1150GS über- trailie, which is a deliriously tonto machine. I wimped out of that, however, as the idea of sitting to attention for hours on end at speed wasn’t really an attractive prospect. The R1100RT, perhaps? Nah, it seems just too much of an old codger’s bike. Besides, I didn’t need or want a full-on tourer. Neither did I fancy having to smoke a pipe or grow the obligatory beard. With that amount of plastic out front, the RT seems a bit like a streamlined wheelie-bin. The R1100S [the ‘sporty’ one] had me tempted, but it doesn’t have enough carrying capacity or flexibility. An R1200C Cruiser? You are kidding, aren’t you! After briefly considering the K1200RS 130bhp motorway-muncher, in the end there was a choice of one. I put my money down on a R1100RS, the ‘sports-tourer’, and I have to say that it does exactly what it says on the tin.

For 2000 there was a confusing colour choice of silver- and-black or silver-and-black, so I went for the silver- and-black. After 9,000 miles, the RS is nicely shaken down and does all that I ask of it. The London run is as enjoyable as such a run can ever be, and going home is a blast. The panniers make the bike just too porky to use seriously in town. Without them, however, it’s skinny enough to wriggle through the wheezing car-park which is London traffic, so any clobber goes on the pillion and the tiny rack. While not ‘impersonating a police officer’, I find that a BMW coupled with a white Schuberth ‘flipper’ lid and, sometimes, a reflective yellow jacket – rainwear is the one thing that Triumph do make well – do endow me with Moses-like qualities when it comes to getting drivers to move over.

Otherwise, away from commuting duty, it’s just about everything I want in a bike. It’s good for hooning round the A and B roads. It will pooter us along sunken single- track lanes to lunch at one of the excellent pubs; before we moved out of London I was determined to live where grass grows down the middle of the roads. Of course, it’ll break no speed or acceleration records, but it will go straight through Ahem mph all the way to the borders of Eeek without a twitch. I’ve done the return run from Covent Garden in 58 minutes [did I mention the digital clock?], without consciously going for it. I love sprinting home late on a still summer’s evening, when there may be three or four hot-air balloons hanging in the sky above me.

The suspension attaches to the engine via the front Telelever wishbone and the rear single-sided Paralever swinging arm. This works well, both on the road and under stress. There is virtually no dive in the system. This and the second generation ABS were subjected to an early test when, on a trip past Mrs. Battenberg’s front door, I encountered an angry traffic-light that hadn’t been there the last time I’d been through. The whole Buck House area swarms with Police, soldiery, spooks and cameras, of course. Figuring that, if only for the sake of appearances, I should make a futile effort not to kill a mixed bag of tourists and Albanian hot-dog sellers, I hit the brakes and … stopped. No shrieking tyres, no smoke, no mess, no fuss, no stoppie, no sweat.

The bike’s build quality is truly superb. Climbing onto it has the same satisfaction as the heavy ‘thunk’ of the doors and the walnut, Wilton and leather interior of a Bentley or an Aston Martin. The switches are solid and the dials are clear. It seems almost insulting only to allow it a 60 or 100 mile run; it’s as if it wouldn’t even break sweat before the tank needed filling, and the tank is good for 200 miles at an average of 45+ mpg. US riders claim to get 55-60 mpg, adjusted for their different gallons, but they must be bimbling along very sedately on undemanding roads to achieve that. I’ve never got better than 50 mpg from a tankful, or worse than 42. It holds a line perfectly, ably assisted by the Metzeler tyres which will probably need replacing in two or three thousand miles. It fighting weight is 280kg, but it’s beautifully balanced and swings effortlessly onto the centre-stand.

Having lived with this bike for a few months now, I can understand the way that BMW-riders will cheerfully cross continents for a rally or even a packet of cigarettes. The RS has an adjustable screen, seat and bars, so virtually anyone can find a comfortable fiding position on it. It’s reassuringly big. I’m 6’4”, and I don’t have to uncurl from a jockey-like crouch at the end of a ride. The somewhat shorter Mrs. N says that the pillion is the best she’s been on. The SE option gives you heated grips and ABS. Heated grips seemed a unnecessarily sybaritic feature to me before, but once experienced they are an essential item, with two levels of toastiness. Every BMW road test I have read takes issue with the marque’s idiosyncratic indicator routine, but you get used to it in no time.

Nothing man-made is perfect, of course. Turkish carpet- makers would deliberately weave a false stitch into their handiwork, because ‘only Allah is perfect’. My complaints are, however, pretty trivial. The OE headlight is about as much use as a fag-lighter in a dirty saucepan, and the main beam’s idiot-light is almost brighter than the light itself. The horn sounds uncannily like the Road Runner, and I will put some air-horns on soon as there’s plenty of room in the fairing. As for other add- ons, so far I’ve only put an Autocom onboard. The razor, microwave and espresso-machine will have to wait.

The bike developed a disconcerting vibration through the bars at 4,000-4,500 rpm [about 80 mph in top], but that’s a well-known Boxer idiosyncrasy which was readily cured by synchronising the carbs at the 6,000-mile service. It would be nice to have an overdrive sixth gear, and for that reason the threatened R1150RS could be an attractive proposition, if the 1150GS and the recently upgraded naked R1150R roadster are anything to go by. On the other hand, by early 2002 my bike will only have done 30,000 miles or so; it’ll be barely run in.

This is not a sport bike and neither is it a tourer, but it suits me fine. You may well consider a BMW to be a thoroughly dull biking option, almost … well, almost like giving up. The devoted crotch-rocket jockeys might hardly regard it as a bike at all. For me, however, it satisfies the single, overwhelming criterion of biking: I look forward to every ride, however short, however long. After all, that’s why we do it, isn’t it? I feel certain that, whatever other bikes may come and go in future, there will be a BMW of some sort in my life for quite a while yet.