In a recent motorcycle magazine article (Keystone MC Press, March 2025) I wrote of my infatuation with my current bike, a 2009 BMW F800ST. In that piece I mentioned that it was my second BMW, and that I had amazed myself that I’d ever buy another of that marque after that first Beemer experience.
That first one, a 1985 K100, came to me through a chance encounter at my local motorcycle dealership. I was riding a smaller bike in those days and doing lots of long-distance stuff, so I’d been thinking about something with a little more juice and with hard bags. Bingo! That 1000cc K-Bike was a little plain-Jane in the color department, but I was intrigued by the design and the fact that it was a BMW. I promptly traded in my trusty Kawasaki 750 and moved to the big time.
Owning that bike prompted me to my real mistake, attempting to become part of the Beemer crowd. Talk about a bunch of pretentious snots. They took the German thing to extremes. I went to my first Beemer rally and some guy showed up towing a small WWII German army anti-tank gun with his vintage sidecar rig. Jeez! Like Indiana Jones, I’m not a big fan of Nazis, nor of any of their regalia. Not to say any of these people were of that ilk, but they didn’t seem to mind sporting some of the symbols.
Still, this brief dalliance exposed me to a number of BMW aftermarket products and suppliers that got me thinking. In those days I was writing lots of feature articles for RIDER, a major national publication. That made it easy for me to get an assignment to do an upgrade article on my bike, and then go out and collect tons of free goodies from people happy to have their products get ink.
But the biggie was the paint job. Those BMW connections had informed me of this legendary BMW painter in Athens, Ohio, Kent Holt. When I called Holt, and he agreed to participate in the project, I told him of my intrigue with the white BMWs that all the cops rode in France and Germany. Glasurit Police White was what he suggested. “I’ll really only be able to do the plastic,” he said, putting me on notice that he had plenty of work and that he understood that I was getting a lot for free. I was fine with that. In fact, I was thrilled that a maestro of his reputation would even bite on my request.
In January 1988, I borrowed a trailer and my wife and I loaded the BMW, and all the add-on parts I’d gathered, and headed for the annual motorcycle aftermarket trade show in Cincinnati. We stopped enroute to drop off the bike at Holt’s place of business in Athens, and he promised it would be ready in the Spring.
Fast forward to May 1988, and I’d lined up yet another RIDER feature, and secured yet another bunch of free lodgings and admissions, for a tour around West Virginia. So, I talked my brother-in-law into flying me and my gear to Athens to pick up the bike so I could start that adventure.
Holt picked me up at the airport and took me to see the results of his work. I was floored. I gasped. I was speechless. He hadn’t just done the plastic, he’d pretty much painted the entire bike in that beautiful white: wheels, forks, tank, engine, drive train, the works. And, it was exquisite. I simply can’t imagine the man-hours involved in prepping and painting, and never figured out how he managed to paint the engine and shaft drive components without removing them. Completely transformed, the bike was unique, truly one-of-a-kind, and ready for me to hop on and head for the wilds of West Virginia the very next day.
Even on that first ride some of the “gremlins” that seemed to plague early runs of that model began to surface. Things like the factory alarm not functioning, the speedometer needle gyrating wildly at times and, worst of all, its pickiness about gasoline quality. Somewhere on my way out of West Virginia I’d gotten a load of what must have been inferior gas. And the bike would just quit until everything cooled down after 20 minutes and I could proceed. Plus, it was not all that comfortable a bike to ride. I put up with those failings for a couple of years because, man, it was a show stopper.
But eventually, I got the itch again and took my beautiful BMW back to the dealer and asked if he’d sell it on commission. When I told him the price I wanted, he nearly choked. He told me I’d never get that, but I was insistent. Sure enough, it wasn’t more than six weeks when someone as impulsive as I came in, was smitten with that White Knight, paid my price and rode it away. I’m not sure if the buyer was local, but I’ve never seen that amazing bike again. However, in addition to the photos I’ve retained, I keep another reminder of the eye appeal of that bike.
About a year after my upgrade article in RIDER, in that very same magazine, there appeared a full-page ad for motorcycle-themed Christmas cards. And, unbelievably, almost perfectly mimicking the lead photo in my upgrade story, was a wintry illustration of Santa riding my White Knight, copied down to the last unique detail. I’m 100% sure there never was, and never will again be, a bike like that. If I’m never to have another look at the real thing, I hope someday to come across one of those Christmas cards.
©2025 David B Bucher
SoEast 