TRUE wisdom suggests the ability to learn from the past, and that theology has been grasped in full measure by today’s motorcycle manufacturers. Realizing history suffers not fools, the knowledge and expertise extracted from that steep learning curve has propelled the modern production wares now available to a point of no return. Indeed, the performance capacity of modern sport and specialty motorcycles is so great, so utterly compounding, that it can not be fully exploited on public or private roads by anyone but the most gifted or fearless of rider. And while in and of itself this discourse provides no great revelation, the path leading to this junction is worth pause and consideration.

Spurred by cause and aided by convenience, our two feature bikes come from a period that fits neatly into motorcycling’s not too distant evolution. One, the K100, was a revelation; BMW’s first totally new engine design since German Engineer Max Friz spun the firm’s Douglas-inspired, opposed twin ninety-degrees for the R32 some 60 years earlier. Groundbreaking on many fronts, the liquid cooled, DOHC engine was uniquely mounted in longitudinal fashion with Bosch fuel injection, computer controlled engine management and a compact drive train that featured a massive alloy mono-swingarm. While journalists (correctly) viewed the K100 as the dawn of a new day, the Le Mans 1000 (coined the IV, as it was the fourth in the series) of 1985 was dubbed by many as an aging starlet— citing Japan’s success in shooting past the Italians with crisp new designs and superior performance. History’s lessons, however, reflect a slightly different outcome.

The K100 was developed in response to the staggering governance the Japanese enjoyed during the1970s. The inline four had become the staple, one that BMW—if it wished to continue its presence in the industry—could ignore no longer. In fact, a recent conversation with former Cycle editor Steve Anderson revealed just how close BMW was to actually halting motorcycle production altogether. Anderson, who held a close acquaintance with BMW’s Stefan Pachernegg, explained that the project’s chief engineer arrived on the scene after many of the K100’s details had been finalized. Pachernegg held the keys to the 110-million dollar investment, with the power to kill the project or see it to completion. “The twins were expensive to produce and drained funds,” he revealed. Although not entirely perfect, the K-series proved essential for the company’s survival, and with 85,510 K100’s sold between 1986 and 1991, it’s clear that Pachernegg’s hunch paid off.

Despite being an all-new design, BMW’s “Project K” displayed some historic parallels. Conventionally inline, the engine was dropped on its belly then spun R32 style 90-degrees: cylinder head to the right and the crank/output shaft opposite. The assembly is held in a straightforward tube frame via four mounting points and acts as a stressed member. Simple, solid, yet unique and avant-garde, this configuration gave the K100 instant engineering charisma, important factors to current and would be BMW owners. The one piece alloy crankcase holds four 67 x 70 mm Galnika coated bores and mates with a 2 v DOHC cylinder. A long chain drives the K100’s twin cams via spur gears that act upon the valves with bucket-type followers, but completing the drive line proved a challenge for BMW’s engineers. Fearing too long of an assembly would stretch the K100’s wheelbase past reasonable limits, great expense was directed to compress the space between engine and BMW’s traditional shaft drive. Unlike the twin, which drove the gearbox off the rear of the crankshaft, the proximity of the output necessitated a secondary shaft. This was accomplished with a set of gears below the crank, which linked the shaft to a single disc dry clutch then back towards the K100’s five-speed transmission.

Next to BMW’s new techowunder, the Moto Guzzi Le Mans was an anachronism: a Philco Model 60 to iPod’s biotechnical hybrid. Nonetheless, Guzzi’s newest twin featured several updates from previous versions, upgrades designed to boost performance and add visual appeal. Overseen directly by Guzzi owner Alessandro De Tomaso, the Le Mans 1000 was given the most radical tuning of any production Guzzi twin to that point. High compression 88 mm slugs bounce inside its recently squared off cylinders, fed by twin 40 mm Dellortos and larger valves. Further power gains were found by installing the company’s B10 cam grind, part of the racing kit designed for the first-series 850 twin. The swoopy ABS bodywork, inspired by Guzzi’s small block 650 Lario was a departure for Moto Guzzi, as was the fitment of its trendy 16” front hoop, a change many Guzzisti felt was more fashion concession than functional improvement. The Tonti-designed frame received extra gusseting and included a wider drive shaft/swingarm assembly fitted to make room for the IV’s 130 section rear tire. Wet weight is listed at a hefty 540 lb.

For two European-based machines slotted into the same displacement category and built in the same year by rival companies, the riding differences couldn’t be greater. The Le Mans, its wheelbase a full inch longer (59.0”) and 30 lb heavier than the original 1976 incarnation, feels narrow and stubby next to the broadly spaced K-bike. But the real differences are felt when you pull each off its mainstand and thumb the starter button. The K’s whirring, whispering mechanical tune is smooth and zippy with nary a tingle felt through the bike’s chassis. All very composed and business like. In comparison, the Le Mans feels like some sort of demented circus ride, pounding your ears to the point of dizziness. Its clattering top-end rattle and roaring exhaust nudges the bike to the right when the throttle is blipped, thanks to the clockwise rotation of its engine-speed flywheel.

Nudge the lever and release the K100’s feather light clutch and the machine responds predictability; the 987cc four spins freely and moves the bike with confidence. In this case, appearances aren’t deceiving, as the K100 (or “Brick’) melds its Teutonic personality with every aspect of its performance. Its considerable heft all but disappears with speed, but everything, starting with the large, green-tinted instrument console to its muted exhaust, tells you that the bike was built for effortless travel. But what the K100 lacks in vicarious thrills, the Le Mans delivers like a bucket of water over the head, roaring through its change up and bouncing over every matchstick-sized bump. Although it can’t match the Beemer’s flexible compliance, it’s more composed when the road gets twisty, as the K100—even dressed in its sporty RS trimmings—trades a portion of tactical feel for suppleness and comfort. Despite all their differences, the K100 and the Le Mans 1000 return almost identical performance in both acceleration and top speed numbers. Moreover, both move closer together in personality when cruising near the ton, revealing the sweet spot of each engine. However, this was cited as fault in 55 mph North America. But it was exactly those attributes and more that gained each a loyal, enthusiastic following; a kinship that extends to this very day. Despite all the rough edges the Le Mans IV cured many long-standing complaints about Italian finishing; its paint is smooth and even, the black and red sections on the chassis thick and glossy. Period testers missed the mark, for by mixing in equal measures of basic tuning and running in the Le Mans enjoys a nearly magical transformation once past the 20K barrier. Due diligence reaps a delightfully sweet, smooth running engine and suspension package that melds with the rider like an Isotoner glove. In the same vein, BMW’s K100 continues its glowing mechanical record, returning astronomical feats of reliability and longevity. Fearing a critical understatement, many remain in daily use, spinning their six-digit odometers two or more times without the aid of a rebuild. Not that they exist without warts; well known is the Brick’s oil blowing dilemma, the result of engine oil seeping past the valve guides when the bike is leaned on its sidestand. Conversely, the Le Mans’ quirky 16” front wheel robbed the bike of a certain fraction of handling forgiveness. Yet, the pluses vastly outweigh any negatives, and each proudly stands as an important industry stepping stone. In a 1986 test of the Le Mans 1000, one journalist bemoaned the 70s and “the peak of Italian big twin production.” One look at Ducati’s 916-led dominance in World Superbike a decade later puts that incredulous statement to shame. The Le Mans, like Guzzi’s evergreen California and the new spec Breva, proves the limiting factor in marketing traditional, shaft driven pushrod twins has more to do with management inadequacies than any fault of the design. For BMW, the Big K did far more than rescue one fabled motorcycle division; it opened closed eyes and helped shape the face of Europe’s most successful motorcycle manufacturer. While it’s clear that the K1200 (now placed traditionally across the frame) has opened new performance horizons, the very presence of the K100 made BMW aware of the deep affection and tradition enthusiasts felt towards the opposed twin. The spawning of a whole new range of successful and dynamic motorcycles is proof of that. Yes, both of these Euro-legends can still be ridden and enjoyed in fulfillment today, but you already knew that. As the building blocks of today’s Euro hyperbeasts they are to be commended. History will remember them fondly.