A few years ago while riding through the Black Hills, I made a stop at a view point to stretch my legs and check my map. A couple about my age
pulled up on a new Honda Gold Wing, decked out in matching riding gear and clearly packed for the road. They were on their honeymoon, and he had convinced her that a two‐wheeled sightseeing trip would be a great
adventure. (Ed. Of course it is.) We commiserated about the weather, particularly how chilly it was. In the spirit of uttering a shibboleth, I said, This is why God invented heated gear.
The look he immediately gave me was, Dude,
as she turned to him and said, Heated gear?
Which is how I found myself awkwardly demonstrating my Gerbing vest and gloves to a nonplused bride on the side of the road in South Dakota.
As I had with the FZ1, so, too, with the FJR have I been stuffing a portable temperature controller for the heated gear in my jacket pocket, which makes for an untidy mess of wires draped over the bike when I am operating my toaster. I finally got tired of both the mess and the ribbing I was taking about it from my brother, so had the brown truck deliver a permanent controller to me.
As I had discovered while installing the garage door opener, there is not a lot of unoccupied space behind the dashboard, and I had to trial fit the controller elements several times to locate a void that would accommodate them. Despite my caution, I still managed to drill the first hole too high on the panel for the component to fit into the recess. I made a crude patch with some JB Weld and a rattle can of black paint, but am not happy with myself about the miscalculation.
The controller kit includes a nest of wires run through a bulky plastic junction; packing it all onto the bike involved plenty of hacking away excess wire until it met behind the speedometer, then soldering those shortened leads to one of the Accel weatherproof connectors I seem to always have in my parts bin. I joined that connector to a wire bundle I laid beneath the gas tank, where it emerges with just enough slack to be plugged in at the hem of the vest as I sit in the seat. Aside from the obvious mess I made while being overenthusiastic with my power tools, the result is that I no longer appear as if I am using the extension cord to Charlie Brown’s Christmas tree when I want to run my Gerbing accessories.