Los Angeles to NYC in 38 Hours, On A Six-Cylinder Beemer

It was a pain in the ass — literally. “I spent two years training my ass,” Carl Reese tells me via phone, shortly after his announcement of YACCR (Yet Another Cross Country Record). “I was serious about my fitness. I even sat on my seat (a Sargent aftermarket replacement, with backrest) while I was on my computer doing my job. But by the time I got into Pennsylvania, I was in so much pain that it was affecting everything else. I was hitting the kill switch on the bike instead of the turn signal because my senses were overwhelmed. I was glad to see that New York skyline.”

As a devoted, even bigoted, owner and rider of Honda motorcycles, I was tempted to make a comment about BMW riders and their proclivity for “training their asses.” Instead, I let Carl Reese, already familiar to TTAC readers from the Tesla cross-country electric-vehicle record with Alex Roy late last year, keep talking about how, and why, he rode his BMW K1600GT across the country in a shade over thirty-eight hours, ass pain and all.

As long-time TTAC readers will know, I’ve always been spectacularly indifferent to the idea of cross-country records, even though I count Alex Roy, the self-described “Doctor Evil of cross-country racing,” as a personal friend. With that said, I have genuine distaste for people who claim to have set a record without adequate proof, no matter how fast n’ loud they might be. Much of my conversation with Reese, therefore, centers around his data.

Thankfully, Carl has gone to considerable lengths to document his attempt. He hired a GPS company to track him, as Ed Bolian did during his infamous used-Mercedes “bedpan run” a few years back. Knowing how easily that GPS data can be faked, however, Reese arranged for over a dozen witnesses for this attempt, including unaffiliated notaries at both ends to attest to time, the VIN of the motorcycle and the odometer readings. He arranged for drug tests before and after the run to prove that he was free of everything from caffeine to crystal meth. And he acquired additional evidence in the form of a traffic ticket and an unscheduled stop at a Harley-Davidson dealer to replace a “shredded” Metzeler rear tire.

In fact, one of the more interesting things about Reese’s attempts was the sheer number of things gone wrong, from the aforementioned tire problem (“Next time,” he states, “I’ll use Michelins.”) to the ticket to a wasted hour in Salina, Kansas, trying to get his array of electronic devices to reboot after a 90-minute nap.

That ninety-minute nap, Reese states, is the most important part of the record. Although other people have claimed cross-country motorcycle records in the past, including a fellow named “Axe” who wrote an entire book praising himself for such a feat despite not having a shred of evidence to show anyone, the riders who have seriously attempted it have usually suffered serious sleep-related issues. “They close their eyes for a minute on a park bench,” Reese notes, “and wake up six hours later.”

Most of these other would-be record-holders have also chosen conventional sportbikes for their attempts. Reese, on the other hand, bought the BMW K1600GT — a bike I rode up the Monterey coast last year and liked so much I argued that BMW should use its engine in a car. It’s a viciously powerful take on the sport-tourer that has recorded quarter-mile times as low as 10.8 @ 122 mph in magazine testing. That’s Aventador territory.

With that said, the lurid top speeds that are usually a part of any cross-country test didn’t figure into Reese’s attempt. When pressed for a maximum velocity, he at first demurs, stating that he doesn’t want to talk himself into a jail cell before all the statutes of limitations are expired, but eventually gives me a number that, while still high enough to be considered “reckless operation,” isn’t anything like the numbers I’ve seen on my own sportbikes during morning commutes.

The small community of cross-country record fanatics, which congregates at a website (transcondrivers.org) run by Reese and Ed Bolian’s supposed co-driver, Dave Black, is reluctant to go on the record about Reese’s latest, um, record. One fellow called it “a pretty astounding physical feat” while another told me it was “more creepy stuff from a really creepy guy.” When pressed on the idea that he and Black are attempting to make money “certifying” cross-country runs, an allegation I heard from another driver, Reese replies that any such plan has been long since abandoned and that he never had any involvement with it beyond the discussion stage.

In the end, it’s hard to not be charmed by the passion that Carl and his fiancee, Deena Mastracci, have for the whole idea of cross-country records. Whatever outlaw appeal surrounded the original feats in the Brock Yates days has long since given way to the kind of patient dedication exhibited by hobbyists in activities as diverse as long-distance running and Civil War re-enactment, but perhaps that’s for the best. In the meantime, the record is out there for anyone to take a shot at bettering, but be warned: your ass will need to train for it.