Farklemania
Consider this the sequel to my recent essay on new bike fever. Let me start by saying I hate the term, the word farkle. To my ear, it sounds like an onomatopoeia for triviality and frivolity (if those characteristics made noise). Lots of farkles really are superficial, silly and serve no meaningful purpose, at least not in terms of a motorcycle’s physical functioning: Color-matched, logo-embossed valve stem caps, anyone? But many accessories and modifications are quite substantive, and even those that are primarily decorative enhance the bike’s “aesthetic functioning” in the eyes of its owner. Despite my distaste for the f-word, I admit I’m an incurable farklemaniac.
I find this affliction to be most acute in the first few weeks after acquiring a new motorcycle, whether it’s truly brand new or a used bike that’s merely new to me. Often, I’ll have a standard list of parts to immediately add or replace based on what I’ve grown accustomed to on other machines in the recent past. This list has changed over the years, depending on what weaknesses were common for bikes of the era and which items felt like high priorities to me during those periods.
For example, when I was a sport bike fanatic, it was unthinkable to leave the OEM exhaust on anything I owned. Although I couldn’t actually detect the weight savings or performance gains such a piece afforded compared to stock, the idea I might be sacrificing something in those areas was like a pebble in my boot, not to mention my conviction no motorcycle looked or sounded “correct” with a heavy, ugly, and oh-so-basic muffler hanging off the back. During this phase of my riding journey, I had the surprise good fortune to realize the guy standing next to me watching practice at Road Atlanta was one of my favorite racers of the time, Dale Quarterley. He remarked that most of the amateurs rounding the corner in front of us had made the rookie mistake of spending their money on exhaust systems instead of suspension upgrades, when the latter would have yielded much greater reductions in their lap times. He pointed out the contrast between those with and without aftermarket shocks (and presumably reworked fork internals); it was striking, once I knew where to look. Indeed, those with better suspension flew through the corner like they were on proverbial rails, whereas the others weaved and wobbled, and had to carry less speed to avoid crashing. The presence or absence of a freer-flowing exhaust system may have made a few tenths difference by the end of the back straight, but improved suspension made larger gains in every corner. After this insight, shock replacement and fork revalving became absolute necessities for any bike entering my garage. Those investments really did yield improvements I could truly feel, as opposed to the exhaust benefits, which were mostly imaginary and image-based. I wish I could say I stopped buying aftermarket exhausts from that point forward, but I usually just added suspension work to the list alongside them, not to mention numerous other racy parts I found absurdly tantalizing, but which said more about my aspirations than my abilities.
With age, my priorities shifted. After being spoiled by my first aftermarket seat and heated grips, I couldn’t do without them. Enhanced wind and crash protection, greater conspicuity, navigation and communication support—these came to displace fancy pipes and mufflers, customizable fuel injection computers, carbon fiber bodywork and the stickiest tires on the market. Not only was I moving away from performance-oriented mods I’d seldom been able to appreciate, but motorcycles were being outfitted from the factory with better kit, making those prior upgrades less cost-effective. Whereas a jet kit and slip-on actually did boost power noticeably long ago, they offered less and less advantage without extensive engine work as OEM equipment developed. Even if power and handling improvements were possible, a tiny number of riders could exploit the native capabilities of technologically evolving stock motorcycles, making such gains overkill with only theoretical merit. Now it can be hard to justify any such tuning efforts on the basis of their tangible impact on the riding experience, at least if you don’t count sight and sound. Accessories focused on comfort, convenience and safety provide more salient and meaningful advantages for the—er—more mature rider. Even in these areas, stock motorcycles have gotten much better. I no longer take for granted I’ll need to replace the original seat, for instance, although I still do occasionally. Rarely do I feel the need to redo suspension. While I may detect some minor deficiency in certain situations, modern forks and shocks typically deliver a good balance of compliance and control with meaningful adjustability; the cost-benefit ratio of replacing or rebuilding them makes such work far less worthwhile than it used to be.
With many subtractions from my old standard farkling lists, you might think I have a much shorter and less expensive roster of urgent revisions. Not so! Now I’m extremely concerned about protecting my investment, and this conservative mindset mandates lots of “insurance” in the form of frame, axle and bar-end sliders, case and radiator guards, and assorted other armor to shield my bike from damage that would be costly in terms of both money and the serious hassles/danger of being stranded with a disabled machine. Ironically, so far I’ve never “enjoyed” the benefits of such safeguards; like other forms of insurance, the best case scenario involves getting nothing for my money beyond peace of mind. Goodies like heated grips and effective windscreens remain crucial for extending my riding season into the winter months. While these are increasingly common in OEM form, they’re not always present on a given motorcycle. I actually prefer to install grip heaters myself, rather than use what the factory provides, as this gives me the ability to choose my own grips, which are perhaps the most important element in the bike-rider interface, in terms of comfort, security and feel. Other ergonomic considerations, like handlebar position, are sometimes relevant, too. A set of risers or an aftermarket bar with a different bend may be required to tweak things to my liking—more a reflection of my aging body than something “wrong” with the bike. Tires have come a very long way as rubber chemistry and manufacturing technology have advanced. It may be hard to find a lousy pair these days, but there are still significant differences in handling, grip, feedback, water dispersion and mileage that can make changing tires an imperative. Auxiliary lighting, whether to illuminate the road or alert drivers to my presence and intentions, is another area where any new bike can do better.
If I possessed limitless funds, I’d still buy aftermarket exhausts and have my suspension custom tailored to fit my personal preferences. I’d bedazzle my bikes with anodized aluminum bits and carbon fiber panels. I’d remap my fuel injection to eradicate any and all imperfections in power delivery, and I’d try a half-dozen aftermarket seats to see which—if any—was actually superior to the stocker over time (and in which situations). I probably wouldn’t incur the reliability liability of extensive engine work, knowing I’d never use the advantages, but could well suffer the disadvantages. The argument could be made I should just buy more motorcycles to cover all my riding needs with bikes specifically designed for each scenario, rather than trying to perfect each machine’s capabilities across multiple uses. I’ve done exactly that to the degree my finances allowed (reaching a garage population peak of nine some years ago before cutting back), but I lavished no less attention on each bike in my stable.
Despite what I’ve already said here to highlight the functional side of farkling, I feel compelled to accessorize and modify a functionally flawless motorcycle. Farkling is only partly about function, image or aesthetics. It’s also about making a motorcycle mine. I want it to be uniquely reflective of my tastes and sensibilities, and I want to have a hand in its creation. Each new machine is a blank canvas, awaiting my signature strokes. Aftermarket pieces are selected as part of an artistic process, an effort to make the bike match an internal ideal—not unlike a musician, painter or poet translating something from their interior into their chosen medium of outward expression. This, as much as anything, is the driving force behind countless hours spent poring over aftermarket options, reviews, technical explanations and pricing, often before a new motorcycle is even in my possession. I once had to wait on an ordered bike for a couple of months. By the time it arrived, I had a mountain of parts waiting for it on my workbench. On one hand, I had to wonder what the hell was wrong with me; how could I be sure my bike needed all that stuff? On the other hand, it was a rapturous orgy of excess and expediency, having all those sexy items stockpiled and ready to mount. No waiting on parts to trickle in over the course of weeks, impatiently vigilant for UPS each day like a child anxiously anticipating Santa’s arrival. Instead, I could lock myself away in the garage for an entire, gloriously uninterrupted weekend and emerge with a brand new, yet already comprehensively outfitted, motorcycle. Of course, I found more things to add to it later, but for a brilliant moment, it felt “done,” right from the start, like Athena springing forth from Zeus’s head fully grown and fully armed.
The Ride Inside with Mark Barnes is brought to you by the MOA Foundation. You can join the BMW Motorcycle Owners of America quickly and easily to better take advantage of the Paul B Grant and Clark Luster programs mentioned in this episode.
This begs the question: What happens when a project bike is finally finished? Well, there’s probably always something else to tweak, no matter how much time, energy and money one invests. It could just be a lateral move, rather than a genuine improvement, but it provides a refreshing burst of novelty. At times, I’ve reached a point of diminishing returns and ceased farkling—on that bike! Maybe another machine arrives in need of my ministrations, or maybe I discover some new gadget for one of the others already mine. I don’t believe I’ve ever lost interest in a motorcycle just because it was farkled out, but some aspect of its purpose does get lost. It’s definitely not that I cease to enjoy riding such a bike, as though it’s only value to me was as a fresh puzzle to be solved—and then abandoned and discarded when it could no longer provide that flavor of stimulation. Instead, I think my farkling needs just get transferred to another target. Then that bike becomes my focus for a while, while I continue to value the completed one. Maybe if I ran out of mechanical projects entirely, I’d have to jettison a motorcycle to fund and make room for a new project, but I’ve never been in that position. There’s always been something to do on at least one of them. Potential acquisitions grab my attention not because of boredom with what I own, or even because of their appeal as a novel venture, but rather because they promise to offset some flaw or inadequacy I’ve been unable to remedy in one of my current motorcycles. This typically has less to do with the bike’s shortcomings and more to do with a change in my interests (or an irresistible marketing campaign).
Nevertheless, upon bringing a new bike home, I can count on a frenzied series of aftermarket purchases, long stints in the garage, and an utterly irrational sense that “things just aren’t right” until the first wave of accessories has been installed. Only then is the debutante ready to go to the ball. Outings before then involve a mild, admittedly ridiculous, self-consciousness: what if someone sees my bike without its tail tidy in place?! They’ll judge it based on insufficient data! Don’t look, I’m not done yet! This isn’t exactly vanity, but a painful awareness my work is incomplete. I wouldn’t want to show the world a half-finished painting, sculpture or novel either, no matter how well it’s shaping up. I should have felt proud of my latest acquisition from day one, since it’s the best box-stock motorcycle I’ve ever owned, but I’m deliberately burning through its break-in mileage solo, frantically completing the bulk of my customization before its first service. Then I’ll present it to the population at large.
In “New Bike Fever“, I made clear insanity was afoot. Farklemania may be an extension of that crazy state, and it can linger for months or years after obtaining a new motorcycle. Whereas new bike fever comes and goes with episodic purchases, farklemania is more of a chronic ailment. It compels its victims to perpetually chase perfection, even on a bike that’s essentially perfect from the start; change for change’s sake. The impulse to buy a motorcycle is followed by the compulsion to improve it, no matter how hard it is to find fault. No doubt this sounds dreadful to riders who loathe the downtime of wrenching—or the pennies on the dollar farkles bring at resale, but for those who treat wrenches (or service orders) like paintbrushes, farkling is a huge part of the fun of being a motorcyclist. It’s not just a means to an end, but also an end in itself. I love my illness.
Mark Barnes is a clinical psychologist and motojournalist. To read more of his writings, check out his book Why We Ride: A Psychologist Explains the Motorcyclist’s Mind and the Love Affair Between Rider, Bike and Road, currently available in paperback through Amazon and other retailers.
