I wanted to stay in Washington, close to home in case things went sideways. Since I bought my first BMW and began adventure riding seven years ago, the lure of distant landscapes captivated me. My R 1200 GS and I traveled to Vancouver Island, Oregon, Montana, North and South Dakota, Minnesota, Wisconsin, Michigan, Nevada and Utah, though I left large parts of my home state unexplored.

Rugged peaks parallel the Mountain Loop Highway.

After considering various ideas, I had a vague memory of something I read a while back, something about a loop of Washington, staying close to borders. That idea percolated until I settled on a six-day loop of primarily eastern Washington, an area I’ve barely explored. After spending time with my Benchmark Atlas and Butler map, a route evolved. As much as I enjoy pavement, as a GS rider I prefer gravel, so I tried to mix in a bit of it while still maintaining the theme of staying close to borders. I spent minimal time researching, because frankly I didn't think this was going to be an awe-inspiring excursion.

My brother Ken, a long-time dirt bike riding partner but a newly minted adventure rider, agreed to join me on his Africa Twin. I explained my plan to camp every night and cook my own food. We also had to leave in a couple of days, since we had a clear weather window in October, something of a rarity in the Pacific Northwest. This would be Ken's first multi-day adventure ride, so it would provide a good chance to test his gear and see if he enjoyed longer trips.

Route map.

Day 1: Enumclaw to Winthrop - a bit of a slog

Ken had an hour and a half ride to meet me, so we met at my local Starbucks mid-morning and proceeded up WA18 to Snoqualmie. We had to travel through several population centers to get to the North Cascade Highway.

As we left Snoqualmie, we followed WA202/203 through Fall City and Carnation, two towns that generate fond memories of family visits when my kids were young. I was amazed and pleased at the lack of traffic on a weekday. After Duvall, we fueled up in Monroe and followed Woods Creek Road and Menzel Lake Road past Lake Roesiger, two pleasant back roads through wooded communities, before arriving in Granite Falls.

Diablo Lake along North Cascades Highway.

Granite Falls is the gateway to the Mountain Loop National Scenic Byway, which makes a 52-mile loop through the mountains of Mt. Baker Snoqualmie National Forest ending in the small logging town of Darrington. This is a slightly off the beaten path byway with a 13-mile section of gravel in the middle. Winding through forested valleys with jagged peaks rising on both sides, it mesmerized me as I passed peaks with names like Big Four Mountain, Vesper Peak, Mt. Pilchuck and Mt. Dickerman, some of which I had scaled in my alpine scrambling days.

From Darrington, we followed WA530 to the North Cascades Highway. Ken had never been there, so it was fun to share a new experience with him. The ride through North Cascades National Park was spectacular, with minimal traffic and moderate temperatures. Riding among snow-capped mountains a geologist once told me are similar to the Alps is a definite thrill everyone should experience.

Ken at Rainy Pass, elevation 5,476 feet.

We arrived in the western-themed town of Winthrop a bit late in the day, so we went right to our camp spot, got our tents set up and cooked dinner as the sun began to set. With no fires allowed due to the dry conditions, and it being fall with earlier sunsets, there wasn't much to do after dark, so we hit the hay.

Day 2: Winthrop to Curlew Lake State Park

We woke up to temps in the 30s, so after a light breakfast at camp we walked to a local bakery for hot drinks and scrumptious scones while we waited for the temperature to warm up a bit.

Magnificent views on NF37.

After packing up, we headed north on East Chewuch Road before turning east on Boulder Creek Road. Before long, gravel beckoned on NF37, which would take us to Conconully. As it climbed steadily towards the peak of 6,300 feet, we encountered occasional washboard conditions and rain ruts, but the road soon evolved to smooth gravel/dirt. Evidence of past fires kept the hills bare except for old snags dotting the skyline. This must have been a wonderous ride when the trees were present, but still, the views were grand!

GS heaven! We continued to climb.

After reaching Conconully, we pointed our bikes north on Sinlahekin Road toward Loomis. The road turned to gravel soon after leaving Conconully, but it was well groomed and wide. We continued north through Loomis past a couple of small lakes and onto paved Loomis/Oroville Road which skirted larger Palmer Lake. This winding, meandering stretch along the lake added to my already joyful mood. The stretch to Oroville had us riding close to the Canadian border; in fact if you fail to switch your phone to airplane mode, you receive a message welcoming you to Canada! Soon we arrived in Oroville, where we fueled up and stopped for a snack.

Northeastern Washington possesses a rugged charm.

NF37/Sinlahekin/Loomis/Oroville Roads would turn out to be the highlight of the trip. The morning provided incredible scenery and a stimulating mix of roads to energize the soul, and we still had some of the most incredible stretches of pavement anywhere coming up as we continued to Curlew Lake. I rode portions of the upcoming tracks when I attended the Washington State BMW Riders rally a few years ago, so I knew the ride would be spectacular. Chesaw is a small town just a few miles south of the Canadian border; there we made for Curlew Lake State Park. As the sun set, we watched as the stars began to reveal themselves in the clear sky. The moon was full and as it rose, it created a mystical streak of light across the campground.

Day 3: Curlew Lake to Spokane

It was 38 when we got up, foggy and damp - not what I was expecting, but I knew temperatures would become pleasant as the day progressed. I enjoy fall riding because of the aura, quiet, peaceful and colorful, yet invigorating.

The roads and landscapes around Chesaw are spectacular! This photo is from a past ride.

We had our breakfast while waiting for the rising sun to dry things out a bit before heading into Republic for fuel. Another late start, which would impact our plans later in the day. From here on out, we would be riding areas I wasn’t familiar with, so I was flush with anticipation.

After Republic, we rode north on WA21 to the turnoff east on Boulder Creek Road, a scenic section of pavement that dumped us out on US395, north of Spokane. We rode north on this remote stretch of highway through forests that came right up to the shoulder. The Butler map identified NF15 as one of their highlighted gravel tracks, so I was anticipating a cool off-road section.

Several small lakes along Toroda Creek road are wonders to behold. This is a photo from a past ride.

We soon ran into a glitch when I began to question my GPS track, since it tried to follow a long-abandoned road. When I created the tracks at home, I obviously made a mistake, but the real problem was a lack of NF road signs. My GPS map frequently includes outdated forest service road names, so I checked my map and had an idea which road we were on; it was in decent shape, and it was headed in the right direction, so we continued. We soon saw a sign indicating our road would link back up with NF15, our original goal. Long story short, we never saw a linking road, so we ended up following the road all the way out to Northport Flat Creek Road, a few miles southwest of where I thought we'd come out.

We took a snack break in Northport before taking Aladdin Road southeast to Smackout Pass Road, another enjoyable gravel track through forested hills. Once in Ione, we continued east on Sullivan Lake Road before aiming south on LeClerc Creek Road, another pleasant gravel track. The terrain changed from high desert forests with little underbrush to what resembled our western Washington forests with abundant brush and a mix of pine and fir trees. Our mud riding skills came in handy as we crossed numerous puddles and muddy spots.

Curlew Lake State Park.

By the time we got to the point where I planned to ride Flowery Trail Road west to Chewelah, it was getting late, so we decided to route directly south to our campsite near Spokane. After fueling up north of Spokane, we decided to get a hotel room instead of setting up camp in the dark. After another interesting day of riding I was ready for sleep.

Day 4: Spokane to Dayton

Ken and I both slept well, but day four began on a sour note: I discovered someone had cut off my tail bag, broken the lock and stole some crucial items from it, leaving the useless bag behind. I left the cover I would normally use on my bike at home since we planned to camp every night. After an initial wave of anger and disappointment, I was able to let it go and figured they probably needed the stuff more than I did.

Overlooking the Columbia River near Northport.

We were out the door much earlier than previous days. After the remoteness yesterday, the incongruity of riding through downtown Spokane spoke to the diversity this trip was offering up. We followed US195 south to the Palouse region. With little traffic and pleasant temps, we had a lovely trip through rolling hills of farmland. This area is the breadbasket of Washington with miles and miles of various crops as evidence of the lush soil.

We stopped at Steptoe Butte State Park, following the spiraling road to the top. A rocky knob with some of the oldest rock in the Pacific Northwest, it rises 1,000 feet above the surrounding area to reveal splendid panoramas of the expansive farmland that is the Palouse. This was a nice start to the day. We did encounter a bit of haze while in the Palouse region and I couldn't figure out if it was from fires or the extensive plowing that was going on causing great plumes of dust to linger in the air.

Smackout Pass Road.

After admiring the views, we continued south through the farming community of Colfax before turning on Hamilton Hill Road. We joined Wawawai Road, following the Snake River to Clarkston. This turned out to be another gem of a ride, no traffic with gentle winding curves through the hills.

We fueled up and snacked in Clarkston in anticipation of Peola Road, which began from Clarkston as a winding paved road across the barren hills of southeast Washington, climbing steadily until it became a one-lane paved forest service road. Soon it turned to gravel, traversing forests and farmland as we continued west to Dayton. I was glad I had GPS tracks because there were several tricky intersections. The dust was horrendous, which was not surprising since it had been very dry and there was an abundance of farming equipment occasionally plowing near the road. At one point I had to stop after a plow stirred up a massive cloud of dense dust, causing me to lose my orientation.

Steptoe Butte offers stunning vistas.

We camped near Dayton at a rustic state park, but it had a place for our tents, a picnic table and water, so all was good. The good news was we arrived with plenty of time to set up camp, eat dinner and relax before it got dark.

I had never fully experienced the Palouse, and it surpassed my expectations. Sprawling prairies, geological wonders, beautiful forests and delightful roads continually etched a smile across my face. Coming from the densely forested west side of the state, where it is frequently like riding in a tunnel, being able to see the surrounding area is a novel experience that always takes a bit of adjustment. It makes it hard to focus as the road demands attention, but the surrounding terrain begs to be noticed. This is why I love exploring by motorcycle, the "What will I experience today?" feeling I get every morning.

Yours truly along the Snake River north of Clarkston, Washington.

Day 5: Returning Home

After a restful night we both awoke ready to do some miles. Temps were warmer, so we packed up and made a beeline to Kennewick for a snack and fuel. As we sat at the local Starbucks, I could sense Ken was ready to get home, so we talked about it and made the decision to try to blast home today. I had planned to camp the last night in Gifford Pinchot National Forest, but knew that most campgrounds were closed for the winter. We could have wild camped, but at the age of 64 it's always nice to sleep in my own bed next to my lovely wife. We hatched a plan to make the call when we got to Goldendale as to whether we could make it home before dark. The sun was out, it was warm, and we had what I hoped would be some brilliant roads ahead of us.

From Kennewick we followed US395/I82 before cutting west to Sellards Road. This track reminded me of northern North Dakota, as it was a straight road through miles and miles of open fields. We hit gravel on Township Road, which led to Glade Road. Looking at the map, I could see we were not too far south from a major highway, but you’d never know it. Unlike northeastern Washington, this area seems remote, but you’re never far from civilization.

Climbing on Peola Road.

Next came Bickelton Highway, a twisty wonder with views that tempt you to look while trying to stay on the road as it swerves and snakes through the canyons. I heard about this road so I knew it would be fun, but it genuinely impressed me. At a fuel stop in Goldendale, Ken said he was game to keep going. We continued on gravel through the small hamlet of Centerville and up to the hills overlooking the Columbia River. The views were incredible as we looked down on the mighty river, while sitting among the many windmills that stood like monstrous sentinels, before pointing our bikes north toward Trout Lake.

Trees appeared on the west end of Peola Road.

One of the unexpected highlights was Schilling Road, a short, tight, twisty gravel track leading to WA142. We soon found ourselves on the Glenwood Highway before linking up with the road to Trout Lake. I became aware the pines of the eastern side of the Cascade Mountains were segueing to the firs and brush of the wetter western side of the mountains.

Once in Trout Lake, we followed NF23, a road we’ve ridden many times, through Gifford Pinchot National Forest all the way north to US12. It felt somehow comforting to be back in the familiar confines of thick forest on a road I knew well. I felt I was being welcomed back by an old friend. From Randle we split up in Morton and followed different routes home.

Relics of the past.

Epilogue

Now that it's been a while since we got back, I've had time to reflect on this journey. I would absolutely make this run again, perhaps reversing it for another perspective or tackling it earlier in the year to experience warmer temps. I might set up a base camp in the northeast or Palouse and explore the respective areas further. After riding through several states and one province in Canada, although beautiful and wonderous, I am repeatedly reminded of the diverse splendor of Washington. As I plan future trips, I owe it to myself to include my home state in my plans.

Miles and miles of farmland along Township Road.

Disappointed at my dream thwarted, I nevertheless marveled at that moped with its red gas tank and cool Puch logo. Around that time, I happened upon pictures of BMW motorcycles and found a new love. I loved the lines and shapes of those bikes. I marveled at how different BMWs looked compared to the more common Japanese bikes I saw buzzing about on the road or the Harley Davidsons that seemed designed more as a noise maker than a fun ride. It was the quirkiness of the BMW bikes that drew me to them and held my attention so tightly. There was also a coolly capable air that the bikes exuded through the pages of the magazines I read or when I spotted a BMW bike zipping by. As it turned out, it was an obsession that I never got over. The BMW R 65 all black with its odd boxer engine was the bike I wanted. But as much as I obsessed over these bikes and tracked the classified for used BMWs on sale, there were always other priorities or life events that, as a young man that somehow always got in the way of the ride.

A decade later, purchasing a bike and actually learning to ride was a personal triumph, as in every beginning dwells a certain magic. I bought my first bike while living and working in Taiwan, shortly after finishing graduate school. It was a 125cc Sanyang, similar in design and form to a mid-range Kawasaki or Honda motorcycle. It is a bike that today you can find in other Asian countries that are following the same frenzied arc of development that Taiwan went through in the 1990s.

It was not a BMW, but I loved the Sanyang’s lines from the handlebars to the blue gas tank and the classic bench seat. The bike was also indestructible and forgiving of its initially, inept rider. I really had no idea how to ride a motorcycle. With no training and no license, I put my money down at a dodgy bike shop near my home and the Sanyang was mine. I could not have been more thrilled. Finally, I could ride.

The night I rode the bike home from the shop is the only blank space in my otherwise rich memories of riding that bike. The next day, boldly riding to work for the first time, the bike stalled in front of a group of traffic policeman handing out tickets for real and perceived slights against a vague traffic code. As I fumbled around trying to get the bike to restart, the police moved towards me while reaching for their ticket books. Terror gripped me as I realized my lack of license and motorcycle registration could land me in jail or net a large fine I could not afford. Luckily, as the police drew closer, they realized I was a foreigner and not worth the trouble. They probably already knew that both biker and bike lacked the right papers.

I got the bike to start, slipped into gear and roared away, laughing in relief but soaked in sweat. The run-in with the traffic police was a bonding moment for man and machine. We were getting to know each other. It would be more than a month before the bike and I really understood each other and we were operating as a team. The bike was patient as I awkwardly mastered the use of gears to maneuver around in city traffic or make it up and over a steep hill in the countryside without overheating the engine. 

Writing this post, I discovered I could find no pictures of the Sanyang. I searched high and low and deep back into storage boxes in the garage, but no pictures were found. My mind’s eye is filled with images of that motorcycle paired with many memories and stories to go with each image. 

From a practical point of view, my motivation in getting a bike was that I needed dependable transformation to commute to work. I did not want to board the dreary, crowded bus each workday. My real reason for getting a bike was that I always wanted one. I was a motorcycle guy at heart even though I had never actually ridden a motorcycle before.

With motorcycle skills improving rapidly, my desire to be out and on the road exploring Taiwan was constant. Taiwan is a fascinating island and deserves more recognition both for its beauty and its varied countryside. The mountains are tall and stunning. The coastline rivals that of Maine or even California for dramatic beauty. There is nothing more enjoyable than riding along a country road flanked by paddies filled with bright green shoots of young rice. I really came to know Taiwan, with all its beauty riding the twists and sweeps of road from the back of my Sanyang. I also honed my motorcycle skills to a sharp edge in Taiwan.

Anyone who has driven in Asia knows that driving there is a contact sport devoid of rules or order, requiring bravery, skill and lots of luck. To this day, I am immensely proud of the fact that I never had an accident the whole time I rode in Taiwan. It is a fact I remind my wife and children of at least once a week. There were many close calls and friends of mine were sadly not as lucky. There was a Taiwanese way of driving I somehow mastered and used to anticipate and evade disaster as well as effortlessly enter the river of scooters and motorcycles that flowed through every town and city of Taiwan. My driving skill and confidence on a bike only added to the joy I felt each time I switched on the engine and roared off down the road.

It was also on a motorcycle that I came to intimately understand the Taiwanese people. If you need friends or want to meet people, ride a motorcycle! BMW MOA members know this well and the social aspect of riding a motorcycle is a large reason for riding in the first place. Taiwan is no different and was even more so for me, a lanky foreigner who also spoke Chinese. When I rode into a village or stopped to get a drink at a convenience shop, someone would approach me with great curiosity and a conversation would begin. Fellow riders were always quick with a tip on a little-known turnoff that offered yet another amazing vista. The Taiwanese people are a very unique lot. Taiwan’s own culture is an amalgam of culture from Japan, China, southeast Asia and an indigenous culture jammed together during several tumultuous centuries. The result is an immensely proud, passionate, sometimes opinionated but always human and ultimately compassionate people.

One evening riding home from work, I saw a scene that for me summed up the Taiwanese people in a nutshell. Two cars approached each other on a narrow side street. Neither driver yielded and both cars became wedged against on either side of the small street. Epithets flew back and forth and the drivers emerged, exchanged threats followed up with punches. The spouses or girlfriends got out of their respective cars and they too started to brawl, clawing each other and yanking hair. A young boy got out of one of the cars and screamed at his parent to stop fighting to no avail. Onlookers followed the battle but did not intervene.

I looked on in amazement at the viciousness of the fighting, which continued until both couples, exhausted by hurling haymakers and yanking at each other’s hair, ended up leaning against one another, propping each other up. Their anger and venom dissipated, they began speaking with one another and before long were helping each other to wipe away hair and blood. I heard apologies exchanged. My last image from the scene before I drove away was of the two drivers walking together arms in arm into a bar to share a drink. I have no doubt both couples became great friends and probably laugh each time they reminisce about the time they met and beat each other to a pulp. 

My time in Taiwan came to an end several years later and so too did my riding. I handed over the keys of my beloved bike to the next American who would take my place in Taiwan. I actually teared up as I walked away from the Sanyang for the last time. Career, marriage, children and moves to Hong Kong, China, Seattle, back to Asia and once again back to Seattle all ganged up to prevent my getting back on a bike. Every now and again I was able to jump on a scooter for an occasional ride during a holiday, but it was not the same. I could not find the same joy that I found in Taiwan. The memories held and that urge to get on a bike remained for the intervening years. I saw bikes pass by on the road and promised myself that I too would ride again once life allowed. 

The road called to me again eventually. I knew I wanted only one type of bike: BMW, the bike I always wanted. My first thought was to purchase an R 65 and I found one locally. However, the seller also had a pristine K 75 for offer. I delved into the background on the two bikes and the more I read about the K 75, the more the bike intrigued me. It is a quirky bike even by BMW standards, but has a beautiful form and legendary performance. At the test ride, I asked to try the K 75 first. The minute I pressed the ignition button, I knew it was the bike I wanted. I didn’t even ride the R 65.

The flying brick has nothing in common with a 125CC Sanyang motorcycle, but somehow the K 75 brought back the same feel and vibration of my old bike in Taiwan. My mind drifted back to the memorable rides I had on Taiwan. As we wrapped up the paperwork, he shared with me his time working for an American company in Taiwan. A great conversation followed as we talked about the Taiwan we knew decades ago. I proudly told him I never had an accident while riding a motorcycle in Taiwan. He was understandably impressed.

Just as this American learned so much about Taiwan on a motorcycle, I am now an American learning more about America from the back of my K 75. I marvel at roads and countryside that I have driven many a time in a car only now reveal themselves and their beauty as my bike and I roll by. The thrill of the ride is there and I could live in no better place to ride than the Pacific Northwest. The terrain here is just as varied as what I enjoyed in Taiwan.

There is also the discovery of US riders and enjoying the social side of riding. American bikers are passionate about their ride and sharing tips on their favorite stretch of road or rally. Age has made riding a different experience, however. In Taiwan, my rides in the countryside were rough improvisations filled with whims and an aimlessness. Today, I plan trips with military precision, the aid of GPS, weather maps and itineraries down to the minute and the last ounce of gas. The ride is no longer about the thrill of man and machine chewing up the miles but a sort of meditation in motion. I seek out a sense of peace as I roll on the throttle and cut a line through turns and across sweepers. I rejoice when road, man and bike combine in a singular hum I can only liken the swing Daniel James Brown describes so elegantly in his book The Boys in The Boat.

There is a peace found in that unity and a fullness that nothing else matters until the next slingshot out of a turn. The K 75 makes that unity and the ride so easy. Like its owner, the bike is not young but the engine is strong and the bike handles with road with nimble performance. The other day, after a terrific late fall ride through Mount Rainier and Gifford Pinchot National Forest, I looked at the K 75 now parked in the garage and it struck me that the bike bore an odd resemblance to that old Puch Magnum.

We decided to do something close to home, a northern New England and Lake Placid tour on back roads. It would be a couple of days in Maine, then a loop in Vermont and a loop in upstate New York, a total of about 1,300 miles.

I had a decent bike to take, a 1998 R 1200 C. I bought it from a retired airline pilot as part of my second go-round with motorcycles in my life. I could tell Bart wanted the bike to go to a good home. Bart, if you’re reading this, you may still wonder if I got the bike safely home in the back of my small Nissan Frontier with those old kayak loading straps. Yes, it did slowly go over while I drove back, but there was no damage.

When I took it to my local shop to have Rick check it out, I told him, “You can laugh all you want after I leave.” Rick told me with a straight face, “This isn’t the first bike I’ve seen leaned over in a pickup truck.” As long as no other customers showed up in the 10 minutes I was there, I’d be OK.

I sometimes feel like an outcast with an R 1200 C, since it was until recently BMW’s only foray into combining form with function in a cruiser. It’s been a solid, fun bike with the minimum needed for short tours. I love that confused looks from Harley guys that seems to say “What the heck am I looking at?” It’s strangely a Beemer dressed up with a little chrome and some leather.

Beemer riders usually can’t help saying something like, “Hey, it’s the James Bond bike!” I didn’t know about the model’s debut in Tomorrow Never Dies when I bought it. After watching the movie again after all these years, I have to say I’m disappointed I still can’t ride like that.

For my son, we decided to go with a used G 650 GS. It was about the right physical size for him with decent but not overwhelming power. It also has ABS, heated grips and hard luggage. We got some communicators so we could talk to each other as we rode. 

The loop in Maine took us up Route 201 with some views of the Kennebec River, then crossing over to Moosehead Lake before coming back to our base at the Wilson Lake Inn in Wilton. Wilson Lake Inn has beautiful landscaped grounds with access to a small lake and kayaks. One of my son’s favorite moments on the trip happened on the lake as we paddled around relaxing after the day’s ride.

As I started to relax, thinking how great life is on a trip like this, Raymond asked me why the back of my kayak was so low in the water. Not a strong swimmer, and despite wearing a life jacket, I started a panicked paddling back to shore as my kayak filled slowly with water and then ingloriously keeled over with me nearly hyperventilating. Raymond laughed the whole way back while towing me and the kayak, and he couldn’t help but chuckle any time later in the trip when I pulled soggy dollar bills from my wallet to pay for something. “No, it’s not sweat, ma’am. I just took an unplanned trip into the lake.”

We crossed through New Hampshire to Vermont. The remote forest section we passed through in New Hampshire was beautiful and serene. Coming into northern Vermont was a change in a few ways. The weather went from sunny and in the 90s in Maine to the 50s and threatening rain in Vermont. We were prepared though, and had ridden in rain before. We loved the seemingly never-ending rolling green hills and farms. Even with an overcast day, it was a beautiful ride.

From Vermont, we took the ferry across Lake Champlain into New York to ride in the Lake Placid area. On the ferry we met a fun group of Canadian riders, the second hardy and lively group of bikers from north of the border we met on the trip. After debarking, we spent some time on routes 9N and 22.

Raymond convinced me to do the Whiteface Mountain road despite my fear of heights, and I’m glad he did. One of our favorite moments in New York was meeting a Harley couple in their early 70s at a mom-and-pop market where we stopped for lunch.

“Where you from?” I asked.

“Well, technically from Texas” he answered. “When we retired a few years ago we bought an RV and have been on the road ever since. We take the Harley on day rides wherever we camp out for a while.” We were in appreciative awe as we watched them climb back on their Harley and ride away.

After the trip, I asked Raymond what he would do different if we did a trip like this again. “I want another cylinder,” he said, and I think we can all understand that. We put the G 650 GS up for sale and he later found a used Suzuki Bandit. It’s not a Beemer but I admit it makes a great sport-touring bike. He also got a job working at Bay 4 Motorsports in the next town, so he learned even more about taking care of motorcycles that summer and helped earn money for the trip.

For our next trip the following year we decided to go a bit bigger: Nova Scotia and the Cabot Trail. It would be about 2,000 miles in 9 days through Maine, New Brunswick and Nova Scotia. We again read up and planned together on routes, times, places to stay, how to handle weather and contingencies, what we absolutely needed to bring and what we could live without.

We stayed in St. Andews in New Brunswick both ways. It is a relaxing, uncrowded town on the water with great views and walkable streets. We stayed in Moncton, New Brunswick, and had the unexpected pleasure of running into a number of cars attending the Atlantic Nationals, a huge annual auto show. We went up to Antigonish, where we had to adjust our plans a bit due to expected bad weather on Cape Breton. It turned out that the Antigonish Evergreen Inn had not only great rooms, but accommodating owners and management. I can’t say enough good things about the place.

The Cabot Trail had some construction on the west side. I thought the temporary gravel section was dicey; Raymond thought was cool. Overall it was an awesome ride. As Raymond said, “The turns just never stop!” He also somehow convinced me to go down the partial gravel roads to Meat Cove on the tip of the cape. It was well worth it for the awesome views on the Cate Breton coast and a great lobster dinner in a small camp restaurant.

In Cape North, we stayed at the Oakwood Manor Inn, an old farm nestled in the mountains with pastures, an orchard and a home with wonderful woodwork the owner’s father did with trees from the land. It was another wonderful place to stay. 

On the last day or two of our ride we were already discussing ideas for our next trip. West Virginia and Pennsylvania? Newfoundland? Quebec? Lots of time to ponder and dream. In the meantime, I continue to reflect on the enjoyable time I had with my son before he went to college on Long Island, meeting great people, and of course enjoying the ride.

Photos by Richard and Raymond Gorzela (#211652)

While riding the "New Hampster," a dirt route from NH's southern most to northern most point created by a BDR Ambassador Andrew Phillips, I came across an empty field full of trucks, trailers and dirt bikes. Our group pulled over and watched for an hour as a few dozen racers circled the track.

We asked the guy sitting in the makeshift ticket booth if this was a race and how they were running a track during COVID-19 lockdown. He explained it's his backyard and pointed to a house on the hill, saying, "That's my place and I love riding, so I built this track with my tractor."

Anyone can ride, no classes, no restrictions - just pay $25 cash, sign a waiver and you're off. Half the riders came from southern New Hampshire to practice. These semi-pro racers are like us - they have to ride but have nowhere to go. There were families, kids, women of all ages and ex-racers just working out the cobwebs after a winter that just ended here. Our leaves are three days old and there's still snow on the ground where we came from in northern New Hampshire.

The parking spots were all spaced six feet apart and no congregating was allowed. Many were wearing face-masks and the kids were all too busy chasing each other on bikes to get close. Every kid had a pit bike, e-bike or dirt bike with full gear. There was a kiddy track setup in the grass with a few dirt ramps built in for fun. I watched as a kid barely above toddler age pulled up on his handlebars of his little e-bike to get a couple of inches of air.

One week later, I showed up not knowing if the track was open because there is no website or hours posted anywhere and the field was once again full of riders from all over New Hampshire. I unloaded my enduro, which is setup like a dual sport with luggage, fuel tank and big comfy seat and realized just how painfully slow I am compared to these racers. My skills and bike choice are nowhere near the other riders. After two hours of riding on the dirt and in their single-track woods course, I settled down with my camera to take a few photos.

Everyone passed me twice at least. I passed one person, a 5-year-old on a 50 CC SSR pit bike. Yeah, I showed him!

As we got to know each other, I saw Kirk traveled with the dog while towing a trailer for his bike. Nothing unusual there. I loved the dog and when we went for a ride, he said he would take his dog along and I thought it would be interesting. The dog was ready and willing and they obviously had it down. Kirk lifted the dog (maybe 50 pounds, on the small size for that breed), and put Moca - snugly - in a woven fabric box attached to the back seat of his motorcycle.

Moca was looking forward to whatever Kirk had in mind. In the dog went, and Kirk attached a short lead to the dog as a safety precaution while assuring me it was never necessary. We were ready to go and I was amazed at the two of them. It was quite sight to see the dog looking around and ready for some sight-seeing. We had a good ride and that was the the first time I had ever seen a dog so comfortable on the back of a bike.

When I arrived at Kirk’s in Rock Island for this longer trip, I wasn’t thinking Moca would go with us with all the interstate we would be doing. I thought wrong! Moca was definitely going and would have been disappointed if we left him behind. We hit the road and I rode behind, looking on with amazement as Moca was the perfect passenger. What a sight it was watching Moca looking at all he could. Sometimes he would stick his head to the side looking for squirrels in town. Other times he would rest his chin on Kirk's shoulder to enjoy the parade of sights and sounds. I especially liked when he would look up over the rear trunk at me while blasting down the interstate to make sure I was still with them. When he got tired he would curl up in his cozy box.

Moca was as much a pleasure at our camp site as he was as a passenger. I eventually bonded with him, but he was definitely Kirk's dog. Moca hung on every move Kirk made and obeyed him to the letter. He would dismount after a ride and run around with his ball waiting for Kirk to throw it anywhere. He could have thrown it off a cliff and Moca would have gone after it. Water was not an issue, so we had fun watching him dive into the water and come up with the ball every time. When it came time for sleep, my Kompact Kamp had more than enough room for the three of us. Keeping Moca down at our feet wasn’t his preference and he would work his way up to our heads.

Moca did the Blue Ridge Parkway with us and was the perfect traveling companion on an unforgettable trip.

Instead of all I-95, I planned departure and return routes that split each direction to half highway, half secondary roads. I could do all side roads and avoid I-95 altogether, but I had a work picnic in the early afternoon to get to, so that would have to wait until another trip when I had more time. The switch point in each direction would be Fredericksburg, Virginia. Hitting the road at 7 am on Sunday, I chose highway for the first stretch hoping it would be relatively quiet. Fortunately, that was correct, and I made it to Fredericksburg at a comfortable time and relatively relaxed pace. I popped into Agora Downtown Coffee Shop after riding around a few backroads for a quick cup of cold brew. At that time, the downtown area was tranquil, and I reflected on what appeared to be a decent amount of Civil War history to learn about the area. For another trip, when I had more time.

I continued as planned for the first switch onto Route 1, finding that 55 mph sweet spot. Even though I-95 wasn't too bad in the morning, Route 1 was still a breath of fresh air. I cruised along from small town to small town, occasionally hitting stoplights, which go from a hindrance to an opportunity when you view the journey as a priority. Once in Richmond, I meandered down the unique Monument Avenue, illegally parking for a photo, naturally. I then decided to hop over towards Belle Isle and catch more views, discovering the twisty section Riverside Drive between the Robert E. Lee and Boulevard Toll Bridges. If blocked off, you could have some real fun there, but it is very residential and narrow with runners, bicyclists, and some blind corners. Under open circumstances, I didn't push it. I crossed the James River back into downtown over the Boulevard Toll Bridge, worth the 30 cent toll for a unique, older style bridge with solid views.

Photo by Jerrye & Roy Klotz, MD - Own work, CC BY-SA 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=31996448.

After spending an hour celebrating with screaming children, cute games, and a classic cake smashing mess, I returned to I-95 for a first-half highway stint towards D.C. Now in the early afternoon, I was quickly reminded of why you avoid 95 by speeds of 80+ mph, sporadic drivers, gusty wind, semi-trucks, and pockets of slowdown traffic. I still made decent time to downtown Fredericksburg where I stopped again for coffee, this time at Hyperion Espresso. Instead of taking Route 1 north on this return switch, I followed the GPS through backroads towards the picnic in Northern Virginia. I passed through many small-town/classic Americana scenes. I saw a herd of John Deere tractors neatly organized, but would have to wait for another trip when I had more time. I saw a giant 1970s style roller skate as tall as a school bus, but would have to wait for another trip when I had more time. Civil War battlegrounds, scenic bridges and waterways, farmland with crops as far as the eye can see only disrupted by a small farmhouse, paintings of pigs, cows, and American flags - but I'd have to save stopping for another trip, when I had more time.

I arrived at the picnic happy that I was able to ride so much around a busy day, but reflective on how much I still missed due to time constraints. I still had to take a major highway for half of the trip and wasn't able to stop along the slower backroads. If there's one thing I've learned from my longer adventure trips, taking quiet roads over shorter distances allows more stops, more stops allow more experiences, and more experiences allow more joy in riding. It's unfortunate that even with a ride like this where I get off the highway and hit that sweet spot of 55 mph, my schedule is still too busy to enjoy fully. Right now, I still can't really drive 55. I guess the only way to make time is to find a sweet spot for early retirement, say, 55?

Photo courtesy Virginia Department of Historic Resources, https://www.dhr.virginia.gov/historic-registers/127-0174/.

The Tuweep Wilderness is one of the most remote areas in the United States. It’s located in the Arizona Strip, an isolated region of northwestern Arizona along the North Rim of the western Grand Canyon.

The turn-off to the Tuweep Overlook is found between Colorado City and Fredonia, Ariz., along Hwy 389. (Pipe Spring National Monument is nearby.) Once you leave pavement, it’s a 70-mile ride south over an unpaved, sandy, muddy and bone-jarring road across the Great Basin Desert. The last four miles are filled with technical riding delight, even on a fully loaded GS.

Once you arrive at the Ranger Station, you must check in. During my visit, I had the pleasure to meet Stuart, the volunteer ranger working this section of the park. Stuart has been working here for more than 20 years and is a wealth of knowledge about the history and geology of the area. Tuweep Overlook is open from sunrise to sunset, with the gates closing a half hour after sunset. While there are some camping sites available, a Backcounty Permit must be obtained online prior to your visit as permits aren’t available at the ranger station.

Tuweep Overlook sits 3,000 feet above the Colorado River with the sheer drop to the river below offering a stunning view. Volcanic cinder cones and lava flows in this ancestral home of the Southern Paiute people make this area unique to this section of the Grand Canyon. Eight million years ago, molten lava erupted from hundreds of vents. Lava filled side canyons, flowed down the Grand Canyon and created huge dams across the Colorado River. Below the Overlook, on the Colorado, are the Class 10 rapids named Lava Falls. Ranked 4/10 of the world’s most notorious whitewater rapids, the thunderous roar of Lava Falls can be faintly heard from the Overlook.

Video not shot by author - just found on YouTube!

A visit to Tuweep Overlook offers the opportunity for an uncrowded, rustic and remote experience though access is challenging and demands skill at negotiating difficult roadways. Additional challenges include hot weather, monsoonal rains, summer lightning and during the winter, rain, snow and freezing temperatures. Whenever you go, be ready for quickly changing conditions. Services are non-existent—no water, gas, food, lodging or cell service. At all.

Tuweep Overlook was on my North America riding bucket list for some time, and I believe it’s well worth the effort to get there. If you plan on visiting, do your research and plan accordingly. You won’t be disappointed!

It is all in your head. Alarms go off, warning you that you cannot do this. You fight back trying to convince yourself that you actually can ride to the top of Sani Pass. It might even feel like some kind of initiation to make it to the top of Lesotho. Everyone else has already shot ahead; who are you if you don’t make it?

As the tour leader, I try to balance pressure with reality. The day we entered Lesotho from South Africa, the main purpose of the ride was to conquer Sani Pass, hopefully without causing any accidents. Two riders listened carefully to my safety-first pep talk that morning and decided to take it easy, asking to ride with me. I would rather have been playing with the faster riders that most likely had reached the top while I was coaching these two riders to stay within their limits, but this is my job.

Read the full story of Helge Pederson's Africa Adventure in the January issue of the BMW Owners News or view the full size slideshow to to see the story in pictures.

Read the full story of MOA member Chris Lesser in the February issue of the BMW Owners News or view the full size slideshow to to see the story in pictures.

Early morning departure. In bed at 9 the night before, then sleep in fits and starts. Perhaps a tree has fallen on a power line in the northwest disrupting power in the southwest. I wake, check my watch...still six hours before I leave for the airport. Relieved? Somewhat, but even more tired. Finally, finally it is up and off. I actually arrive before TSA opens the security line. No photographs, no lasting memories yet, but my journey hasn't really started. I am in the aluminum sausage at 35,000 feet winging my way eastward into the Atlantic night.

   There is only the troubled sleep of a six foot body crammed into a small space. I read somewhere that one should sleep when the sun is down, sort of a circadian rhythm thing. I am a bat flying at night...not much rest. I arrive in Barcelona on schedule and the rendezvous with my brother and his wife at the Cafe di Fiore goes without a hitch. We even have all of our checked luggage. Life is good, but I am tired. Not so sure I can trick my body; it has been over 24 hours since I lay in a real bed.

   The Rambla: this is a bucket list item. The first time I walked the Rambla was in 1970 as a very fresh Navy lieutenant (JG). Now, these many years later, it is still the same. Thousands of people of all age and description. Ice cream vendors, sidewalk hawkers, the milieu making up the Rambla. Rediscover Los Caracoles, not quite right for us. Find a good restaurant and order Paella...wow.

   Off to see Gaudi's masterpiece cathedral. Still under construction!  Then to the beach. Lunch on the beach, this is really nice. We pick up our motorcycles, and we are armed and ready to go.

   It is Friday morning. Rested, fed, and ready to ride, I feel human. First, stop for gas, an amazing quest in the city, but we finally find one after doing a bunch of "izquierda y derecho."  We navigate out of the city. The GPS is a piece of work to be sure. Totally fearless, it leads to some unnecessary directions, but eventually we escape. Many miles, now in the foot hills of the Pyrenees. We are on the green and yellow roads, that is to say the ones built before the surveyor's transit. It is kilometer upon kilometer of unending turns. Intense rhythm reminiscent of slalom skiing. We arrive in Campdevanol, a really nice hotel with an accommodating staff.

   Campdevonal is in the Pyrenees foothills. It is a small village tangential to the N152. It is early afternoon, and we encounter a group of hale and hearty Swiss motorcyclists. It is tempting to knock back some of the local cerveza. My brother and I elect to take an afternoon excursion. We pull out the Michelin Zoom map, not the book store map, and look for a devious, serpentine, green road. Our search rewarded, we remount the BMW GS motorcycles and sally forth. An hour later, we return. Holy smoley, there are no straightaways, only varying degrees of turn radius. And this is only a preview of the remaining ten days. We drink our beer, well, beers. The Swiss are still there.

   Morning, the Catalonian sun has melted away into a gray sky. We are learning the basic rule of the Pyrenees: if you can't see the top of the mountain, it is raining; if you can see the top, it will rain. Not to worry, we have our all-weather riding gear and button up. North, then at Ribes de Freser we turn northwest toward Ax les Thermes, our next haven. Warm and sunny Spain is behind us now, yet, we can still see the tops of the mountains. Growing in height, we climb and descend on increasingly higher passes. Puigcerda: we enter France and join the N20. We climb on sweeping turns that tighten as we move upward until apexing at the Col de Puymorens on the N320. We are in the high alpine region so typical of European mountains. Only the traffic mars this ride and reminds us the "N" (national) routes marked in red mean traffic.

   Ax les Thermes is a popular tourist spot and part of the Tour de France route. It is also nestled in a narrow, pretty Alpine valley and has hot springs. Dropping our gear off at our lodging, we again elect to take the afternoon excursion. The leaden skies open into a steady drizzle. We find a small cafe and stop for lunch. The rain starts. Mount up, and off again. My mid-layer is getting moist. As it turns out, I have not fully secured my jacket. A good lesson. The ride is wet and twists through the deciduous forest. Fun, but we are glad to get back to Ax les Thermes and somewhere dry. We later go to the village and discover the local street market. It is another good day.

   New morning, same gray skies. We lope westward along the north side of the Pyrenees, stopping briefly in Massat. I love these small villages. We are the aliens observing the earth people living their lives. They don't mind, actually they are indifferent to us. We continue past St. Girons and on toward Bagneres de Luchon. We are in lands similar to the Appalachians. Time for a break, we stop for lunch in a nondescript village. Pulling into a gravel parking lot, we carefully align our 600 pound bikes on the slight grade. We discover Chez Jo.

   Chez Jo is the epitome of the village restaurant inn. An elegant middle-aged woman is stacking chairs on the outer deck. No need, it will rain today. She beckons us into the old house salon. It is lush in its warmth. Regional artifacts adorn the walls, a guitar in its rack awaits the virtuoso. I offer to play “House of the Rising Sun,” but John and Brenda discourage my art with a look of constrained horror. In a form of French, we communicate our desire, and our host leaves for the kitchen. An entree of country ham and cantaloupe slices arrives, then the main plate heaped with mutton and au gratin potatoes. Could this get better?  Well, the fresh blueberry pie removes any doubt. We are warm, fed, and dry. And it is raining again.

   Did I mention the wet? My riding gear stubbornly refuses to seal. Fortunately, my companions are doing better. It is only a couple of more hours to Bagneres de Luchon, and we arrive. The rain has let up, we have a dry room, and the sun comes out. It is beautiful. The town is the nexus of bicycling. From the valley floor we look up into the high meadows and peaks. Those are ski runs!  

   Today is a big day. We are doing the five classic cols of the Tour de France. The sun is shining, our machines are ready and packed. First one then the other, the low throb of the R1200GS "wasser boxer" disrupts the morning quiet. Brenda assumes her position on the rear pillion, and after the soft thunk as we drop into first gear, we ease the clutches and move out. Mild turns and slight climbs give way to the stair stepping turns and grades. It is a synchrony of clutch, shift, throttle, brake and on and on. The sweepers are behind us, and I must perfect synchrony. Too tall a gear, a missed shift, a sloppy throttle, and I stall. The road is narrow, single lane. Close margins. I approach a tight hair pin that climbs up and right, swing a little wide, and my head turns uphill--can't stare ahead. I am in the turn, second gear, RPM at 2200, rolling on throttle, a car coming downhill slows. I straighten from the turn, a little wide on the exit but ok. Roll on throttle, prepare for next hair pin left. The road is straightening. I note the encouraging phrases painted on the pavement. I like to think they are for me, but accept this is the aerie of bicycles and montaneros. Motorcycles allowed, barely tolerated. We approach the Col de Peyresourde, and I pass bicyclists climbing an incredible grade. Descend and climb again. I summit next to the sculpture of bicyclists at the Col de Aspin. John and Brenda arrive.

   Some photos, then the comfortable throaty rumble of our engines returns. I descend, but it is a little easier. We don't lose speed in turns on descents, but this poses a new hazard of swinging wide and exiting into oncoming traffic. And then there is the manure on the road. I am in a pastoral area. Sheep, horses and cows are common on the roadway, and they mark their passage. Today is dry but still a little spooky, and I have felt the lurch as tires lose traction. Oh, this is too funny: someone has painted an image of multiple spermatozoa swimming up the mountain. Anything to encourage the bicyclists. We stop for lunch at a small cafe in the alpine valley. Start engines, climb up, go down, turn, turn...we arrive in Arette, France.

   We ride to St. Jean de Luz in the morning. It is raining. The road is slick. In the turn, a sweeper, the tires lose traction, it is so fast. I am fighting to suppress my Survival Reactions described by Keith Code. I am still up and thankful of BMW engineering. I am driving even slower, with laser focus on all road signs cautioning "slippery road."  We reach St. Jean de Luz. We are halfway through our journey.

   My brother's friends, Catherine and Truman, greet us as we arrive at their apartment. They make room for us: warm hearth, bed, and company, followed by soome great food and conversation at a nearby restaurant. Encore, one more night following a day of local riding along the Atlantic coast. It is time to return to Barcelona. We drive southeast from St. Jean de Luz, then turn east at Olague. Rolling country and forests. It is the Basque country.

   It is time to leave the valley and begin our traverse across the southern Pyrenees foot hills. We roll out of a climbing sweeper at the top of a ridge. At the crest, a parking lot with a food cart. Odd, there are people hiking across the road. We slow, stop, and park the bikes. We are in the midst of modern day pilgrims trekking El Camino de Santiago. This is an ancient road whose origins lay in the Roman times. In the ninth century it was the path home for Santiago's body, returning from Jerusalem. An amicable Australian strikes up a conversation.

   Perhaps this is a good time to reflect on our journey. It is secular, there is no spiritual basis. Yet, those who ride understand, at some point on a long ride, one finds a center. The road, the machine, the soul merge in a symphony of peaceful solitude. When we stop, we share this harmony not so much in words but in a joie de vie. We are not trekkers or pilgrims on the ancient road, but I feel we share the same inner peace.

   Isaba. A small village in the Spanish Pyrenees and a center of hiking, kayaking, and randonee in the winter. The national road bisects the town and cobbled paths lead away to secret alleys. Our lodging is deep within the ancient streets, and it is improbably modern. It is quiet. A modern complex of resort condominiums is at the eastern periphery. We convince the owner to open his bar and settle outside for our cervezas. Soon we are joined by a group of presumably German motorcyclists. It seems when we open a bottle, motorcyclists gather. I must explore this mystery.

   We continue to twist our way eastward across the supine ridges leading to faraway peaks. The country is changing and reminds me of the New Mexican Gila wilderness. An incredible formation of reddish cliffs marks our gateway into Jaca. We have a great lunch and a stroll on the local rambla, resplendent with shops, people, and music, then move on to our night's lodging in Villanua. The day is still young, the sun is shining, and we need some more turns before calling it a day. So off to the summit at Candanchu, which is also a large ski area.

   A new day, we are blessed with sun. The Aragon sky is azure and pleasantly cool. Heading south on the N330, we intercept the N260. It is an incredible road of changing conditions, canyons, and, yes, more twisties. To the west of Ainsa, we enter a narrow valley enclosing a ghost town. We stop and look at Janovas, empty structures, a single lane bridge leading into it. Seems like something from a Hemingway novel. We continue.

   Beyond Ainsa, a return to twisting single lane roads. My brother cuts in on a switch back only to encounter a tour bus, which obligingly slows to let him pass. It is close, and the driver honks. Earlier, I have had my moment by not fully slowing for a 30 kmh limit only to swing wide on a blind curve. Memo to self: You can only push these things so far. We arrive in Forcat.

   Forcat is not a village, it is more like a group of farm houses alongside the main highway. A dog barks as we drive up the access road and park. A middle-aged woman, Alicia, greets us. My high school Spanish falters, but we introduce our selves. Her daughter, Lydia, saves me...she is fluent in English. It is a rural, like a bed and breakfast. Incredible find, how my brother found it remains a mystery. Dinner at 8:30, and the day is young. We explore the Parc de Pyrenees and discover a huge dam in the high Alpine valley. Only one more stop, La Seu D'Urgell awaits us with one way streets and street dancing. Food choices are limited, and we end up eating a gyro. It is the worst food of the trip.

   Off to Barcelona via the Caldi tunnel. Normally we would avoid long tunnels, but it is clearly the best route. We emerge at the south portal, and voila, a beautiful descent through a high valley. We near Barcelona, and before us are the saw tooth spires of Montserrat. Brenda takes over navigation, and we enter the park. It is a worthwhile excursion. After a short visit, we continue to Barcelona. We find the rental agency without a hitch. Our journey complete, we prepare for an early morning departure.

   I am back on the plane with the sun at my back. The unending day.  It feels as if this journey has yet to begin, but it is past. I am left with memories, photos, and an insatiable desire for the next journey. It is why I ride.

  Fast forward 40 years, past the formation of the Environmental Protection Agency, the Desert Tortoise decision and wilderness designation on much of the desert itself, and you wind up with today’s “race,” the AMA District 37 LA-Barstow-to-Vegas. It’s the “most famous and longest two-day Dual Sport ride in the world.” The ride is now in its 30th year, and is a huge success for both desert racers and environmentalists.

  Starting in Palmdale, California, located in the high desert north of Los Angeles, riders start out in a controlled fashion, each choosing to follow their choice of “easy” (for large adventure bikes) or “hard” routes, for experienced riders only. The promoter said that on the hard route it was possible that the jugs could get ripped right off your “adventure” bike. Ha! There were a number of BMWs in the event, and most chose the sane option for this class of bike. But not Brian Englund, James Valentine and Landon Norman. Oh, no… they’re going to do the hard course on an R1200GS, an F800GS and a darned-near-new R1200 ADV LC. Nuts.

Art of the Possible

  Brian said it best: “Difficulty is a relative measurement, and I don’t need easy. I just need possible. For the ride itself, words cannot adequately describe the terrain for someone who hasn’t been there. Some of the horror stories are overblown, and some are true. It’s hard —sometimes almost insanely so — but the true challenge is the marathon aspect of the ride. Terrain that was simple at the outset is increasingly difficult eight plus hours later. The variety spans the spectrum from deep, soft sand on giant whoops, packed dirt, dirt with large rocks, loose large rocks, and rock and sand crap in Last Chance Canyon that is probably at the outer limits of the R1200GS’s capability.”

  One interesting development is a blend of Social Media, GPS, cellular data and satellite maps that made it possible for many other interested riders to follow the riders on the course. The event ran during the Thanksgiving weekend, giving MOA and GS Giant member Jeff Kurtz the ideal opportunity to follow and report on the ride from his warm bedroom in Indiana. Hundreds of others followed along online as they digested their turkey and stuffing leftovers, enjoying over a thousand posts by Jeff and others containing GPS locations on satellite imagery and even posts from the riders themselves, many showing their motorcycles in rather interesting positions. It was a tremendously entertaining show.

Oh-Dark-Thirty

  Tech inspection for the ride started at 6 a.m. sharp, so this clearly called for waking up at 2:03 am. Race day jitters… what are those? Brian posted, “Damn James and I with our military issue requirement to be early! We both fell victim to years of military conditioning, demanding that we show up early for first formation. Neither of us can turn it off. We’re hard-wired that way now.” The tech guys took one look at the BMWs and gave them only a cursory glance. OK, now *three* hours until the start… what are we going to do? Plenty of socializing, meeting and greeting ensued, calming the nerves and defining the strategy. Knowing each team members’ location during a ride is essential, so James, Landon and Brian installed “Real Time GPS Tracker” apps on their smartphones. They shared their usernames with Jeff so that he could capture images and post to the GS Giants Facebook group.

  An epic online thread ensued, with hundreds of posts and a whole bunch of friends discussing the action. The GPS images made it clear to see the hard sections… as the app (and their SPOT receivers) regularly uploaded location data. The closer together the data points, the slower the going for the riders. Red Rock Pass generated a huge blob of data points.

  Between images of location, terrain, and bikes on their side, shot and posted by the riders themselves, as well as all the messaging going on between them and all of the comments from the peanut gallery, everyone had a great time!

This Could Go On Forever

  It was truly an adventure. Falling. Fuel injection problems. Bent nerf bars. Fuel consumption rates. iTunes breakdowns. Flat tires. Broken windscreens. Lost. Dark. By 8 p.m.-ish the riders (except for Brian, who ran out of fuel) were in Barstow for the night, chowing down on the hotel buffet. As he waited for the sweeper who came four hours later, Brian sat in the cold, dark desert, sucking on his hydration bladder and munching on the half-Subway sandwich he saved from lunch. Grasping at any wisp of a cell phone signal, a quick text to James and Landon resulted in a reply containing a photo of their beer. Racing can be so cruel.

  Well, it really isn’t racing, but the open-desert hard course lived up to its reputation, and the pace was quite brisk. James and Brian struggled mightily with their 1200s and Landon did admirably with his F8. There were a number of other BMWs in the ride. MOA members Roger and Carla Norman (Landon’s mom and dad) rode the easy course. There was a sweet R80G/SPD, and a bevy of other beemers taking in the fun.

  The pictures really do tell the story here (especially the Vegas dancers at the finish line). This event is legendary adventure riding fun, but it really isn’t for beginners. However, there are opt-out sections to avoid the harder parts of the easy route, so it’s not all that bad. This was the first time the three had ridden together, and it was great fun seeing them become friends.

  Word is there’s a competition team forming within the GS Giants, and there are opportunities for racers as well as us old whitebeard adventurers to serve as their pit crew and other support services. Interested? Check out the latest news at www.gsgiants.com

I never thought that I'd say this, but the New York City skyline looks great...in my mirror. The Gotham of my childhood dreams, the city that never lets me sleep is at once invigorating and exhausting. It doesn't help that work is crazy intense. "Work hard. Play hard," they say. It's a common refrain among my friends. Some unwind in the late nightclubs and bars of the city, others with meditation or a spa day. Me, I ride.

After a delayed start, we take the standard escape route through New Jersey and are soon in the wilds of Sussex County among rolling hills, winding roads, and pristine reservoirs. We are still so close to New York yet already so far away. Greenwood Lake's shore is crowded with cottages but it's nothing like the Apple.

Soon we're in Harriman State Park, a popular destination for day-trippers. Many head up to Bear Mountain for the scenic view, but we head east.

"Hey, watch it!" nineT exclaims.
"Woah!"
"You OK?"
"Yeah, sorry. I'm just distracted."
"That's not a good thing to be while you're riding."
"Yeah, you're right."
"What's going on with you?"
"Work."
"Of course."
"Actually, it's good news...I'm in line for a promotion."
"Cool!"
[flatly] "Thanks."
"You don't sound so happy."
"I...I...I am."
"Really?"
"....Yes. The promotion includes an office, more money, and more responsibility, but..."
"But what?"
"...but less time to ride."
Do you even like what you do?
"..."
"There's your answer right there."

We ride past West Point to the scenic overlook at Storm King where we watch the mighty Hudson River wind its way down to the city. Somewhere downriver is the source of my existential crisis. We head upriver, farther and farther away.

After lunch outdoors in Cornwall-On-Hudson at the Hudson Street Cafe, we wind our way up to Poughkeepsie to the Walkway Over the Hudson State Historic Park.

Over a mile long and over 200 feet above the Hudson River, the Poughkeepsie-Highland Railroad Bridge was built in 1888 to carry trains. But times change, and other bridges and the interstates were built, and manufacturing began to leave the region, reducing the need for the bridge. Eventually, the bridge was abandoned. Then something funny happened–where others saw scrap metal, some locals saw beauty and a connection to the region's industrial past. They saved the bridge and turned it into the pedestrian walkway that it is today.

"The view up here is spectacular. "
"Yeah isn't it? I feel like I'm flying," says nineT.
"It's a long way down though."
"There's a metaphor in there somewhere, Icarus."
"How'd I end up with such a philosophical motorcycle?"

We head to New Paltz and points beyond. Somewhere west of town we stumble upon a little-known gem. Years ago, a man cleared a small field in the woods and began collecting the massive root systems of giant redwood trees. He'd have them transported from California to this field where they are displayed like abstract organic wood sculpture. They are at once beautiful and exotic.

"Look at these roots! These trees must have been huge!"
"Have you seen the Redwoods?" asks nineT.
"No."
"What are you waiting for? They won't be around forever."
"Actually, they've been around for thousands of years..."
"...more to the point, you won't be around forever..."

We continue west, up over the ridge to a panoramic view of the Catskills, rolling hills stretching to the horizon and dotted with quirky towns, picturesque reservoirs, and quiet backroads zigging and zagging through a blanket of thick woods. We dive in headfirst and dance, hand working clutch, throttle and front brake, feet working shifter and rear brake in a fluid, mechanical choreography.
The thick woods give way to a broad expanse of water resting beneath a big sky. The Ashokan Reservoir is one of the largest reservoirs in the New York City water supply system, the water eventually making its way into the taps and fountains and bagels and pizzas of my adopted home. It seems like I can't escape the Big Apple.

With temperatures dropping as quickly as the sun, we make our way north and end up in the small town of Roxbury and our evening oasis, The Roxbury Motel, where each room is designed with a unique theme. The Shagadelic Room is inspired by Austin Powers, Tony's Dancefloor has a working disco ball over the bed, the Genie's Bottle makes you feel like you’re in a bottle, and more. It's like an adult funhouse motel. We celebrate a great day's riding with a martini and a fine dinner before retiring for the night.

"You asleep yet?" asks nineT.
"No."
"What's keeping you up?"
"My friends. They just don't get it."
"What?"
"This. Riding a motorcycle. Seeing the world."
"I wouldn't exactly call Roxbury, NY, the world."
"Yeah, but you know. I think I got the bug. My friends, on the other hand, they're going to do just what's expected of them; they're going to party in New York in their 20s, climb the career ladder, then get married in their 30s, have a kid or two, and then move out to the 'safety' of the suburbs and live the same life that they tried to escape."
"And what's wrong with that?"
"Nothing, I guess...for them. But the closer I get to that path the more I think that it's not for me."
"And the more you feel like an alien in the big metropolis."
"Exactly."
"So what are you going to do?"
"Right now I'm going to try to sleep."

Rebound

We ride into a new morning, bracing against the overnight chill still hiding in valleys and basking on stretches already kissed by the sun. We stop at Bread & Breakfast and have coffee in an old caboose.

"Crazy to think that this was once an old caboose."
"This trip's been filled with stories of reinvention and renewal," notes nineT.
"It has?"
"Yup. They've been staring you right in the face...the Walkway Over the Hudson State Historic Park, the Redwood roots, and The Roxbury last night. Those two guys left behind their jobs in New York City, found an old building in a quiet Catskills town, and have followed their own drummer to create a unique motel and something uniquely theirs. Sound familiar?"
"But I'm too young to be reinvented, to young to be renewed!"
"That's what you think. You're no spring chicken anymore."

Refilled, we make a beeline for Pepacton Reservoir. NY30 shadows the reservoir like a contour line on a topographic map, sketching long, sweeping arcs into the earth. The road crosses a long, flat bridge over to the other side of the Reservoir about halfway down. We stop to admire the view.

"What are you doing?" asks nineT.
"I'm holding out my arms and looking towards the heaven for divine inspiration."
"You look like an idiot."
"It's not cinematic?"
"Not in the least."

We run the final length of NY30, following the southern shore of Pepacton. The road climbs, dips, and soars in a series of fast, third gear bends cut through the thick trees. We push the pace to the edge of what is safe and socially responsible, nineT roaring with delight at every corner exit, howling with glee at every redline. We barely see the reservoir but we know it's there. At this pace, nothing but our velocity and trajectory matter–not the city, not the job, not the stress, not the past, not the future. All that exists is the next apex and I feel alive. I feel free.

We stop for gas south of Downsville and afterwards take the pace down considerably as we explore the New York side of the Upper Delaware River along one-lane bridges and gravel, chip-sealed, and frost-heaved roads. I'm lost in my thoughts again as nineT patiently putters along.

We detour to the Roebling Bridge, crossing the Delaware River into Pennsylvania. It's a bridge today but was originally an aqueduct carrying coal barges from Pennsylvania across the river and destined for the Hudson River Valley. Twenty years after designing this bridge, John A. Roebling went on to design the Brooklyn Bridge.

We make our way down NY97 to the famous Hawk's Nest, known as much these days for the way that the road clings precariously to the side of a mountain as it is for the fact that hawks nest here. It's a funky stretch of pavement that flicks left and right in rapid succession along the edge of the precipice. Speed is restricted, and that's just as well; it's a long way down to the Delaware River if you make a mistake.

"You would think that if you've seen one scenic overlook you've seen them all. But I never tire of these views."
"Me neither."
"What is it about them?"
"I don't know. Maybe they remind us how wondrous the world is?"
"Maybe they give us perspective?”
 "Where next?" asks nineT.
"We'll make our way down 97 to Port Jervis, and then hit some of the sweet county roads in New Jersey before heading back to the city."
"That's not what I meant."
"Huh?"
"Where next for you? You going to take the job?"
"I don't know. I've got some more thinking to do."

We cross back into New Jersey and savor the final miles of Sussex County along county roads that follow the contours of the land. We eventually join 80 for the final, boring, stressful  stretch. The interstates plunge headlong over/across/up whatever is in front of them but there's something missing in all of that startling efficiency. Something's disconnected. Something's not right. But they are symbols of our modern times and most stick to their straight and soulless paths.

The New York City skyline grows in my visor...

The original route ran through Salt Lake City, then across the western desert, entering Nevada near Ibapah. Today, the Pony Express trail looks very much as it did 154 years ago (or even 1500 years ago): vast expanses of open terrain, jagged peaks, remote springs, and desert wildlife. Thousands of square miles of primal landscape.

Concurrently, and for years after the demise of the Pony Express, the Overland Stage followed the trail for cross-country passenger travel. It was this route that 25 year old Mark Twain (Samuel Clemens) took via the Overland Stage in August of 1861. He chronicled his adventures in Roughing It, his second novel. The novel was a romantic, humorous, and often too matter-of-fact recollection of his stagecoach trip from St. Joseph, Mo., to Carson City, Nev., in the blistering summer of '61 with his brother Orion Clemens, the newly appointed Secretary for the Governor of the Nevada Territory.

Our modern day intrepid group of riders followed the trail, as best they could, from Salt Lake City to Ibapah in the August of 2014. The trip was not made in the sweltering, blazingly hot weather Twain experienced, but in dramatic, lightning-fisted, monsoon storms where floodwater was the antagonist.

The team was Matt on his 800GS, Suzan on her F650, Tom on his R1200GSA, and Annie in the gear-laden FJ Cruiser support vehicle. Although they had all travelled this route before, the weather made this trip an entirely different experience.

Mark Twain:
I left Great Salt Lake a good deal confused as to what state of things existed there—and sometimes even questioning in my own mind whether a state of things existed there at all or not...we had learned that we were at last in a pioneer land, in absolute and tangible reality.

And now we entered upon one of that species of deserts whose concentrated hideousness shames the diffused and diluted horrors of Sahara—an "alkali" desert. For sixty-eight miles there was but one break in it.

Mark Twain:
—but now we were to cross a desert in daylight. This was fine—novel—romantic—dramatically adventurous—this, indeed, was worth living for, worth traveling for! We would write home all about it.

Mark Twain:
This enthusiasm, this stern thirst for adventure, wilted under the sultry August sun and did not last above one hour. One poor little hour—and then we were ashamed that we had "gushed" so. The poetry was all in the anticipation—there is none in the reality. Imagine a vast, waveless ocean stricken dead and turned to ashes; imagine this solemn waste tufted with ash-dusted sage-bushes; imagine the lifeless silence and solitude that belong to such a place …

At the peak, there were some 184 stations on the route. The distance between each was how far a good pony could gallop, depending on terrain, that being between 5 and 25 miles (8-40 km). Each rider put in about 75 miles (121 km) a day.

One of the owners of the Pony Express company, the Central Overland California and Pikes Peak Express Company (the Mayflower movers of the day), was devoutly religious man. He made sure that each rider was issued a Bible to fortify courage and nerves to endure the ride through dangerous country of often frustrated aboriginals, armed bandits, deadly blizzards, relentless rain and mud, and lethal heat.

Mark Twain:
... there is not a living creature visible in any direction whither one searches the blank level that stretches its monotonous miles on every hand; there is not a sound—not a sigh—not a whisper—not a buzz, or a whir of wings, or distant pipe of bird—not even a sob from the lost souls that doubtless people that dead air.

Mark Twain:
Two miles and a quarter an hour for ten hours—that was what we accomplished. It was hard to bring the comprehension away down to such a snail-pace as that, when we had been used to making eight and ten miles an hour. When we reached the station on the farther verge of the desert [Callao/Willow Springs], we were glad, for the first time, that the dictionary was along, because we never could have found language to tell how glad we were, in any sort of dictionary but an unabridged one with pictures in it.

As appreciative as Mark Twain was for the end of the day's adventure, the team feels worn and in need of food and rest. They head into the Deep Creek Range west of Callao and find a lovely plateau overlooking the immense breadth of the western desert. The team poles up tents, collect firewood, concoct evening refreshments, fire up the stove and begin cooking.

Day 1

Annie
I loved how we hung in there with plans for doing the trip, in spite of huge storms in the area. Intent on pulling it off, we NOAA'd, watched radar tracks, and heard the massive downpour from the comfort of our beds Friday night ‘til the wee hours of Saturday morning. I was grateful to be inside, aware of how brutal that deluge would be in a tent. Little did we realize how Nature's forces would affect our journey, where flash floods raged and blasted through areas of the route. We would be so thankful for the timing and kindness of the weather-gods.

Saturday morning, with the clearing confirmed, the committed crew gathered up at 10 a.m at Suzan and Matt's in Salt Lake City. We cut due west over to Faust with the first photo op on that dirt road. Then we were off onto the Pony Express route. We stopped where the pavement ended and the fun began.

Crossing over Lookout Pass, we got our first taste of the road and land being affected by the volume of water it had seen in last 24+ hours. Since there had been a recent fire there, charcoaled rivlets carved into the gullies, making the already stark and naked landscape more sensual, even more contrasted: black on red on white and gray. Nostrils filled with the intense smells of forest fire. It was strangely delicious. Evoked by the wetness, scents were emboldened.

I was following the three bikes and began to dare to shoot pics while driving. I felt my view was too good to let awesome opportunities pass. This was fun.

Suzan
The road has changed over the years and you never know what to expect. This year was mud, washed out roads, water pools, green plains, beautiful flowers. The last time I was on the road, it was 100 plus degrees and traditional desert. My experience level the first time I ventured out was beginner. If I had tried to ride the road this year with that level, I would not have made it. I was blown away by the washouts and pleased that I made it 19 miles without crashing, although there were a few narrow escapes. I was a much stronger rider after this ride.

Annie
We stopped in Simpson Springs for lunch and all the historic photo ops. The day was rare for August, with cool temperatures and rolling clouds. Shadows crept over and hugged the ranges and little buttes. I was following, and pictures were begging to be made: the vast and great wide open, freeing the heart and mind and matter. Out there is beyond words. Only rhythm. Boundless current. 

The three had stopped ahead, and it took a moment for me to see the magnificent wild mustangs getting some real estate between them and us as they funneled away into the distance. Luckily, the long camera lens could still bring them in. Tom took time to capture them, but only how he ever would...a respectful beholding. Through the camera were sacred moments, strong and wild herd of horses, roaming as they have for centuries, though not native here. Long may they endure.

Suzan
Wild horses – It always feels like the Wild West on this road, and I always see the horses. The herds tend to hang around Simpson Springs and like to run as you get close. I like the painted horses the best.

The long straight stretches of road made me think of an old western, riding off into the sunset. It made me smile.

Annie
Leaving there, I went ahead for a photo shoot. Tom wanted photos of the riders with the long and open road fading to the horizon. No problem, plenty of that available. 
The next pass, I went ahead, where there were some nice “S” turns down the west side. I pulled over, climbed up, sat on a rock and steadied myself, waiting. Heard the motors coming and blasted off some shots. I had to shoot fast as they moved into and out of the frame quickly. 

Annie
We came up to the geode beds and the big lonely “alien” rock that Suzan needed to climb. We found skulls, a molting lizard, and cool rocks. 

Annie
Back on the trail and to Fish Springs, where the oasis did not disappoint. Flowing steppes of grasses, solid, but appearing like a river of greens, alternating darks to light, to dark. Sunflowers, birds and crickets. Glorious. Exotic. Precious.

The motorcyclists stop near the wreckage of what appears to be a blown-apart and bullet-riddled school bus. Any chance for a photo-op and they are on it. There appears a young woman nearby, walking towards the west, alone, carrying only a small backpack. Matt asks if she is "OK," she gives a thumbs-up.

Annie
Fish Springs’ Hitchhiker Girl: Julie. She was on a "walkabout," if you ask me. A more primal, trusting way of moving in the world. She might have made her destination afoot by next morning, but her hitchhiked ride with me in the truck may have gotten her to her friends by midnight. She was a beauty, light poured from her eyes. She is touched and has become the essence of the land out here, has her sense of place in this world, and it is that place. Surely, one of the most remote locations a young biologist could sign onto; she could not love it more. 

I offered her my sweatshirt as she had only a tank top, shorts, and backpack on. She said she'd be fine. Somehow, I had to agree. She surely was. I reflected on if I had followed my heart at that time in my life.

She was on her way to the "peacock palace," out there south of Boyd Station. Her friends have peacocks, guinea hens, gardens, and Home; out there beyond ideas of urban sprawl. Julie plans to find land there too, once she pays off her $15,000 in student debt.

Suzan
The hitchhiker that Annie picked up is worth discussing. Annie agrees to take her to Boyd’s Crossing. The three of us on the motorbikes are uneasy about this odd girl and Tom proceeds to follow Annie closely. He must have been going 70 mph; who knows what is in the backpack? At Boyd’s Crossing around 5 o’clock, the hitchhiker is dropped off. It is miles to the Peacock Palace. I wonder if she will walk through the night. Does she have matches to light a fire? She says she does this often. I picture this girl being my daughter, and I am anxious for her. Relying on strangers in the desert to transport her, the elements, the animals, and the night cold. I can’t imagine doing this.

Annie
Then to camp in the Yosemite-like Deep Creeks. Remote, wild, quiet, so very special. 

Suzan
The Deep Creek Range mountains are a hidden gem. I had passed by them before, but had never taken a moment to get close to them and look around. Hiking along the ridge of our campsite, I found pools of water that looked like birdbaths. I thought it was amazing that two days after a rainstorm, in the desert, there were still pools of water sitting atop rocks. The mountain profile looks like a national park with impossibly tall peaks, rounded granite faces, and deep green valleys. The variety of plant life was impressive, and the numerous groups of plantings appeared to be arranged by a professional gardener.

Camping in the desert – Motorcycle camping is for the young, the poor, and the extremely adventurous, I am the latter. After collecting firewood out of a small ravine, we had enough to build an impressive fire for many hours. We set up camp, Annie made a fabulous dinner of guacamole and turkey burritos (but we forgot the tortillas), and we drank margaritas as the sun went down. The stars were brighter than I had ever seen and with the fire, it felt like we should be dancing around it like wild natives. After a long day, my tent and sleeping bag felt like a four star hotel.

Annie
The Galaxi tent by Nemo. Perfectly named, a bedded window to the world...where far, far beyond what my eyes can see this universe continues to unfold. But I did wake often and welcomed the magnificent clear night into my sweet and modest slumber place. Oh to live this way? How tenderly could my heart feel, how aware could I become, when every breath nearly forgets to exhale, in witness to this sacred night.

I want to live like this: adventure, love, margaritas, sacred night, and mystical blessed morning. Then...more adventure.

Day 2

All peaceful, quiet, holy, in this place. Waking often through the night, opening the shutters of my pupils to take it in. Always checking the eastern horizon, then, a scarlet glow begins to break the surface of the day. Still, serene silence pounds on the inner ear. 

First sounds from any of the locals is precisely, directly and unmistakably, the very instant when sunlight pours through an opening in the long cloud hugging the distant eastern range. From my spot on the rock, the morning chant of pinyon jays encircle our camp as they fly back and forth singing, "Hooray, another day to play!" Exactly. 

Camp was quickly disassembled and onto our steeds and wagons were loaded. I went ahead and looked back to confirm my crew. My new learned practice immediately took effect; I can now quickly stop, turn off engine, set gear and brake, grab camera, and position myself to capture the splendid moments of three friends, three easy riders, descending from on high, or out across the landscape. 

Kissing the morning breeze, and with smiles and good feelings, we coasted down to the aptly named Tom's Creek to play for a moment. Before taking to the road home, Suzan and Matt took turns blasting through the stream. -Annie

The streams that run from the valleys were cold and clear. I had some fun and drove my motorcycle through and gave the bike a needed wash. -Suzan

Venturing home, we pointed ourselves northward, back past Callao, leaving the lovely and grand Deep Creeks in the rear view. After a left onto the Old Lincoln Hwy, following the Pony Express trail, we quickly came upon the evidence of Nature's movie that had played out two nights prior. I was leading the team and drove up to a great swath of mud and rock that had flowed like a river, much beyond the bounds of the desert wash. Since it wasn't clear whether it was safe to proceed, I stopped to walk the newly deposited rocky 'road'.

Annie
We decided we were fine to pass on through. That was only the first of many, many challenging passages on this day's journey where the flash flood had rearranged an otherwise graded scenic byway through Overland Canyon. Repeatedly, Nature reclaimed her path, her choice of waterway. It was satisfying to know that man's carved road could so easily be disrupted, back to what is natural. However hard on those riders, I could tell were having a blast dancing through the rocks, ruts, mud, and crevices. They probably gained some new found skills and surely should have all gotten their BMW backroad byway badges. 

The Canyon Station, built in 1861, was located northwest of this site in Overland Canyon. It was the simplest constructed log house, stable, and a dugout kitchen. In July, 1863, aboriginals killed the Overland agent and four soldiers and burned the station. The 1863 Overland Station was a more defensible location, being a stone fortress. It did not have a roof so defenders could leap or climb over the wall and fire through the rifle ports.

Annie
Coming out to the welcomed blacktop, then north on Ibapah road through gorgeously pleasurable rolling hills and softened buttes. We stopped to set up for a "photo op." This stretch of road could easily fill a day taking profoundly beautiful photographs. Subtle, remote, empty, full, rich, and encapsulatingly exquisite.

Annie
No ride here would ever be complete without a stop to the Hat Tree. Now morphing into hats-and-other-objects tree, but happily standing out in on otherwise lonely road. This was the official end of our pilgrimage, save the Salt Flats. 

Suzan
The Hat Tree - a monument to silliness. A lone pine on the side of the road that now holds hundreds of hats, jackets, gloves, boots, underwear, beads and bracelets. Tom gave me a hat to throw and we played Frisbee with the wind trying to get it to stay. Tom was smart and brought a piece of rope and tied it and a rock to his hat. It is now nestled in a top branch. Annie gave the tree a beautiful purple beaded bracelet, while Matt brought a Canyons' ski resort visor. 

I wonder who started the tree? Do people see the tree and come back again to donate? Does the tree ever get cleaned up? Would the hitchhiker Annie picked up wish she would pass that tree and grab a jacket?

Suzan
Salt Flats – It was an ocean. I had never seen the salt flats that close up and was shocked there was a foot of water covering the area in my view. There was no way to see the groomed track due to the water. Another day.

Annie
Salt flats and ride home. We made it through. Happily satisfied, grateful for our safe return, deeper in awe of the western desert and her secrets, tired, but overall so much more rich in heart and spirit, history and respect; we embraced goodbye, looking forward to the next ride.

The privilege we open ourselves to, when a part of the flow.

Suzan
The tarmac –10 minutes into the ride back to Salt Lake City on I-80, I decided I would rather have gone home by retracing my steps. After having a great ride on dirt road, taking our time, stopping to smell the roses, it was a harsh reality to deal with semi-trucks! The speed limit increased to 80, and with the side winds, I had a hard time at 70. Just as I got comfortable, the wind would give me a nice slap on the face and remind me that it was in charge. 

At the first rest stop I could find, I went and laid on the grass and tried to catch my breath. Matt took the lead after that so I could watch him be blown over first and then I could brace myself for impact. I love the dirt even more now. 

Box Score
Total distance of route (MO to CA)

1900 miles (3100 km)

Number of days for delivery, coast to coast

10

Cost to mail 1/2 oz letter

$5, eventually to $1 at end ($26 in today's $)

·Number of stations (swing and home)
·Existing station ruins
·184
·50

Number of miles between stations and fresh horses
5 - 25 (8 - 40 km)
Number of miles riders rode in a day (distance between "home stations")
75 (121 km)

Longest single rides
· "Pony Bob" Haslam rode 380 miles (610 km)
· Jack Keetley rode non-stop 340 miles (550 km) in 31 hours (arrived at his final stop asleep in the saddle)
· William C. “Buffalo Bill” Cody rode 322 miles in 21 hours and 40 minutes using 21 horses(Cody was prone to exaggeration)

Number of Express riders employed
120

Number of support personnel
400

Number of Express riders in the saddle at any time
80

Number of horses
400

Maximum weight of pouch (mochila)
20 pounds (9.1 kg)

Speed of ponies @ fast trot to canter

@ full gallop

· 10 to 15 miles per hour (16 to 24km/h)

· 25 miles per hour (40km/h)

Pay for Pony Express Rider

$50 - 125 month

Fastest delivery (Lincoln's inauguration news)

7 days, 17 hours

Typical delivery time via ship or stagecoach

6-8 weeks

Longest delivery time (delayed due to Paiute War)

2 years

Number of miles per gallon on the trail

Suzan's F650: 110

Matt's 800GS: 72

Tom's R1200GSA: 58

Annie's FJ: 18

Rachel, a vivacious and ever-cheerful woman, grew up around motorcycles; her father, mother, grandparents and assorted uncles rode regularly, and it was only natural that Rachel began riding dirt bikes at an early age. Since her father ran a motorcycle shop, coming by a properly-sized starter bike was easy for Rachel. When Rachael began her studies at the University of Georgia, she obtained her motorcycle endorsement and commuted to classes on her first street bike, a BMW F650. Later, her regular ride was a ’92 BMW R100 with the seat replaced by a wooden, towel-wrapped board, an effective if not particularly comfortable way to reduce seat height. Her rides today are a work-in-progress 1954 R51/3, and a nice Ducati Monster. In years past, Rachael became acquainted with Dennis Kanderis, a local BMW legend wh,o has since passed away. Hanging around his Cumming, Georgia shop, Rachel found within herself a desire to become a mechanic, or as we say today, a technician. Dennis was most helpful, and not only mentored her as an apprentice technician in his shop but suggested she attend American Motorcycle Institute in Daytona (now WyoTech) and obtain a certification for one or more makes.

Wes’ parents were firmly set against motorcycles; various family members had suffered motorcycle crashes in the past and, therefore, Wes was forbidden to own a motorcycle. So, of course, he secretly bought a Yamaha YZ80 and stored it at a cooperative neighbor’s house. Wes would regularly sneak off from home and ride the YZ in the dirt, and return home dirty, battered and bruised. He would tell his parents he’d been riding his bicycle. An XR250 Honda replaced the Yamaha; later, his first BMW, a ’77 R100, cemented Wes’ relationship with the German marque.

As a younger man, Wes attended Auburn University, majoring in mechanical engineering. However, Wes left school before completing his degree. He moved to Atlanta and worked at various punk rock bars as ‘security’ – Wes is of a size, and I suspect he had little trouble keeping order at punk bars – as well as occasionally tending bar himself. Wes is an adventurous and universally competent fellow; he has taught rock climbing to inner-city youths and toured down to the south end of Mexico via motorcycle. In addition, he is a volunteer firefighter and paramedic. He traveled in the former Soviet Union as a teenager and has worked on concert festivals for the Harley-Davidson Motor Company.

During a stint at one particular such punk-rock nightclub, Wes met Rachel, who was keeping bar. Rachael and Wes discovered their mutual love of motorcycles and a relationship was born. Remembering Dennis Kanderis’ advice, they enrolled at AMI together and finished with certifications in BMW and Ducati.

“It could have gone either way,” both Rachel and Wes agreed, when asked why they decided to open an independent repair shop, instead of taking a steady job at a BMW retailer’s service department. Most dealers are always looking for competent and trained technicians, and it would have likely been possible for both Rachel and Wes to hire on with a dealer that handles both BMW and Ducati.

We really backed into the business; it grew organically, all by itself,” Rachel commented, “We had no business plan and no real idea what we were going to be doing.” But, using a two-bay garage donated by Rachel’s father, Tim Hill, Apex Cycles came to life of necessity and customer demand.

“As soon as we opened, we were busy from the first job we took in, and it’s never let up. We started in 2003, and 11 years later, we’re still backlogged and booked well in advance.” Several years later, they bought a beautifully sited home near Tim Hill’s place, and built a three-story workshop a stone’s throw from their new home. For over a decade, their business has kept both of them spinning wrenches, sometimes until the wee hours. Customers come to Apex Cycles strictly by word of mouth, and so far, it’s kept the work-lifts full, with a motley moto-collection awaiting for a project to begin, or for repairs and restorations, all languishing in the basement storage area. Since the house and business are adjacent, the business seems to demand attention nearly 24 hours a day; “We get customers and freight trucks at all hours of the day and often at night. The trucks bring projects from as far away as California and New York as well as all of the Southeast, and the trucks take someone’s new dream back to an excited owner.”

Apex Cycles inherited many special tools from Dennis Kanderis when he closed his shop, and has added a full range of tools needed for fabrication as well as normal BMW and Ducati repairs. Wes is an accomplished welder and is competent with all types of welding machines and the different metals. The shop sports an ultrasonic parts cleaner, useful for breaking up rock-hard varnish deposits in neglected, unloved carburetors, an old but precise lathe, a complex milling machine, a plasma cutter and much more. Wes has made a variety of special tools and jigs, can deal with any Airhead component, and can even rebuild final drive units up to and including the 1150cc Oilhead Boxers.

Wes says; “I love metal working, machining, anything creative that can be done in some kind of metal.” Wes used to do all his own head work. Recently, Wes established a relationship with a new mentor, NASCAR’s Bill Elliott’s legendary former intake specialist. This fellow, who wishes anonymity, now does all of the head work for Apex, and adds a higher level of expertise to the critical cylinder-head modifications for various engine builds, including complex five-angle valve-cutting, valve-seat and guide installations, and custom porting and polishing. In addition, repairs such as restored exhaust-spigot threads and new sparkplug threads can be accomplished. It’s likely that no finer head work can be found in North America.

The basement storage area is also the machine shop, and room is being made for a roller-drum dynamometer. A fully ventilated and filtered professional paint booth is under construction; Apex also deals with a powder-coating specialist to match stock or custom colors. Wes is building his pin striping skills, and may someday add that service to Apex’ repertoire.

Asked which build was their proudest accomplishment, Wes spoke fondly of a recently completed 1979 R100RS, which was given the full resto treatment, including extensive head work, a fully balanced engine and much custom engine and frame work. Apex frequently gets barn leaners and basket cases, like a recent 1968 R60US that arrived in pieces, filthy, disorganized, water-soaked and generally disgusting. Motorcycles like this leave Apex as functional, pretty and desirable Airheads that have been given a second – or third, who knows – lease on life.

In addition to dealing with customers’ commissions, Apex Cycles buys and sells Airheads, and as the business grows, they hope to do more of this. Wes has found that used BMW RT Airhead models are the least expensive used motorcycles on the marketplace, and he is able to obtain these at prices that allow Rachel and Wes to rebuild, customize or otherwise make a solid and reliable – and attractive – custom Airhead for some happy future customer. Another steady source of work and/or used bikes available at fire-sale prices comes from the archetypical rider-of-the-past, who found that mid-life has suddenly added children, mortgages, soccer tournaments and PTA meetings to life; the erstwhile rider parks the bike “for a short time” that often becomes five or 20 years. Then, kids gone and life less complicated, the fellow or gal either wants the bike restored so they once again begin riding, or are now willing to sell it. These are usually found in pretty good shape.

Readers perhaps now see that the focus of Apex Cycles is to continue to build a solid word-of-mouth clientele. “We find that people who come to us as referrals are a special breed of customer who often become dedicated enthusiasts of both motorcycling and Apex Cycles.” To earn this kind of support, Wes and Rachel cultivate contacts in Germany and elsewhere around the world that can provide new old stock parts (NOS), No longer available (NLA) parts, custom bits and technical support when needed. Airhead parts are becoming a little bit more difficult to obtain, although BMW still does an excellent job of providing parts support for their vintage machines. Sadly, prices for vintage and even modern-era (1970–95) Airhead parts have skyrocketed in recent years. Aftermarket sources in Germany and elsewhere are offering some relief with slightly more reasonable prices.

Any preferences? Rachel loves working on her R51/3, and anyone else’s Slash 3, and Wes is happy working on just about any Airhead; he tries to avoid K-bike work. Rachel was adamant in her aversion for working on Dellorto carburetors.

Why BMWs? “We like the design and are both dedicated to the old stuff. We both prefer the Slash 3 and Slash 2 eras, as well as the modern-era Airheads.” Wes explained.
What does the future hold for Apex Cycles, for Wes, Rachel and five-year-old son Race?

"We really want to finish our own custom projects!” both said spontaneously and simultaneously when the question was presented. “But the bikes keep coming and going, and we’re still out here after dark often, trying to keep up. We’ll get to them someday.” Rachel’s work in progress is her R51/3; Wes has visions of stuffing a big-pipe, big-valve 70HP 1978 R100S motor into an R80ST frame. The big motor in a light frame, with a lower final drive ratio, would make an interesting sleeper street-fighter!

Apex works mainly on BMW and Ducati machines, but will consider taking in nearly any European brand for repairs and custom work. If it can be said that Apex is a specialty boutique motorcycle works, then the hallmark would be custom retro-conversions – making newer stuff look old, and make everything run and work like it should. “We are about attention to detail, and doing it right the first time. We stand by our work and satisfaction is guaranteed.” Wes added. “I love to get a commission that requires balancing and blueprinting an engine, doing custom frame work, bracing and removing unneeded frame parts; I like the bare-bones look of a BMW – an engine, wheels, a seat and handlebars – because less is more, and lines are all important.

Both Rachel and Wes spoke of the challenge of translating a customer’s wants and needs, and the customer’s vision of how they want the finished project to look and run – translating those words, emotions and visions into steel, aluminum and rubber. “It’s very rewarding.”

The Burdens’ property is over 13 acres and adjoins the Cartecay River; they have turned several acres by the river into a campground, and plan to build an overnighters’ bunkhouse in the upper story of the workshop, along with a boutique shop of apparel and other moto-bits that show the work of local artisans. The shop will also feature Wes’ custom-made components, such as reverse-pivot brake and clutch levers, trick clip-on bar-and-lever sets, custom triple clamps that will work with the oversize fuel tanks like Hoske and others, and more. Rachel is working of getting a local artisan to build and modify seats.

If you’re considering jumping into the vintage BMW world, if you are jonesing for the familiar valve clatter, torque effect and the smooth forward progress that is the hallmark of these venerable and lovely machines, Rachel and Wes can help you get started, or can help you get the bike finished, finally.

“We live it; it’s not just work, it’s not just a job. It’s who we are and what we do as a family. We hope all our customers come to trust Apex Cycles, and will pass the word on to others.”

Apex Cycles is located at: 210 Fox Fire Trail, Ellijay GA 30536. Call 404-702.4394. www.apexcycleshop.com GPS: N34 38.283 W84 27.150

During our press brief about the new model, BMW had called the new Adventure a “Swiss Army Knife,” but out here alone on the challenging dirt roads leading to Jerome, AZ, some 28 miles away, I marveled at the balance between the engine, throttle, clutch and other controls. I think the BMW team is wrong. It’s more like a Swiss watch

The clutch action is so light and precise, and the throttle more connected to the rear wheel than the standard GS (with its heavier crankshaft), that every input feels completely seamless. The power brakes are the most intuitive system I have used. They have to be, as they repeatedly slow over 700 pounds of man and machine into tight, gravel-strewn corners at speed. Add in the ability to set the bike in Enduro mode – to control the electronics to best serve you in the dirt – and the sophistication of the experience is without equal.

The larger-than-life styling of the new BMW R1200GS Adventure works for me. It’s pure BMW as soon as you see it for the first time, and just looks so much more aggressive and modern than any previous generation Adventure. There is a new beak, a tapered windshield, and two aerodynamic air flaps on the sides to add to the exciting graphics package. The windshield is quickly adjusted on the fly with a simple turn of a wheel; wind protection on the road is everything you’ll need for those long days making miles.

I’ll never forget my first ride on the new 1150 version back in 2002; it felt as if BMW had created the largest, wildest motorcycle anyone would ever make, let alone take off road. Yet here we are some 12 years later, and they have simply eclipsed this first model in size, power and technicality, while making it easier to ride.

I am used to standing all day on adventure bikes and have gotten very comfortable in this position, but know that is not the case for some riders. With this in mind I wanted to see how the bike behaved, so for the first 20 miles of off-road riding I sat, except if I had to raise my butt off the seat for a pothole, rut or similar impediment. I came away very impressed. Sitting will certainly not restrict your ability to explore some fairly challenging terrain, and while your speeds will need to be lower, during adventure tours it might be an advantage as you have more time to enjoy the scenery. When standing, though, you will notice the thoughtful design of a tapered seat meeting a slender gas tank. This intersection is a big part of making the rider feel at ease in the dirt and it’s a marked improvement over previous models.

Reach to the bars is comfortable standing or sitting, and having my back straight with my rear in the saddle and my knees not bent at an extreme angle was certainly similar to existing BMW GS machines. This position is also sufficiently aggressive for working on sections of twisting asphalt for the more spirited moments that arise on a long journey. Nice touches to add to this comfort are multi-adjustable levers and the ability to adjust the rear brake and gear levers to suit your needs. With wider-than-stock foot pegs allowing for a more comfortable platform, it’s clear the Adventure is meant to be ridden all day, and more.

The view forward is clean and functional, with the Navigator GPS located above the compact instrument cluster. With an analog readout for both road and engine speed, it has a highly sophisticated command center beneath the round gauges. Digesting all that this super computer analyzes takes a fair bit of reading, so I’ll leave it out for now; but trust me, if there’s any information you want – from temperature to distance traveled, fuel consumption to tire pressure – BMW has you covered.

You will also find the same multi-controller for adjusting your NAV system as found on the K1600 lineup and the standard GS1200 models on the left hand side handlebar, and this is intuitive and easy to use on the go. Usual BMW pleasantries exist in the form of cruise control, quick-change buttons for the suspension and one to turn the ABS and traction control off, as well as all the normal switchgear.

Visually, the engine is identical to the standard R1200GS, and produces 125 hp at 7,750 rpm and a healthy 92 lb-ft of torque at 6,500 rpm. Compared to the previous generation engine, this is 15 extra horsepower and three more lb-ft of torque. The result is a noticeably stronger and more linear power curve across the range. Where the Adventure engine differs from the standard GS, though, is with an additional two pounds of crankshaft mass that produces 20 percent more inertia. Acting like a heavier flywheel, this one change is the key to the Adventure’s superior power delivery.

Sorry, Mum, but here’s another comparison to the standard GS: I’ve never quite gotten used to the slightly sensitive power delivery from the ride-by-wire throttle system, whether riding two up around the UK, crossing South Africa, or riding at home as my personal transportation. On an open throttle it’s a beast, fast and with incredible power; but there’s something about the system when cold or at low speeds I can’t quite adjust to. Weaned on a diet of throttle cables opening butterflies in carburetors, I yearn for a mapping program that emulates heavier throttle return springs, as it’s a little hard for my well-worn grey matter to adjust. Not so with the Adventure. The relationship between the throttle and the rear wheel is absolutely perfect, and when navigating tighter, technical sections of the rough terrain around Sedona at slow speeds, this was highly appreciated. With virtually no traffic on these Jeep trails, and spectacular views at every turn, they are the personification of adventure riding.

Now, when I’m in complete alignment with the standard GS and the Adventure’s electronics, is when it’s time to pick a Ride Mode. Both bikes comes standard with the option of “Road,” or for inclement weather “Rain” modes, and if you order with the Premium package, the Ride Modes Pro feature adds on Dynamic, Enduro, and Enduro Pro. The last mode requires you to activate a coding plug located under the seat. Here it all gets complicated, with these last three modes working in various ways with the traction control or Automatic Stability Control (ASC) in BMW speak, the anti lock brakes (ABS) and the electronic suspension adjustment (ESA) if Dynamic ESA is selected.

For a short period of time I switched into Enduro Pro mode, which allows you to lock up the rear brake if needed. This mode retains the ABS up front, but allows more latitude before lock up occurs, which is certainly confidence inspiring. The traction control is less invasive, as I found out in the dry, dusty conditions, with an ambitious twist of the throttle exiting a corner. This broke the Continental TKC 80 loose, yanking me straight out of my comfort zone. With the sight of the rear wheel coming round to meet me, and my heart in my mouth, once back in a straight line I pulled over and switched back to regular Enduro mode.

Here the traction control will allow you to hang the rear end out enough to turn the bike, but won’t let the bike get out of control to the extent I described. In this mode the Dynamic ESA will soften the suspension settings for you automatically, so I left my bike on this setting while on the dirt for the rest of the day. More aggressive riders on these knobby tires will prefer the Pro mode I’m sure, but the standard Enduro setting was designed to work with street tires so is a good bit more invasive. The ABS is certainly not invasive; the new Adventure throws out the old wisdom of turning the ABS off in the dirt. Yes, it works that well.

As delivered, the new Adventure will have a more street-focused tire wrapped around the wider, cross-spoke wheels; the Continental TKC 80s were added specially for our aggressive day in the dirt. BMW loves to show how capable their new bikes are by taking us on long, challenging rides during press intros.

Frame and suspension are also virtually unchanged from the donor platform, although the there is 0.8 inches of additional spring travel at the front and rear. To offset this taller suspension, the rake has been steepened by a full degree and the trail tightened 0.3 inches. The net result is just a 0.1 inch increase in the wheelbase from the standard GS to 59.4 inches There is also an additional 0.4 inches of ground clearance, and while the bike will still ground out in the rough stuff if you get too aggressive, it’s a marked improvement compared to earlier generation models I’ve ridden.

In the saddle, stability is without fault at high or low speeds, standing or sitting, and I’m sure a part of this is the additional steering damper. This is true on the road also, and hustling up to Jerome on the last few miles of smooth, serpentine tarmac, we would have surprised all but the most committed sport bike riders with the pace.

You still have to be aware that as tested, with a full 7.9 gallons of fuel and luggage in place, you are in control of a motorcycle weighing well over 600 pounds. BMW is claiming a road-ready weight of 573 pounds. This means you need to make sure to “file a flight plan” if turning on the dirt, or in off-camber parking lots and when in small, mountain towns like Jerome, as you don’t want to be man handling this beast around. With a standard seat height of between 35–35.8”, depending where you set it, you can see how this is going to be a challenge if you don’t plan ahead. People with shorter inseams are going to want to opt for a low seat option, and it’s worth noting you can also adjust the tilt of the standard seat.

You are ready to vote for the new Adventure with your checkbook. For the as-tested Premium package, you will need $21,550 in ready funds. Technically, you could order the bike without all the bells and whistles for $18,200, but only two percent of all new purchasers go this route, according to BMW.

For your Premium package you get a list of all new items: Dynamic ESA, on board computer pro, GPS preparation, cruise control, LED headlight and Ride modes pro, with LED auxiliary lights, saddle bag mounts, heated grips and tire pressure monitor (TPM) as in the previous years. These are all on top of the standard ASC, integral ABS, steering damper, stepless windshield, on board computer and a host of other features that come standard. Engine protection bars, hand protection, the adjustable seat to mention a few. Color choices range from racing blue metallic matte, alpine white or olive matte, so you have an interesting choice here, too.

Acknowledging the GS as the flagship of the GS line, BMW has done it again, improving, refining and sharpening their Adventure without losing any of the character and personality that has attracted people to these large enduros since 1980. Round-the-world travelers choose it as their mount of choice for decades, for good reasons, but you don’t have to be heading across the Taklimakan desert to enjoy the new R1200GS Adventure. It’s equally at home in your own state, but with a fuel range of over 400 miles, and the ability to carry six months’ of gear, it’s ready to take that round-the-world-expedition whenever you turn the key.

There are always several reasons why we do the things we do: why #1 - for those of us who are not professional motorcycle mechanics or professional restoration specialists, we learn a mechanical/restoration technique unique to a particular model, and then, likely, never get to use that skill again. A serial restoration project affords the opportunity to immediately employ that newly-acquired skill again and again, while the information is fresh in the porous regions of the brain; why #2 – along the way, we acquired four R27s, and it was time to clean out the basement.

The whole adventure requires a little more back-story. Back in 1991, my partner, Janet, announced to me that she wanted to get off the back of our 1959 R69 and start riding solo. Janet, not a teenager at the time, thought that if she didn’t start riding before she turned 50 she probably wouldn’t make the leap to solo riding. We all need benchmarks to establish goals…I guess.

Janet fixated on an R27 as her first ride. Of course, a light-weight, dependable, Japanese bike with an electric starter might have been a more prudent choice, but Janet will not own any vehicle that does not win her heart by its visual appeal (a love-at-first-sight-from-across-the-room kind of thing). An un-restored 1961 R27 it was.

It was not a smooth courtship, but Janet was committed (to the relationship). After completing the Pennsylvania Motorcycle Safety Course, a year of riding exercises for Janet, and bike tuning trial-and-error for me, we tore down the R27 in the off-season, and started our first soup-to-nuts restoration. Once the R27 restoration was complete, we tore down my R69 for the same show-quality treatment. These two bikes seen together on the street always drew a crowd.

We had quite a few R27 mechanical catastrophes over the first two years. During that time I would put out feelers for on hand backup parts anticipating the next mechanical emergency. As most vintage bike owners are aware many times it’s less expensive to buy the whole bike rather than just the engine or transmission (alone). So co-incidental to my search for spare parts, we ended up with three parts bikes – consisting of one complete bike and two basket cases - all of which had matching frames and engines.

The (Serial) Restoration Begins

Fast Forward – The Serial Restarted

The Serial Process At Work

Experience is the best teacher

The Rims

The Build

Epilogue

The press launch gave me two days to get used to the naked R nineT, and after mounting my Zumo and figuring out how to mount my tail and tank bags in the lights of the hotel parking lot Friday night, I was ready. Only the fuel gauge made me nervous. Lacking a visual fuel gauge, the R nineT uses a low fuel light and counter that adds miles once the reserve was being tapped to tell the rider that he’d better find gas fast. Web forums told me that 50 miles was about all you could expect once the light came on. More than that and you’d be walking.

Traffic was nonexistent as I pulled onto the 101 at 4:30 Saturday morning. The chilly morning air and coffee combined to wake me up, and I soon realized I should have gotten gas the night before as the reserve icon came on just a few miles into the ride. Luckily, the bright lights of a Shell station stood out like a beacon in the darkness.

As I reset the trip odometer, I calculated the 4.8 gallon tank at 40 miles a gallon should give me a range of about 190 miles. I was quickly back on, working my way east.

Growing up a Midwesterner surrounded by corn and soybean fields, it was hard to keep my eyes on the road as I rode through the California desert with the sun beginning to rise over the distant mountains. Thoughts of the movie On Any Sunday ran through my head, and I pulled off the road to take my first photographs. I could almost hear Steve McQueen and Malcolm Smith racing through the sand. This was going to be an awesome ride.

Passing Barstow, California, it was good to see the world’s tallest thermometer working again and only reading 90 degrees. It was a good choice to bring vented gear and ship the heavier Streetguard jacket back home.

As I droned on, I passed a couple on a packed RT and soon realized I should have fueled up when I passed Barstow, as the low fuel indicator had come on. Miles accumulated and I remembered the warning about not riding more than fifty miles with the light on. In the distance I saw a towering GAS sign and relief poured over me. But like a desert mirage, the sign was for a station closed long ago; plywood covered the windows and doors. I said a quick prayer and pushed on with nothing but empty interstate ahead of me.
With the counter reading 32 miles, a road sign told me I had eight miles to go to Baker. It was going to be close, and after pumping 4.5 gallons into the 4.8 gallon tank, I realized just how close I had come to walking. I reset the trip odometer to 0 and my fuel number to 100. Lesson learned, that’s when I’d begin looking for gas. Again on the road, I soon saw another mirage. But this time it was the Las Vegas kind.

I had forgotten just how bland Las Vegas is in the light of day. Without the fountains of the Bellagio, crowded sidewalks and neon lights, the glitz and glamour of Sin City appeared tame. After 20 minutes and a few photographs, again it was back on Interstate 15. I had a long way to go and a short time to get there.
As I pumped gas in Mesquite, Nevada, I knew I was hot, but I didn’t know how hot until a brainiac in a Lexus yelled “You gotta be hot with all that stuff on! It’s 106 degrees out there!” I realized the futility of trying to explain the reasons for wearing protective gear when riding and yelled back that I was trying to lose some weight and that wearing all this stuff melted the fat away. “I read it on the internet,” I continued. “Really,” he said, “I never knew that.” I quickly slipped on my helmet to avoid any further questions from this MENSA member and got back on the road.

I’d grown accustomed to the beauty of the desert, but the Virgin River Valley in northwestern Arizona offered such an entirely new level of awesomeness that I couldn’t get off the highway fast enough. Then, while stepping backwards to set up a shot, I was brought to my knees by the excruciating pain that could only be the result of being bit in the back end by a rattlesnake, scorpion or other large-fanged and angry predator. I instinctively ran like a school girl, only to turn around to see a cactus protecting it’s territory. I spent the next 30 minutes pulling Buckhorn Cholla thorns from my rear end, and after struggling to capture a few images, I gingerly mounted the bike and moved onward. Damn, I wished I had more time to photograph that area.

After fuel and food in Cedar City, Utah, a road sign indicated a National Scenic Byway was just ahead. Perfect! Great images right along the road, and after winding through Parowan, Utah, another sign pointed left toward Second Left Hand Canyon. Intrigued, I turn left. I thought to myself, this is going to be great!

Soon the asphalt road turned to packed gravel. Riding through a shallow stream crossing the road, I soon found myself on a road better suited to a GS with knobby tires. But my need to see what was around the next corner got the best of me, and my GPS indicated an intersection ahead. Dirt bike riders coming down the mountain waved and shook their heads, and I wondered what the boys at the Motorrad would think if they knew where I was riding their bike. Alas, the intersection I had hoped would bring a paved road was actually only the intersection of another dirt trail. Do I continue to travel the unknown? Thinking my luck was all used up at the gas station, I retraced my route back to the highway and got the hell out of Dodge. Though it isn’t the bike’s strongest attribute, I can personally attest to the off-road capabilities of the nineT.

Back on the interstate and with the sun low on the horizon, the neon light in Beaver, Utah, flashed VACANCY. I was too tired to argue.
Sunrise in the mountains is a magical time as the sun breaks the horizon and reveals the topography of the terrain. Again, I wished I had more time there but pushed on, knowing I’d be back in September. I promised myself I’d allow time to explore. With that in mind, passing roads leading to Capital Reef, Canyonlands and Arches National Parks was a little easier.

As the midday sun played hide and seek behind fluffy clouds, I felt the cold of elevation as I moved across the Rockies. Snow still remained on some of the runs around Beaver Creek and Vail, and a saloon sign in Minturn, Colorado, provided a photo op. After another fuel stop, I was back on Interstate 70 when suddenly traffic came to a halt 30 miles from Denver. Taking an hour to travel less than five miles, the heat coming from the engine worried me. After repeatedly stopping and starting the engine, the open shoulder of the road beckoned me. Should I?

A mile of idling down the shoulder in first gear a Colorado State Patrol Hazardous Waste officer blocked my path. After screaming at me for what seemed like five minutes, he pointed at the ignition switch, and I turned the bike off. He began yelling again. What he didn’t know was that I was wearing earplugs and couldn’t hear a single word he was saying; I could only see the animation in his face. When I opened my helmet and explained I couldn’t hear him, his anger escalated. I removed my helmet and ear plugs as he screamed “Don’t let me see you again” and got back into his truck. I got back in line. Two hours later, traffic loosened to reveal construction a few miles outside Denver as the reason for the backup. A long day two in the nineT saddle came to an end as I neared the Kansas border, and, now behind schedule, I knew an even longer day three awaited.
Again on the road at 4:30 a.m., I realized I’d left the mountains behind and was greeted by Kansas prairie. The sunrise provided a final photo opportunity as I had to make it to St. Louis to hand the bike off to Ken Engleman who’d ride it to St. Paul, then back to BMW NA in New Jersey after the rally.

The smell of freshly cut grass filled my helmet only to be replaced by the pungent odor of road kill then with something worse, and the road stretched out in front of me for miles, uninterrupted by hills or curves. I passed Topeka, then Kansas City and entered Missouri.

Finally, five hours later I was in St. Louis at the MOA office. I felt like I’d never be able to walk again after sitting on that 2x4 of a seat, but I made it. All that remained was a trip home and a ride to the rally the next day aboard my GS. What a great ride!

In this shop, Vann focuses on only one thing – customs. On an adjacent lift are the beginnings of Boxerworks Creations’ second custom – the Beach Bobber, www.beemerglide.com. The third lift in the work area is dedicated to an Airhead café racer, very near completion. Frames, short blocks, suspension pieces and forks, fenders and tanks complete the room.

“This program will showcase all that Boxerworks has been doing for the last 20 years,” Vann suggests. “In these customs, we are setting a new bar for the build of custom BMWs. No one else is doing what we’re doing with these bikes because of our frame.”

What they’re currently showcasing is the first of their custom line of Beemerglide by Boxerworks motorcycles – The War Glide. With the bike sitting just off to our right, and almost lost in sight against a full shop of motorcycles awaiting work, the War Glide is 99 percent complete and running, needing only minor tweaks to be complete. “Oh god yes we’re proud,” exclaims Vann. “For a first effort, yes, we’re all very proud.

“I would not have started with something so ‘hard-edged’ and Harley influenced,” he continues. “But I am over the moon with the final result!”

Boxerworks, owned by Watkinsville, Ga., resident Nathan Mende, is a 20-year-old BMW repair shop located in northeast Ga., and most accurately reflects a life time devotion by Mende to BMW motorcycles. The shop is first and foremost dedicated to the repair and restoration of Airhead BMWs. During the early years of the business’ history, Mende was a one-man operation, handling all the wrenching, ordering, receiving and cataloging of parts, billing and bill paying, telephone answering and, most importantly – the public relations and marketing of the small business. But with the addition nine years ago of mechanic Dean Graham, the recent addition of Frizzelle, and now Vann, Boxerworks has grown into a full-fledged motorcycle repair shop. I witness a pale blue Vespa brought into the shop. Everything gets attention.

xxx

Because Mende is still the one needing to answer the phone – according to Graham every phone conversation starts with “where’s Nathan?” – and he is very much involved with motorcycle repair issues, getting and keeping his attention requires a degree of patience. Really, the patience of an oyster! But it’s this level of involvement in the day-to-day business that has kept Boxerworks at the forefront of BMW motorcycle repair in the Southeast for most of the last two decades. Part of the shop’s reputation has been developed around Mende’s and Graham’s attention to detail in the restoration of vintage BMWs, both mechanical and cosmetically. It was this reputation that initially led Vann to Boxerworks and partnership with the shop. “I was building a café racer for a customer, an R90 that Boxerworks had completed all the mechanicals on. I just came to the source,” suggested Vann. “They were making them fast. I was making them look pretty.”
So, is it a conflict for a business so dedicated to the careful mechanical and cosmetic restoration of original motorcycles to now offer custom bikes with an approach from opposite direction? Vann absolutely thinks not!

Thus far, all these customs are sourced mostly from “rescued bikes,” he suggests. “For the most part, these bikes could have gone the traditional route of being parted out, but we saved them. In doing so, perhaps we’re opening the BMW brand to whole new customer.”

Although Vann was developing a reputation for café racer customs in his Aiken, S.C., shop Speed and Soul, the War Glide is the first joint collaboration between himself and Boxerworks. The bike didn’t start with Mende and Boxerworks, but instead with Todd Rasmussen in Oklahoma City.

In his version of “so what happened was,” Mende explains he and Rasmussen connected at a southeastern rally over 10 years ago when Rasmussen rode by on his version of the Beemerglide, that attracted Mende’s attention – and by his admission put a “s&*t-eating grin on his face. It was not too far removed from the version Boxerworks Creations was introducing, at that time featuring a solo “tractor-style” seat, “fat-bob” tanks with center console-mounted speedometer, pull back bars, heavily skirted front fender, leather saddlebags, and dual fishtail exhaust. “I was immediately interested,” remembers Mende. “I purchased the bike and brought it here to the shop just over seven years ago.” But as Mende explains, shop business took precedence over the development of the Beemerglide, and the bike sat undisturbed for almost six years. During this apparent lull in activity, we were busy working on jigs to ensure each frame was exactly the same as the last, as well as stiffen and improve the chassis.

“One of the primary aspects of these bikes is how custom this frame is,” claims Vann. The Beemerglide started with an R100 series motor built by Graham, and transmission refurbished by Mende. Forty millimeter carbs feed fuel from steel five gallon “fat-bob” style gas tanks, and the gases are routed from the cylinders through a set of wrapped header pipes out through a pair of exhausts. giving the Airhead an exhaust note that, rather than obnoxious, provides a rumble that Vann suggests “completely grabs the attention of anyone around.”

“There’s nothing ‘backyard’ about these builds,” explains Vann. “The bike’s wiring begins with a completely stock /5 wiring harness, and any wiring added remains true to the factory color coding. This bike could be taken to any BMW dealership and worked on following a stock wiring diagram. “Graham has over 40 hours in the wiring of this bike,” claims Vann. “You want to see some real art, pull the tanks and look closely at the electrical work. Although it remains true to factory, it is art none the less!”

“Anyone happy working on their vintage BMW could work on these bikes,” he continues. “The vintage Harley tanks remove with three bolts and you’re right back to basic BMW.”

The flat military green paint, white pinstripes and white star on each tank, without doubt, render the bike a military replica. The blacked-out motor and wheels only add to the purpose-built properties of the custom. “The ‘50s and ‘60s-era Harley Davidsons were huge influences on the beginnings of the Beemerglides, but in this particular build, we looked to the 1963 movie The Great Escape for military inspiration,” claims Vann. In that vein, the bike does not disappoint. It was during WWII the U.S. Army requested Harley build a military-purpose bike based on the features of the R75 BMW the Germans were using: primarily a shaft drive, boxer-motor driven motorcycle. Harley manufactured the XA model military motorcycle, but only produced 1000 before the government canceled the order for that particular vehicle. It would take close inspection that determine this is not the 1001st XA produced!

From the early ‘80s to the late ‘90s, my go-to travel motorcycle was a 1972 FLH shovelhead, the very example of the Harley influence guiding the development of the Beemerglide. Settling into the leather solo saddle, the handlebars sweep wide and back, allowing for a perfectly relaxed, sit-up riding position. But don’t take “settling into” to mean you’re sitting down in the motorcycle. As is very much the fashion with the antique Harleys, you sit “on” the motorcycle. My natural inclination was to place my feet forward on floorboards. It’s here you’re quickly reminded you’re riding a BMW; the design of the engine, with carburetors and cylinders sitting horizontally, puts you in a classic BMW upright riding position. Thumbing the electric start momentarily shakes the cruiser to the right, but built and tuned by Boxerworks, the engine quickly settles into the familiar BMW idle. Clutch pull is typical, meaning it would be easy to ride this bike through many miles of stop and go traffic. Down for first, up for second and beyond and you’re easily on your way. My experience: as I left the shop for the first time on the bike, I was whistling the theme song to the ‘70s hit TV show MASH. I was BJ Honeycutt leaving the unit for the last time!

While I had the bike out for only a short time, and stayed in the country during the ride, both Mende and Vann report their test rides throughout downtown Watkinsville routinely generate stares and questions regarding the vintage of the motorcycle and its military history. “We can’t stop on this bike without someone questioning its age or military use,” claims Mende.

As much as the War Glide speaks to the military history of this country, the Beachbobber custom will speak directly to the California car culture of the ‘60s. Both bikes feature frames built exclusively by Boxerworks. Other than Airhead BMW motors, the similarities end there. Featuring 4.50/18 inch whitewall tires – the biggest whitewall that can be shoed on stock rims – the Beachbobber custom is an aggressive, cut down custom. “We’ve got to modify the swing arm to make the rear tire fit,” explains Vann.

While both bikes can be spec'd with any variation of an Airhead motor, this particular “bobber” will be fitted with a completely rebuilt R100 motor with Mukuni flat side carbs, K&N airsocks and a single side exhaust. Wide, ‘70s-era flat track bars and Progressive suspension will be included in the build. The Beachbobber, as it lives on the shop lift now, is outfitted with drum brakes front and rear, further adding to the vintage appearance of the bike. However, according to Vann, if specified, disc brakes can be optioned.“We’re purposefully doing the opposite with the Beachbobber,” says Vann. “With this bike, I can easily see the owner dropping into the burnout pit at The Ironhorse and shredding the rear tire!” He exaggerates this statement by loosely holding a set of mock handlebars, dumping the clutch and pegging the throttle wide open! “This bike is going to be so hot. Just blow that tire!”

Focusing on the remaining bike in the shop, Vann gestures and suggests the café racer will be the another direction for Boxerworks. “Cafés are comfortable to be around, and I’ve been around them a long time,” he says. “Cafés and scramblers will spread out our line of customs.” With just the tiniest bit of massaging, BMWs make beautiful cafés. In all these builds, it’s easy to see we’re not always about shiny. We’re only about what makes them work. Form is definitely going to follow function.”

As excited as Vann is about the prospect of the custom line and the immediate future for Boxerworks Customs, Mende clearly sees the addition of customs as an extension of what he has strived to create in Boxerworks.

“Mechanical and cosmetic restos are not an end-all goal or focus for the shop,” he suggests. “Restorations are just a facet. Beemerglide will be another direction for us.”

In the years I’ve had the opportunity to know Mende and be around the shop, I’ve witnessed, and participated in, its relocation from his two-car garage, to his farm, to the current location. Each and every move brought with it improvement and expansion in services offered. “Our goal is to become a “one-stop” shop for everything Airhead. I want to simplify the parts purchasing process for these motorcycles; we are already deeply involved in fabricating parts that are unavailable or need improving.”

Moving back into the shop from his office area – which is still very much a part of the shop – Mende suggests what he sees for the shop’s future. “Like everyone else, we like to do different things,” he says. “At the spot we’re at now, I’d like to see Boxerworks build some interesting motorcycles to just show folks what’s possible”
However, Mende expands his vision for the shop by adding, “we would love to build a dozen or so Beemerglide-related bikes a year. From there, we could build the bike you can imagine.” Additionally, Mende and crew suggest the future for Boxerworks will allow them to sell kits based around the Boxerworks frame, letting the customer build as little or as much of the bike as they prefer.

Gesturing toward the War Glide, he concludes, “It would be great to have Boxerworks associated with a certain type of custom. In the Beemerglide, we have that custom.”

My Introduction to Motorcycling

My story began some 30 years ago when I bought my first motorcycle. It was a 1970 BMW R75/5 basket case, and with the confidence of the young and the ignorant, I set about to rebuild it in my parents’ unheated Washington, DC, garage. It was a brutal experience, compounded by a total lack of mechanical empathy or experience. However, after putting it back together about five times, I finally succeeded at getting it up and running. Now roadworthy, at least from my youthful viewpoint, and with the usual road mishaps and aided by the MOA Anonymous Book, I was able to ride my “basket case” to all of the lower 48 states and a fair number of Canadian provinces by the time I was 20.

To bag Alaska, I thought a different bike might be in order, so I bought an R80GS. After riding it 80 miles from point of purchase back to my house, I promptly sold the squiggly wobbly thing.
It was now 1990 and Alaska was still on my mind. The K100RS had been out for a few years and I was able to pick up a low mileage unit with hard bags for $3,200. I promptly spray painted it matte black, and with three friends headed off for Alaska and the “haul road,” a.k.a the Dalton Highway. With the exception of periodically having to hammer the butter soft front rim straight, and that one time when the tip of the water pump exploded out the front cover as the ’85s were prone to do (it was fixed on the spot in British Columbia by a roadside welder who welded the impeller to the shaft and welded the cover hole closed), that K bike was my soulless but competent and constant companion for more than 100,000 miles.

After racking up a quarter million miles of blue highways, I couldn't resist the siren call of new and exciting motorcycle experiences. I wanted to find my way to the race track. I didn’t know much about racing, but I knew I needed a van as a mobile garage and something fast to ride. It was 1989, and I spent the last month of my senior year of college rebuilding the bottom end of a $50 Ford E100 and the cylinders and carburetors of a $350 Yamaha RD350LC. Now “suitably” equipped, I headed out to my first race with WERA, with no greater understanding as to the magnitude of my endeavor other than the challenges I had overcome that fateful winter in my parents’ garage rebuilding my first R bike.

Let’s go Racing

Racing in the late 1980s and early 1990s was a simpler affair than it is today. The bias ply tires were terrible and, as such, could last weekend after weekend as long you kept their operating temperatures in check by running them at 50 psi. Carburetors always needed adjustment, which meant there was never time to mess with suspension. The good news is it didn't matter. Back then no one knew very much about how suspensions impacted racing performance and few, if any, suspensions were adjustable anyway. There were also no track days, which meant if you wanted to ride fast, it was straight into racing. It is easy to get nostalgic for when the Yen was weak and America had a middle class. In those early days, most of the racers were bike shop mechanics or other moderate income blue collar types, and the grids were full of a rag-tag collection of street bikes souped up for racing. Race teams were usually composed of a few good friends gathered around a common mission which, for many, was winning a weekend race at a local track.

After floundering around at the back of the pack for a year or two, we bought a used FZR 400 for $1,800 and won some regional championships. We switched to WERA National Endurance Racing in 1993 under the banner of Army Of Darkness. We dove straight into the deep end and entered a 24-hour race. Twenty-four hours is a lot of swimming. We drowned when we inevitably lost the transmission on the Yamaha after 15 hours. Just as the dawn sun peeked above the horizon, it was lights out for Army Of Darkness, but just for the moment.

The irresistible allure of destroying engines pulled us further into the WERA National Endurance Series. “Us” includes some variations from year-to-year, but at the top of the list of “most years of service” you will find Tim Gooding and me with Melissa Berkoff a close second. Tim is a master fabricator, machinist, mechanic and scientist whose claim-to-BMW-fame, prior to 2013 that is, was closing one loop of the DC beltway by pitching an R100S up the road one rainy evening. Melissa is a certified BMW mechanic who used to strafe California canyon roads on an unbelievably thrashed K75C. She captained her own “Neighbor of the Beast” endurance team, and is a very fast racer and excellent mechanic. But the team, in any given year, was much bigger than just the three of us.

Depending on the season and the world economy, WERA National Endurance races are 4, 6, 8 or 24 hours long. The series is national, which again, depending on the season, requires driving a van and trailer from DC to Oregon, California, Michigan, Texas, Nevada, Ohio, Georgia, West Virginia, Virginia, Oklahoma, Alabama, Florida, Louisiana and one ill-fated trip to Canada.

The races are, in effect, relay races with the bike as the baton. You can replace anything on the bike except the frame. Each rider usually rides until they are out of fuel, which typically means they have long since run out of tire. We would also build in oversized gas tanks which means, in some cruel years, each rider would have to take a 90-minute shift before a pit stop. For comparision, a typical MotoGP race lasts 45 minutes with no pit stops. At each stop we would refuel using fancy “dry breaks,” which would enable us to completely fill the tank in just a few seconds, and also replace at least the rear tire. A fast stop is typically less than 30 seconds, but when you add the slowing down and speeding up to get into and out of the pits, it takes about a minute. The way to win is simple: ride faster than everyone else on the track, have quick pit stops, and don’t have any critical mechanical issues.

Racing is the ultimate abuse of machinery. When you are racing, you just flog the bike mercilessly in order to shave another tenth of a second off a lap time. This means long hours of preparation and maintenance before each event to ensure the entire bike is up for the beating. Since all the team members have regular lives and full time jobs, the expeditions to the far flung tracks mostly happen the day and night before the event, which means maintaining the transporter and trailer as well. The logistics are daunting.

Technology Changes Everything, Sort of

Meanwhile, my long suffering K100RS was retired and BMW had moved well away from me as a customer. Rather than keeping their basic KRS philosophy and modernizing it, BMW had started down a baffling path of heavier and heavier bikes with quirky overly engineered rider's aids and overly sophisticated suspension setups. Really, what is the point of saving eight pounds with an aluminum gas tank if you follow that up by bolting on 50 pounds of ABS pumps which shouldn't ever be used?

On the racing front, we eventually graduated from the hard knocks master class, and in 1999 won our first national 600cc middleweight class championship. We proceeded to win six more championships, including our perfect year of 2003, where we won every single race of the 10-event series.

The societal changes of the hourglass economy that were occurring throughout the country were also filtering into racing. The switch to radial tires vastly reduced lap times, but at the price of increased tire consumption. Bike engines made more and more horsepower with increasingly sophisticated fuel injection. Other systems like clutches, transmissions and brakes, and the resultant overall weight reductions, made for faster lap times, but at the price of decreased component life and skyrocketing maintenance costs. By 2005 the paddock was filled with huge transporters and the guys racing out of pickup trucks and the backs of vans had largely been forced out of the sport by the relentless and expensive march of technology. Our team was fortunate in that we received enough sponsorship and support to offset most of the expenses. We won the 2005 championship with a last race victory, which required superbly detailed preparation, fast riding from Ben Walters, myself, and for the first time with our team, 16-year-old Chris Peris, and perfect pit stop team work. The wear and tear of racing are always balanced by the sweet savor of victory, and while it was a great day, after 350,000 miles on the van and untold race engine rebuilds, we finally decided to step back from the sport a bit.

BMW Redux

However, Ben Walters kept flying the flag and built a few Yamaha R1 endurance racers for a few years, then in 2009 left them in my care when he moved out West for a few years. Tim, Melissa and I could not leave the R1s sitting alone in the garage, so we would prepare them and race them periodically. Although we were far from series regulars, we could still podium, or at least be in a podium position when another transmission would invariably eat itself.

It was during this transitional time that I noticed BMW motorcycle design was coming back from the wilderness. BMW customers are typically older guys with solid credit and back in the ‘80s these guys would have grown up on Triumphs or CB500s. By comparison, an R100 would seem like a viable alternative. In the ‘90s, however, those 40-year-olds had cut their teeth on Ninja 900s, Interceptors and GSX-Rs, and the BMW offerings looked pretty pedestrian by comparison. Then, change came to the marque and the brain trust at Motorrad realizing the need to rev up the image of their motorcycles in the same manner the automotive division had haloed their cars with the M versions. Their first attempts appeared recalcitrant and petulant, as they released HP (high performance) versions of normal road bikes. Carbon fiber valve covers didn't feel that sporty when they were still levering the rear wheel off the track surface. But BMW was walking a fine line. They were trying to attract a performance-oriented customer base, or at least haloing the brand, without alienating their core customers. Having heavily promoted their enclosed driveshaft as the best way to transmit power to the rear wheeel, they gradually began to reconfigure their public relations, and now had to convince their loyal base that sometimes it was acceptable to have chain final drives and inline, four-cylinder engines.

Der Hammer

After years of carefully avoiding direct comparisons to anything Japanese, the powers that be in Munich finally saw the light and created a real sportbike. In 2010 BMW dropped the S1000RR hammer. It crushed its rivals on specifications and components and, due to the escalating Yen, BMW could even price it aggressively against the Japanese competition.

Chris Peris was recruited to race an S1000RR in AMA Superbike and was often the top privateer. He also has a racing school, which sometimes does international events, and our good friend Ben Walters ended up as a guest instructor at Chris’s school in Qatar. Ben was deeply impressed by the power and balanced nature of the S1000RR and called me when he got back to the States. His goal was to convince me that we needed to jump back into the national circuit with both feet. Hence, an incredibly unlikely Venn diagram arose in January 2013. Riding long distances, Army of Destruction teammates from 2005, really fast motorcycles, and a single point of intersection—BMW.

Chris had been racing one of the first S1000s. The 2010 and 2011 models had a geometry that was more aimed at road riding than track riding and, therefore, had some high speed limitations. One was the offset of the triple trees. Triple tree offset governs trail and trail is one of the pieces of the high speed steering puzzle. Less trail feels great right up until the moment when you lose the front in a high speed sweeper and destroy the bike. The other weak spot was the shock linkage. The early ones had a rising rate linkage, soft initially then firmer; but on the track we usually want a linear linkage that is not soft anywhere.

Fortunately, BMW had incorporated these race-track tricks into the stock 2012 model, so we would not have to mess with them. In another fortuitous twist, due to an assembly line error where someone failed to properly assemble the connecting rods on the crank of the 2012 engines, we were able to get two S1000s for a song. How? Even after BMW had warranteed the connecting rods, some owners didn't want the bikes back, so there were some low-mileage factory buy backs sitting around. We bought two of these through our long time sponsor and local BMW dealer, Battley Cycles.

Because nothing is simple, particularly when you’re trying to do things on a budget, we took possession of the bikes with only three weeks remaining before we were supposed to be on track. That is, quite simply, not a lot of time to build up new and unfamiliar race bikes. The good news is, we had done this before.
We knew the engines were strong and we also knew that they were tuned to their potential. Chris's team had blown up a number of hopped up engines while the bikes were still on the dyno, so we were not looking to make any engine modifications.

The stock ECU and the traction control settings are sophisticated and powerful, but tuning them for individual tracks was going to require special cables, unlock codes and software. Unfortunately, we were not able to locate anyone who had any real-time experience tuning the stock electronics with the race kit. We also realized that we would not have a lot of time to experiment, so we locked the bikes in “Slick” mode and then removed the stock traction control, ABS and quick shifters. We then installed a “Bazzaz” system that we knew intimately from the R1s we set up back in 2009, for which we already had mature air-fuel ratio and traction control maps set.

Building our BMW Race Bike

Today, suspension is really the biggest variable with race bikes. We redid the forks with Traxxion Dynamics internal cartridges and JRI built our rear shocks. We also swapped the stock steering damper for a racing unit. As we were ditching the ABS, we fitted a forged Brembo master cylinder, plumbed it with Hel brake lines, and fitted Vesrah RJL pads to the excellent stock calipers. We deep sixed the stock exhaust with all the valves for a lightweight titanium and carbon pipe from Leo Vince, installing the Bazazz sensor to be able to remap the ECU for smoother throttle response.

We lost some more weight with Speedcell Lithium Ion batteries and by replacing the stock bodywork with race bodywork. Then we had to start making the bike heavier.

First we installed bigger, but still aluminum, 24-liter fuel tanks. We had to cut the tops off of them and weld in double dry break receivers: one for fuel to flow in, the other to let air out. The tanks are of World Superbike design, so they also replace the seat and fill the entire area that we opened up by removing the ABS control unit. We installed various sliders to protect the outside edges of the engine and bike in case of a mild crash. We also swapped out the stock clipons and foot pegs for racing units. There are a number of reasons to do this. The race clipons are faster to repair in a crash.

The aftermarket rear sets allow for more positions for the foot pegs, are tougher and invert the shift pattern. Like the old British bikes, down is up and up is down. There are a few reasons to do this, but basically, it is easier to miss an upshift than a down shift and pushing down on the lever is more positive than pulling up on it.

Another crucial aspect of endurance racing is quick-change axles and wheels. Traditionally, Tim fabricates these items, but since he was busy drilling 1/16" holes in many bolts to safety wire them, a requirement of most racing bodies and good practice for endurance bikes anyway, we bought modified axles and chain adjusters from Fast by Frank, and combined these with captive wheel spacers and spring-loaded front fender hardware. We also shaved off as much of the brake calipers as we dared, and when we were done with the mods we could get both wheels changed in under 30 seconds. That was our target time.

Then we swapped the stock tires for Michelin slicks. The slick tires have no tread, which maximizes the amount of rubber on the track. The lack of tread also gives the tire much improved characteristics with regards to heat transfer. We run a 200 width rear tire to put as much rubber on the track as possible.

In the choreographed chaos of reconstruction, the two bikes began to shed their old “retail showroom” personalities and take on a much harder demeanor. In race parlance people often speak of the “A” bike and the “B” bike. This is not pejorative, but rather just a way of differentiating them. A and B, in our case, became “Eva” and “Brunhilde.”

With five days to go we were finally able to fire up the bikes and were greeted with a cheerful Christmas tree of warning lights and error messages preventing the bikes from running correctly. We plugged in all the stock sensors and boxes again, removed them in a prescribed order, said “Rumpelstiltskin” three times while clicking our heels, and were ecstatic when we got the bikes locked into “Slick” mode with full power available. We were ready to race.

Though the perception of motorcycle riders has changed, the new R nineT was built to remind all who climb aboard, twist their right wrist, and listen to the pulse-quickening bellow emanating from the twin horns why motorcycles make their pulse quicken.

It’s as simple as a motorcycle can be, yet the bike moves a rider both physically and emotionally. It is what motorcycles were before they were encased in plastic. It’s a flashback to your first love. The one that got you hooked. The one that made you believe. What was old is now new, and what is new conjures up memories of what was.

As have several of BMW’s other recent releases including the S1000RR and its naked S1000R sibling, the R nineT represents a departure from the long-distance touring comfort zone BMW has inhabited for so long. This is a motorcycle built solely to bring a rider and machine together for the pure and simple joy of riding. Based on indications that the supply is not expected to catch demand until 2016, BMW has far exceeded their expectations. BMW proves again that they are, indeed, the Kings of Cool.

Though the “official” release of the bike was little more than a month ago, rumors, speculation and images of prototypes had been floating around for nearly two years when BMW Motorrad announced plans of releasing a special bike to mark the 90th anniversary of the marque. It was worth the wait.

The R nine T combines classic, roadster styling with current technology, beginning just as the legendary R32 did 90 years earlier with its iconic BMW boxer engine. The modern nineT powerplant employs the current 1,170cc air/oil-cooled boxer engine which produces 110 hp at 7,500 rpm and 88 lb-ft of torque at 6,000 rpm. Power is delivered via a six-speed transmission geared for quickness and smooth shifting to the rear wheel through shaft drive.

During the recent press launch of the nineT, journalists were teamed in groups of six riders. Riding around the Los Angeles area had all hoping for red lights at each intersection to allow them to release long-lost adolescent attitude and to offer another opportunity to aggressively run through the smooth nineT gearbox while creating a symphony of boxer music in the key of Akropovic.

While paying tribute to its heritage, the nineT front end sports the same gold, upside-down forks used on the S1000RR and offers a classy, high-tech look that contrasts beautifully with the black of the motor, frame, tank and wheels. On the back, the nineT sports a paralever single-sided swingarm with an adjustable central shock. Allowing for customization, the swingarm has been designed to allow installation of a 6 inch wide rear tire in place of the stock 5.5 inch rubber. Braking is provided by dual, four-piston Brembo’s offering exceptional stopping power on the front end and a single rear disk. ABS is standard.

To accentuate the hand-built look of the bike, forged aluminum parts including the yokes and handlebar clamp bracket feature embossed BMW Motorrad lettering and have been glass bead-blasted to produce a natural anodized finish. Other parts receiving this special attention include the front fender brackets, tapered steering damper, seat mount and adjustment knob for the shock absorber. Even the model plate riveted to the steering head is reminiscent of classic BMW motorcycle designs and further evidence of the meticulous attention to detail given the nineT.

A classic round, metal headlight throws a locomotive-like beam and is supported by another forged aluminum, single point mount. Behind the headlight rests the simple instrument cluster featuring round speedometer and tachometer gauges and including an onboard computer displaying gear, time of day, fuel range and more.
The 4.8 gallon fuel tank, made of aluminum and finished in Black Storm Metallic paint, is highlighted on each side by hand-brushed and clear-coated aluminum. The air intake cover has received similar treatment as well as nineT embossing. To further illustrate the designer’s thorough attention to detail, the seat uses hand-stitched seams in white contrasting thread. Finally, wire-spoke wheels of black anodized alloy, cast black aluminum hubs, stainless steel spokes and tubed tires complete the package.

Aside from the roadster’s classic good looks, the designed-in ability to allow riders to personalize their nineT’s look is what truly make this model unique. From the factory, the standard nineT configuration includes rider and pillion seats with a removable, bolt-on frame section allowing for two-up riding. Remove the rear seat and add an optional tail hump, and the nineT becomes a single-seat café racer which can quickly be converted back for two-up riding by pulling off the tail hump and reinstalling the rear seat.

To give your nineT a bobbed look, quickly remove the rear seat, unbolt and remove the rear frame section holding the passenger pegs, and ride. Take this look even further by removing the turn signals, and moving the license and taillight to the paralever. One bike, four distinct looks. Additional options available include a single titanium Akropovic muffler mounted in the standard low position or high by adding a long connecting pipe with carbon fiber heat shields.

Riding the R nineT rekindles memories of the simple, unfaired motorcycles of the ‘70s: the undisturbed wind in your face, the exposed motor growling at each twist of your wrist, a motorcycle in its simplest form. There is no plastic buffering you from the elements or the bugs in your face, nothing blocking your view forward, and with only handlebars and gauges in sight, it’s the closest sensation of flying you can get without buying a ticket.

At first look, the bike seems small. Throw a leg over and your suspicions are confirmed with its 30.5” seat height. At six feet, I’ll admit to initially feeling a bit cramped when seated, but, perhaps because my primary ride is a R1200GS, the initial reaction wasn’t just. Once I got comfortable, the R nineT offered a relaxed seating position with a comfortable reach to the handlebars and controls.

After a briefing at BMW Designworks and lunch, it was finally time to mount up and ride. Journalists at the launch were about to be treated to 250 or so miles of varying terrain between Los Angeles and Santa Barbara, and we couldn’t get started soon enough.

Heading north on a route that took us quickly away from civilization, we began the ride through calm agricultural roads before abuptly transitioning to exhilaratingly tight, challenging and winding canyons. The bike handled wonderfully and took on the twisties beautifully. After a quick adjustment to the rear shock, the handling got even better. On the couple of occasions where I fell behind the riders ahead of me, the quick gearing of the transmission and powerful boxer motor made closing the gap easy. I purposely left my earplugs in my pocket so I could enjoy the sound of the stock pipes, a sound enjoyed even more when riding close enough to the other nineTs to hear the harmony multiple bikes created.

Conversations during the scheduled breaks along the ride focused on the awesome bike BMW has created and what fun it was to ride. Gas stops turned into hour-long affairs where riders of other bikes would flock around the new beemer, ogling the coolness of the nineT.

Too soon the press event ended. It had been a long time since riding had provided me with the pure emotional charge the R nineT did. Asked by another rider to describe the bike in two words, “soul fuel” were what quickly came to mind. Though borrowed from an inspirational promotional video for the bike, they’re spot on.

Brad flung the big BMW K1200GT around blind corners like a sport biker, but then, he lives here, and knows every curve and pothole. I tailed him trustingly on a classic BMW R100GS Bumblebee and Jonathan took up the rear on his KTM 950 Super Moto. We were laughing in our communicators; it was just too much fun and there was nobody up here but us on the sun-dappled black tarmac, weaving through budding leaves and spring flowers pushing up through damp leaves. This was our fourth day here. We only planned to stay three, but we would be here another two, and why not? Each scenic ride ended with a soak in our private hot tub, a visit with our hosts, maybe a walk to dinner at the famed Sundance resort, or an in-house dinner party with a private chef. More hot tub or drinks and dancing at the rustic celebrity hot spot, the Owl bar. We deserved it. We’d been working hard and staying put was a well-deserved splurge in a low-budget exploration of the Arizona and Utah park system that began from Overland Expo in Flagstaff.

From Overland Expo we made a beeline to Highway 89, gritting our teeth through the Flagstaff traffic and breathing a sigh of relief when the few remaining RVs turned west at the signpost for Grand Canyon Village. Suddenly our heavily-laden bikes seemed lighter as the road runs long and straight through the high desert. We’d leave this flat, dry landscape behind in a mere few hours for the delightful twists and turns through the geologic wonderland that defines northern Arizona and Utah, but not before we were bombarded by dodging dust devils racing west across the road through the Navajo Nation.
For many miles Jonathan and I shared epitaphs via our SENA headsets... “oh no, no... woooowooooaaaahhh... Dang!” They were attracted to our slipstream and, unlike attacking dogs, were not tricked by quick acceleration. Though we were well sheltered by protective gear from helmet to boots, the impacts slammed our overloaded bikes into precarious tilts that were hard to recover from. After the first few hits, we learned to meet them with an aggressive lean left and soon it became almost normal in that way things do when you have no other choice.

We approached the Utah border where vertical cliffs of Navajo sandstone rise from the desert floor pale in shades of pink and gray, sporting eroded caps of smooth white domes. Turning off on Highway 89A, we continued to gain altitude and over the next ridge there was a sharp bend to the west where we were plunged into the Vermilion Cliffs National Monument. Finally, we had left the monotonous pastel landscape behind. The cliffs flickered yellow and orange in the waning daylight, prompting numerous stops to photograph our orange and yellow motorcycles against a series of striated upturned cliffs jutting toward the road in cuestas streaked with iron oxide.

Traffic was nonexistent, so we lay in the center of the road to photograph each other riding. I wanted to stand here for hours to watch the light change on the cliffs and the dark blue sky behind white puffy clouds stained with its deepening indigo.
Our destination the first night was Marble Canyon and we arrived just before sunset. Last year after Overland Expo, I made the same trip, only I stuffed 12 dollars into the box at the entrance of Lee’s Ferry Campground and pitched my tent at a site overlooking the Colorado River. When the sun rose in the morning, I crossed the street to bathe in the freezing river, as the site has only toilet facilities. The shadow of the cliffs made the experience shockingly invigorating, but the sun soon rose high to send shafts of light onto the beach which baked my head dry.

This year we rested at Marble Canyon Lodge, a simple ‘60s-style travelers’ motel. Unfortunately the lodge and restaurant has since burned to the ground, leaving an accommodations void in the area.
At sunset we walked across the old Navajo Bridge, the sides of which are an open weave of steel bars with dizzying views to the river 470 feet below. The air currents sent water spray scented with sandstone upward to buoy the dozens of swallows swooping and twirling in a graceful hunt of invisible insects. We kept an eye out for California Condor with their 10-foot wingspans. They were almost extinct in 1987, motivating alarmed conservationists to capture the remaining 22 birds to breed in zoos and be released little by little as their numbers increased. Now there are about 250 birds, but we are disappointed to leave without seeing any.

Marble Canyon has no marble, but was so named by explorer John Wesley Powell, who thought the polished limestone looked like marble. In case you missed your American history lessons, Powell was the one-armed Civil War veteran who led the Powell Geographic Expedition in the summer of 1869. They set out to explore the Green and the Colorado Rivers and made their way down the Grand Canyon in wooden boats. A description of their travels can be found in his book, The Exploration of the Colorado River and its Canyons.
The next morning we made the short ride down the red rock canyon road to Lee’s Ferry, lined with cliffs, hoodoos and balanced rocks. We reached the dead end at the Colorado River where white-water guides were busily rigging their boats. Before the Navajo Bridge was built, this was the only place to cross the Colorado for 600 miles in either direction.

Jonathan and I sat in the shade of the picnic area above a vast parking lot where tour buses would soon deposit excited river rafters. We feasted on a breakfast of bread, cheese and salami and watched the river guides prepare for their journeys, stuffing dry bags with fresh produce and plastic bladders of tequila and vodkas to augment their rations of freeze-dried meals. In contrast, the success of the one-armed expedition leader seemed all the more extraordinary. Poor Powell and his crew ended up with spoiled bacon and musty flour, moldy dried apples and melted sugar, rotted canvases, no hats and few clothes, but a big sack of coffee survived to keep them caffeinated and alert.

Back on 89A, we stopped just six miles west of Marble Canyon at the intriguingly named town of Cliff Dwellers to pose next to one of the precariously balanced rocks and browse the jewelry crafted by Navajo women at a row of makeshift roadside stands. At ten in the morning in May, the temperature had already soared to over 100 degrees. A peek inside a small house made entirely of huge stone slabs with ledges for sitting and sleeping chiseled into its sides revealed the attraction of such primitive lodging. It’s a constant 75 degrees in here, morning and night.

My polite, cursory tour of the Navajo jewelry stands quickly became a buying spree, as I found that a lot of the trinkets here are of high quality at wholesale prices. I couldn’t afford not to stock up on turquoise and silver for birthday and holiday gifts and, okay, a couple of things for myself, too. During our sales transactions, I learned that we were still in the Navajo Nation we’d entered since just a little north of Flagstaff. The Nation spans over 5000 square miles and is the largest reservation in the country. There’s nothing but rabbits and rattlesnakes here, one woman told me. The men are mostly gone. There’s no opportunity for commerce, so this is the only chance to make a living save going into the cities to sell wholesale, which is also “too far” and dangerous and lonely and crowded. Staying here is better, she said.

Standing in the shade of a rock on the hillside to drink some water and gaze south over a vast acreage of nothing but scrub, I didn’t blame them for choosing this vast and rugged peace over the din of a city. I donned my helmet, grateful in a “for the grace of God go I” sort of way that I did not have to make that kind of decision.

We headed out to pass by the Cliff Dwellers Lodge, first homesteaded by Blanche Russell, a Ziegfeld Follies dancer who quit her job in 1920 to drive her husband Bill west to nurse his tuberculosis. Their car broke down here and they simply stayed, trading food for labor from passers-by to build their rock house. Over time they expanded their spread to include a trading post, restaurant, gas station and then a lodge catering to the few motor tourists headed to the Grand Canyon’s North Rim. But their best customers were the hoards of Mormons driving the Honeymoon Trail on the road to sanctify their marriages at the temple in St. George.

As we rode west, the Vermillion Cliffs faded to beige under the white-hot sun but the air cooled as soon as we hit the switchbacked road up to the Kaibab Plateau. We rose into a landscape of scrubby pines struggling to root in the rock and then into a full-fledged forest with pines, aspens, junipers and fresh, clean, pine-scented air.
Jacob Creek up on the plateau bustles with a visitors’ center, gas station, store and motel, plus the area has a large network of campgrounds. At the restaurant we ordered beautiful fresh salads and a burger. German tourists on rented Harley-Davidsons were intrigued by our loaded bikes and especially my classic R100GS Bumble Bee. They were headed to the South Rim of the Grand Canyon, but we encouraged them to change their plans and explore the North Rim just 12 miles south. Other locals at the counter agreed and, though the Germans gave us all the thumbs up, we’re pretty sure the language barrier interfered.

We headed to Bryce Canyon, only to be disappointed with limited views from pullouts. But the historic lodge, built in 1925 among towering Ponderosa Pines, has a great buffet. As we lunched with busloads of tourists, we decided that next time through we’d stay here and take some hikes through Bryce to see the stunning rock formations not visible from the road. It’s also one of the only three “Dark Skies” parks in the United States, as there is no ambient light from traffic, signs or housing, so stargazing is purported to be spectacular.

Continuing east on Highway 12, we agreed that this scenic byway is one of the most beautiful motorcycling roads in the USA, perhaps even in the world. Highway 12 passes through Red Canyon, Bryce Canyon National Park and Grand Staircase-Escalante National Monument, meanders over Boulder Mountain in the Dixie National Forest and terminats near the entrance to Capitol Reef National Park.
When we reached Escalante, we decided that we would have rather stayed here than in Bryce yesterday. The unpaved Hole-in-the-Rock Road begins about five miles east of town, which is the main access to the Canyons of the Escalante, the Devil’s Garden and the Hole-in-the-Rock, all geologic wonders that we only read about in our guidebooks. The charming small town has plenty of cabins and lodging, and a charming Mercantile with healthy groceries, and even a small airport. Because we were on a schedule, this time it was just another place to add to our “next time” list.

A few of the 4x4 instructors at Overland Expo had recommended a stop at Calf Creek Campground on the way east, because they thought it was the most beautiful campground in the USA. The sign appeared suddenly around a bend and we swerved to take it, descending steeply into a canyon. I halted at a concrete bridge overrun a little by a marshy creek. I was not willing to ride through without walking it first, but Jonathan, unintimidated by the inch-deep water, headed on across. So I watched, half-horrified and half-bemused, as he and the KTM did a slow, graceful twirly dance in the center of the bridge before toppling over.

It took the two of us plus four campers to haul the KTM upright and slip and slide it back onto the road – a comedic Icecapades-esque show enjoyed by a group of about a dozen who gathered to watch.
Back on Highway 12, we occasionally paused at lookouts, but mostly the road and the landscape evoked deep appreciation for raw nature and occasionally for road builders. Rising to the top of a mountain, we were suddenly aware that we were riding its spine. For several miles we were awed by the scenery from this vista, but only for brief glimpses, for there was no shoulder, no guard rail, only a precarious stretch of asphalt at the top of the world from which a fall would pitch one straight down into the valley below. I felt as if I was floating atop a living breathing thing. I was suddenly connected to both to earth and sky. Yes. This is why we ride.

My own trip this past July was long overdue. I had not given myself permission until recently to plan a solo trip of any kind. This one would be to see parts of North America I had never seen. For whatever reason, it took a painful divorce, the years of upheaval that preceded it, and the months of grieving that followed it to consider this journey and see it as one of healing. It was also in many ways an opportunity to look forward. I think in years past I had made the mistake of not seeing a trip like this as something that could re-charge and invigorate me in ways that would have made me a better spouse. Instead, I erroneously considered the idea of such a trip as a potential “taking-away” from the marriage. I mention this only as food for thought to those of you who thought like I did that feeding my spirit in this way would bring little or no value to the ones I love. I don’t think I could have been more wrong.

I have always loved riding. To me it is at once therapeutic, calming and exhilarating. I catch myself with a goofy smile on my face inside my helmet as the road curls beneath my tires and I feel the moment when motorcycle and rider seem to become one in the quest for the perfect curve. This has happened many times over the years and miles, but it still surprises me.

In the wake of the loss I felt in my personal life, I began to think a lot about the distinction between being alone and loneliness. I realized that in my 50 years I had never taken a solo journey of the kind I was considering: eight days of riding across the Northeastern United States and parts of Canada, camping along the way. To be frank, it scared me, but not to the point of avoiding the chance to take this journey. The courage was born in part from the loss and the idea of those days on my own suddenly felt less lonely. It may offend as many readers as it will encourage that I was looking at this as a spiritual journey. I needed the time to connect my spirit to the world around me in a way that the distractions of life had too often stymied. It became a large part of the experience for me.

Planning a trip like this can be an informal affair. Others of us will plan each mile with such care and precision as to extinguish any chance for an impromptu course correction or adjustment to one’s preconceived ideas about what is or should happen next. I took the middle ground mapping out what I thought was a highway-free, 4,000 mile journey that would take me across West Virginia, Pennsylvania, New York Vermont, New Hampshire, Maine, Nova Scotia, New Brunswick, Massachusetts, Connecticut and New Jersey before heading home to Southwest Virginia. I had specific destinations in mind and things I hoped to see.

As the idea for the trip began to gel, I came across a news article about the most beautiful spots in each of our 50 states. One of the spots mentioned for New York was Watkins Glen State Park and its gorges. I had traveled some in New York but had never heard of the park or its rock formations and was astonished at what I found as I looked into it. I had my itinerary’s first destination.

Roughly 500 miles from my home in Salem, Virginia, Watkins Glen State Park seemed a reasonable day’s ride and the roads I selected—I thought—would keep me off the limited access highways I hoped to avoid. Nevertheless, most of the ride along US 220 North was breathtaking. Much of it in Virginia north of Roanoke was the perfect start to get the juices flowing and allow me to begin making the connections I was seeking.

Fried food, soft serve ice cream and t-shirt shops reign supreme in the village of Watkins Glen like they do in virtually every other tourist town. But at the top of the hill sits one of the most spectacular examples of creation you can see in the eastern United States. Whoever or whatever you want to credit with this, it’s difficult not to appreciate the miracle in it as the water has sculpted the rocks along the gorge for millennia, leaving a canyon of striated rock and greenery that is worthy of much deeper exploration than I was able to give it on this trip.

I set up my hammock and bug net and called it a night, but not before an older fellow from the campsite next door came over for a visit. Turns out he had a beemer years and years ago and went on about how much he missed it, but his wife’s infirmity kept him from feeding this part of his soul. I could relate and didn’t push the notion that our personal sacrifices can have the opposite of the intended affect. He was a minister, and I asked him to keep me in his prayers as I set out.

The next morning dawned bright and cool. The perfect day to cross northern New England, and a spectacular day it was. I enjoyed the increasingly warm sunshine and mile after mile of twisty roads and breathtaking scenery. Through the Adirondacks, the Green Mountains of Vermont, the White Mountains of New Hampshire, and into Maine, Kamele swayed and purred as we pushed north and east with the scent of pine and cool mountain air breezing past us.

As I crossed into Maine and the sun tilted low in the sky, preparing to say goodnight through my mirrors, the ubiquity of moose crossing signs became apparent. Now the chance of seeing a moose in the wild was a big part of this trip for me, and I thought heading to the part of Maine with the highest concentration of the large mammals would improve my chances of seeing one, but I certainly didn’t want to get so close that it ended my trip. In the waning daylight, lengthening shadows, and narrowing roads, every dark spot along the roadside began to look like it could be a moose. My pace slowed considerably as the moose warnings grew increasingly ominous: “high hit rate” and “hundreds of collisions” jumped out at me with flashing lights. I was down to about 30 miles per hour and hoping I would arrive safely at my campsite before complete darkness fell over Kokajo, Maine. I pulled into the campsite just as the owner was turning out the light in her office. After a curt Maine welcome tinged with admonition for this late hour, I set up my tent in darkness without having any idea of my surroundings.

At daybreak I set out for my potential moose sighting in earnest. The sunrise over the campground was truly magnificent and yet would only hint at the extraordinary day I had in store as I set out for Halifax, Nova Scotia. As it turned out the maps I printed out and stuffed into my tank bag weren’t particularly helpful that morning—or, alas, maybe they were. I accidentally ended up on a logging road that prohibited motorcycles and within the first hour of riding that morning I saw four moose. The first guy was slogging through a picturesque bog as I came to a stop. He looked up from his foraging and seemed to question my relevance. The moment seemed to freeze in time as we looked at one another from 200 feet away. He must have decided he should continue his breakfast because he broke his gaze and stuffed his head back down into the watery buffet.

Not long into Nova Scotia, the gray skies decided to offer up some of their moisture. I made a quick pit stop along a very narrow shoulder to put on my one piece, yellow BMW raingear. If you’ve ever tried to pull raingear on over a BMW Rallye 3 jacket you know the armor in the elbows will hang up the rain suit every time. This time was no exception. In my frustration I yanked the yellow plastic up only to feel a tear – not in the raingear, but in my shoulder. Ouch! What should have been a simple task brought me several sleepless nights and near constant pain over the days that followed and was the only real negative I would experience over the eight days on the road. I even went so far as to stop at several clinics to see if I could get a doctor to give me a cortisone shot. Note: if you are a US citizen travelling to Canada, get travel insurance or prepare to pay out of pocket for a doctor’s visit. I was told it would cost me $675 just to register at one of these facilities. I opted to go with the pain.

The next morning brought tired eyes which were all I really needed as it turned out. I had planned a southerly route along the Nova Scotia coast on my way to Cape Breton thinking I would enjoy spectacular scenery all morning. Mother Nature had other plans. The fog that had settled in overnight would not relent until I was up in Port Hawkesbury crossing the causeway to Cape Breton and points north. Riding in the fog always feels somewhat otherworldly—made all the more so by the hulking cadavers of old wooden fishing boats looking as if they too had had difficulty finding their way through the fog. Though haunting, the atmosphere was not an entirely unwelcome wrinkle in my ideal image for the morning’s ride.

Before hitting the campsite, I rode the short mile down the main street in St. Martins to the Sea Caves. This spectacular landscape shone brightly in the evening sun, and seeing it in the evening allowed me to avoid the possibility that morning fog would keep me from seeing it the next day. I had the place almost to myself and so avoided some embarrassment as I slipped and landed on my backside on the seaweed coated rocks at low tide. Thankfully this was the only time my gear—and my rear—hit the ground over the eight days.

Arriving at the campground I found the grassy site I was assigned and set the kickstand. The fully loaded bike promptly sank into the wet ground and toppled over. Righting 600 pounds with two good arms is challenge enough, but with my gimpy shoulder it wasn’t going to happen. I asked my neighbor for a hand, and we got the bike up and found a charred piece of firewood to prop the kickstand and avoid a repeat. Again I set my increasingly damp gear out to dry under a picnic shelter, then took my naproxen and acetomenaphine, rubbed my shoulder with the ointment the pharmacist in Halifax gave me, and was able to settle in for a reasonable night’s sleep.

Heading west along Route 9 toward Bangor, Maine unfurled, some of the best roads of the trip so far. A gorgeous, sun-drenched afternoon almost made me forget about my shoulder as Kamele and I danced our dance toward the New Hampshire border.

Route 2 westbound across the northern edge of the White Mountain National Forest would be the only road I would traverse a second time the entire trip. I cruised into the campground early enough to unload, head out for a sandwich, and still had a few hours of daylight left. I cruised along Route 16 and though it hadn’t occurred to me earlier, I realized the auto road up to Mount Washington might be a ride worth taking. I had seen the bumper stickers and always thought they were a bit tacky but when morning came I was first in line to make the ride up the mountain. In many ways this was the highlight of an incredible trip. Having the road to myself and passing through pine scented forests to the rocky ground above the tree line, the weather held just long enough to get a view across to the mountains and valleys beyond. Truly breathtaking—and they now make motorcycle-sized stickers that say “This bike climbed Mount Washington.” I put mine on as soon as I returned to the base of the mountain. Tackiness be damned.

The trip south from here would take me to a much needed visit with family and friends in Connecticut, and I was able to savor every minute of good company while I rested and pulled myself together for the trip back to Southwest Virginia. For the ride home I permitted myself a nine hour ride on the interstate, clad in raingear and anxious to see my kids.

The journey allowed me to enjoy so much of what the natural world around us has to offer and time to focus on what my own place is in it. The mysteries that surround us I think are better left to remain just that. With two wheels beneath me and the open road ahead, there remain endless opportunities to explore the worlds outside and inside, navigating the potential dangers and finding peace and joy in the journey.

My own trip this past July was long overdue. I had not given myself permission until recently to plan a solo trip of any kind. This one would be to see parts of North America I had never seen. For whatever reason, it took a painful divorce, the years of upheaval that preceded it, and the months of grieving that followed it to consider this journey and see it as one of healing. It was also in many ways an opportunity to look forward. I think in years past I had made the mistake of not seeing a trip like this as something that could re-charge and invigorate me in ways that would have made me a better spouse. Instead, I erroneously considered the idea of such a trip as a potential “taking-away” from the marriage. I mention this only as food for thought to those of you who thought like I did that feeding my spirit in this way would bring little or no value to the ones I love. I don’t think I could have been more wrong.

I have always loved riding. To me it is at once therapeutic, calming and exhilarating. I catch myself with a goofy smile on my face inside my helmet as the road curls beneath my tires and I feel the moment when motorcycle and rider seem to become one in the quest for the perfect curve. This has happened many times over the years and miles, but it still surprises me.

In the wake of the loss I felt in my personal life, I began to think a lot about the distinction between being alone and loneliness. I realized that in my 50 years I had never taken a solo journey of the kind I was considering: eight days of riding across the Northeastern United States and parts of Canada, camping along the way. To be frank, it scared me, but not to the point of avoiding the chance to take this journey. The courage was born in part from the loss and the idea of those days on my own suddenly felt less lonely. It may offend as many readers as it will encourage that I was looking at this as a spiritual journey. I needed the time to connect my spirit to the world around me in a way that the distractions of life had too often stymied. It became a large part of the experience for me.

Planning a trip like this can be an informal affair. Others of us will plan each mile with such care and precision as to extinguish any chance for an impromptu course correction or adjustment to one’s preconceived ideas about what is or should happen next. I took the middle ground mapping out what I thought was a highway-free, 4,000 mile journey that would take me across West Virginia, Pennsylvania, New York Vermont, New Hampshire, Maine, Nova Scotia, New Brunswick, Massachusetts, Connecticut and New Jersey before heading home to Southwest Virginia. I had specific destinations in mind and things I hoped to see.

As the idea for the trip began to gel, I came across a news article about the most beautiful spots in each of our 50 states. One of the spots mentioned for New York was Watkins Glen State Park and its gorges. I had traveled some in New York but had never heard of the park or its rock formations and was astonished at what I found as I looked into it. I had my itinerary’s first destination.

Roughly 500 miles from my home in Salem, Virginia, Watkins Glen State Park seemed a reasonable day’s ride and the roads I selected—I thought—would keep me off the limited access highways I hoped to avoid. Nevertheless, most of the ride along US 220 North was breathtaking. Much of it in Virginia north of Roanoke was the perfect start to get the juices flowing and allow me to begin making the connections I was seeking.

Fried food, soft serve ice cream and t-shirt shops reign supreme in the village of Watkins Glen like they do in virtually every other tourist town. But at the top of the hill sits one of the most spectacular examples of creation you can see in the eastern United States. Whoever or whatever you want to credit with this, it’s difficult not to appreciate the miracle in it as the water has sculpted the rocks along the gorge for millennia, leaving a canyon of striated rock and greenery that is worthy of much deeper exploration than I was able to give it on this trip.

I set up my hammock and bug net and called it a night, but not before an older fellow from the campsite next door came over for a visit. Turns out he had a beemer years and years ago and went on about how much he missed it, but his wife’s infirmity kept him from feeding this part of his soul. I could relate and didn’t push the notion that our personal sacrifices can have the opposite of the intended affect. He was a minister, and I asked him to keep me in his prayers as I set out.

The next morning dawned bright and cool. The perfect day to cross northern New England, and a spectacular day it was. I enjoyed the increasingly warm sunshine and mile after mile of twisty roads and breathtaking scenery. Through the Adirondacks, the Green Mountains of Vermont, the White Mountains of New Hampshire, and into Maine, Kamele swayed and purred as we pushed north and east with the scent of pine and cool mountain air breezing past us.

As I crossed into Maine and the sun tilted low in the sky, preparing to say goodnight through my mirrors, the ubiquity of moose crossing signs became apparent. Now the chance of seeing a moose in the wild was a big part of this trip for me, and I thought heading to the part of Maine with the highest concentration of the large mammals would improve my chances of seeing one, but I certainly didn’t want to get so close that it ended my trip. In the waning daylight, lengthening shadows, and narrowing roads, every dark spot along the roadside began to look like it could be a moose. My pace slowed considerably as the moose warnings grew increasingly ominous: “high hit rate” and “hundreds of collisions” jumped out at me with flashing lights. I was down to about 30 miles per hour and hoping I would arrive safely at my campsite before complete darkness fell over Kokajo, Maine. I pulled into the campsite just as the owner was turning out the light in her office. After a curt Maine welcome tinged with admonition for this late hour, I set up my tent in darkness without having any idea of my surroundings.

At daybreak I set out for my potential moose sighting in earnest. The sunrise over the campground was truly magnificent and yet would only hint at the extraordinary day I had in store as I set out for Halifax, Nova Scotia. As it turned out the maps I printed out and stuffed into my tank bag weren’t particularly helpful that morning—or, alas, maybe they were. I accidentally ended up on a logging road that prohibited motorcycles and within the first hour of riding that morning I saw four moose. The first guy was slogging through a picturesque bog as I came to a stop. He looked up from his foraging and seemed to question my relevance. The moment seemed to freeze in time as we looked at one another from 200 feet away. He must have decided he should continue his breakfast because he broke his gaze and stuffed his head back down into the watery buffet.

Not long into Nova Scotia, the gray skies decided to offer up some of their moisture. I made a quick pit stop along a very narrow shoulder to put on my one piece, yellow BMW raingear. If you’ve ever tried to pull raingear on over a BMW Rallye 3 jacket you know the armor in the elbows will hang up the rain suit every time. This time was no exception. In my frustration I yanked the yellow plastic up only to feel a tear – not in the raingear, but in my shoulder. Ouch! What should have been a simple task brought me several sleepless nights and near constant pain over the days that followed and was the only real negative I would experience over the eight days on the road. I even went so far as to stop at several clinics to see if I could get a doctor to give me a cortisone shot. Note: if you are a US citizen travelling to Canada, get travel insurance or prepare to pay out of pocket for a doctor’s visit. I was told it would cost me $675 just to register at one of these facilities. I opted to go with the pain.

The next morning brought tired eyes which were all I really needed as it turned out. I had planned a southerly route along the Nova Scotia coast on my way to Cape Breton thinking I would enjoy spectacular scenery all morning. Mother Nature had other plans. The fog that had settled in overnight would not relent until I was up in Port Hawkesbury crossing the causeway to Cape Breton and points north. Riding in the fog always feels somewhat otherworldly—made all the more so by the hulking cadavers of old wooden fishing boats looking as if they too had had difficulty finding their way through the fog. Though haunting, the atmosphere was not an entirely unwelcome wrinkle in my ideal image for the morning’s ride.

Before hitting the campsite, I rode the short mile down the main street in St. Martins to the Sea Caves. This spectacular landscape shone brightly in the evening sun, and seeing it in the evening allowed me to avoid the possibility that morning fog would keep me from seeing it the next day. I had the place almost to myself and so avoided some embarrassment as I slipped and landed on my backside on the seaweed coated rocks at low tide. Thankfully this was the only time my gear—and my rear—hit the ground over the eight days.

Arriving at the campground I found the grassy site I was assigned and set the kickstand. The fully loaded bike promptly sank into the wet ground and toppled over. Righting 600 pounds with two good arms is challenge enough, but with my gimpy shoulder it wasn’t going to happen. I asked my neighbor for a hand, and we got the bike up and found a charred piece of firewood to prop the kickstand and avoid a repeat. Again I set my increasingly damp gear out to dry under a picnic shelter, then took my naproxen and acetomenaphine, rubbed my shoulder with the ointment the pharmacist in Halifax gave me, and was able to settle in for a reasonable night’s sleep.

Heading west along Route 9 toward Bangor, Maine unfurled, some of the best roads of the trip so far. A gorgeous, sun-drenched afternoon almost made me forget about my shoulder as Kamele and I danced our dance toward the New Hampshire border.

Route 2 westbound across the northern edge of the White Mountain National Forest would be the only road I would traverse a second time the entire trip. I cruised into the campground early enough to unload, head out for a sandwich, and still had a few hours of daylight left. I cruised along Route 16 and though it hadn’t occurred to me earlier, I realized the auto road up to Mount Washington might be a ride worth taking. I had seen the bumper stickers and always thought they were a bit tacky but when morning came I was first in line to make the ride up the mountain. In many ways this was the highlight of an incredible trip. Having the road to myself and passing through pine scented forests to the rocky ground above the tree line, the weather held just long enough to get a view across to the mountains and valleys beyond. Truly breathtaking—and they now make motorcycle-sized stickers that say “This bike climbed Mount Washington.” I put mine on as soon as I returned to the base of the mountain. Tackiness be damned.

The trip south from here would take me to a much needed visit with family and friends in Connecticut, and I was able to savor every minute of good company while I rested and pulled myself together for the trip back to Southwest Virginia. For the ride home I permitted myself a nine hour ride on the interstate, clad in raingear and anxious to see my kids.

The journey allowed me to enjoy so much of what the natural world around us has to offer and time to focus on what my own place is in it. The mysteries that surround us I think are better left to remain just that. With two wheels beneath me and the open road ahead, there remain endless opportunities to explore the worlds outside and inside, navigating the potential dangers and finding peace and joy in the journey.

Sometimes the destination is a place, and sometimes it’s a road. But if you plan well and are lucky, it can be both. US-191, also known as “The Coronado Trail Scenic Byway,” runs through the Apache and Sitgreaves National Forests in the White Mountains of Eastern Arizona and is one of the top low traffic, high scenic highways in the country. Its designation used to be US-666, but 666 is reputed to be the devil’s number, and when that number is combined with the complex topography of this part of the road, it became known by those that rode it on two wheels as “The Devil’s Highway.”

Possibly as a public relations effort, the road was renamed US-191not too long ago, perhaps because of all the US-666 signs that kept being stolen, but those who have ridden this road enthusiastically know differently. The route is painted with a fairly straight highway centerline as it continues south from Alpine for about 20 miles, while treating riders to a few easy sweepers. But, once past Hannagan Meadow, it looks as though the painter found the key to a liquor cabinet and didn’t sober up until he got to Clifton, 72 miles down the road. You won’t see 18-wheelers on this section of US-191 as vehicles longer than 40 feet are prohibited; they just can’t make the turns.

I think the best way to ride it is south from Alpine. My preference is to get to Alpine by first riding US-180 north from I-10 at Deming, NM (elev. 4335 feet). US-180 north begins with a straight run of about 35 miles, then transitions into broad sweepers and slow inclines through the Mogollon Mountains until you get to Glenwood. From there to Alpine the road is a bit more twisty, the inclines steeper, and the temperatures much cooler. There are a lot of great picture opportunities along this route.

The elevation at Alpine is 8050 feet. Riding US-191 south, the topography is mostly descending, but the elevations throughout the 95 miles to Clifton (elev. 3450 feet) vary from about three thousand to ten thousand feet, often with lots of challenging twisties and many switchbacks, but also some broad sweepers through sub-alpine woodlands. The two-lane road is well maintained, but there are long stretches of decreasing radius curves where the shoulders are narrow, the rock faces high and sheer, and the drop-offs steep; don't look for guardrails, there aren't any. Posted speed limits range from short distances of 50 mph to long stretches of 15 to 10 mph—and you’ll know why.

For less experienced and careful riders traveling at moderate speeds with good equipment, it’s an opportunity for a safe and stimulating ride on a low traffic road. For experienced motorcyclists, it’s an exhilarating pleasure, but nevertheless one that for even highly competent riders requires much forethought and caution. Be especially careful of taking liberties with double solid centerlines; the sight line between twisties is very short, and it’s impossible to know what’s coming at you around the curve. Take some time to enjoy the pull-offs; there are a fair number of wide, scenic places to catch your breath. It is typical to see mountain sheep, elk, deer, ground squirrels, and cattle. This is a road best ridden in daylight, when it’s dry, and in the company of friends.

Of course, you can start your ride the other way round, heading north from Clifton and ending in Alpine. It’s great both ways, but the character of the two rides will be different. For the rider who wants to challenge the road, I think riding south is best because I personally find that ascending hairpins are trickier than descending ones. But, heading north or south, every time you ride it, it’s different. By the way, before you start in either direction, find a gas station and fill your tank; they’re scarce on this road.

It can take competent riders in a hurry a little more than two hours to make the run; longer if they take it easy and pull over at the wide spots to take in the views and snap a pictures. With sticky tires and lots of experience and stamina a rider can do it faster; it’ll be an exhilarating but exhausting ride. This section of US-191 is a low traffic ride any time of the year. On an early June morning this year, I saw three cars and two motorcycles en-route north and only one car heading south. Heated gear is recommended if you ride before May or after September; the mornings and evenings are cold. July and August is the height of their “monsoon” season, and it usually doesn’t start to snow seriously in the higher elevations until the middle of October. On a late spring or early fall morning, you’re already riding in or above the clouds.

In June, 2011, careless campers caused a fire that burned over 800 square miles of the Bear Wallow Wilderness area, but it’s recovering quickly. Plant and wildlife are returning, and patches of damaged trees are still evident along this road. I saw mountain sheep, elk, and deer just off the road on my June ride this year.

Be sure to stop near the end of the ride at Morenci, near Clifton, AZ, and you’ll see one of the largest copper producing surface mines in the world, contributing about 15 percent to the total world production. It’s worth stopping at the pull-off and snapping a picture.

No matter the destination for motorcyclists, it’s always the ride, but sometimes it can be more than just the road that makes a journey memorable. In Alpine, The Bear Wallow Café is a serendipity bonus. Riders who long for a time before interstates, when there were lots of roadside and rural cafés, where the service was friendly and the décor strictly local embellishments, will enjoy a meal at The Bear Wallow Café in Alpine.

Walking in the door is like visiting the past. Breakfast is my favorite meal there; the food is good and plentiful, but it’s the 11 varieties of pies, as good as those they say grandma used to make, that make me look forward to a Bear Wallow visit. You’ll meet local people who are glad to talk about where you’re from and where you’re going; if you can’t get into a friendly conversation in The Bear Wallow Café, you must be avoiding it on purpose. While you wait for your food to be served, meander about the place and check out the pictures and critters that populate The Bear Wallow’s walls; it’s like a small museum out of time but in the right place. Prepare to relax awhile; The Bear Wallow isn’t a fast food restaurant.

People who ride on two wheels know that there aren’t words to tell non-riders about the feeling; it’s like trying to tell someone what chocolate tastes like. It’s one of those things that must be discovered in person; vicarious doesn’t really work. Every rider experiences and feels a ride in his or her own way, and for different reasons. There are no standardized thrills; each of us is a different rider, and we're tuned into our own perspectives. That’s what makes telling non-riders about the thrill of a ride so difficult, and why we gravitate to organizations like the MOA and local BMW clubs. As I said, you have to experience something to really feel it, and I also believe that you have to share an experience to really enjoy it. So, one of these days try US-191 and some of the neighboring roads, and while you’re there, try the Bear Wallow Café. I know you’ll look forward to going back and doing it again. As a matter of fact, I just did.

It would be a challenge for motorcycle riders to find a more beautiful driving trail than the scenic back roads of Southwest Virginia. Looping through the Blue Ridge Mountain range, The Claw of the Dragon is becoming one of the most popular destinations in the South for motorcycle enthusiasts.

With the charming town of Wytheville, Virginia, as the trail’s center or hub, The Claw of the Dragon features loops totaling over 350 miles as it ventures over to the community of Marion to the west and Galax to the east. The drive meanders through parts of seven Virginia counties but is easily accessible from Interstates 77 or 81 as starting points.

Along the way, riders have the opportunity to stop at many interesting and authentic attractions. After a heart-stopping ride on Virginia Route 16, the two-lane ribbon over three mountains between Tazewell and Marion called “Back of the Dragon,” don’t miss some of the unique attractions nearby. Harkening back to the grand movie palaces of yesteryear, The Lincoln Theatre is the home of the nationally syndicated bluegrass music television series, “Song of the Mountains.” This beautiful facility is one of only three remaining Mayan Revival theaters in America. The General Francis Marion Hotel is another favorite of riders with its restaurant called The Black Rooster and a bar with 27 beers on tap. Nearby, Virginia Sweetwater Distillery and Appalachian Mountain Spirits offer a unique taste of local flavor. Wolf’s Barbeque is also a hometown favorite, with several other restaurants nearby. Other interesting attractions include Hungry Mother State Park and the Museum of the Middle Appalachians.

Many people will recognize the Wytheville area as the location where two interstates converge, but there are a lot more interesting roads within the historic community. Riders will enjoy a challenging ride up Big Walker Mountain, the 16-mile scenic byway that makes its way to the top, where they will be immersed in breathtaking flora and fauna of each season. At the top, take a rest at Big Walker Lookout, climb the 100 foot tower, and enjoy a snack in the country store. A variety of other local attractions such as Beagle Ridge Herb Farm, West Wind Winery and Fort Chiswell Animal Park offer the opportunity to enjoy some distinctive “homegrown” experiences. Wytheville’s downtown historic district allows visitors to leisurely walk the streets and discover the history that has made this a town of hospitality for over 200 hundred years. Interesting shopping, museums and the historic flavor of the 1776 Log House Restaurant are just a few of the must-see stops along the way. An evening of music can be enjoyed at the Wohlfahrt Haus Dinner Theatre or one of several music venues nearby. Wytheville has a variety of lodging accommodations including all-suite hotels, bed-and-breakfasts, and cabins. A historic boutique hotel will also open soon in the downtown district.

The newest anchor community for The Claw of the Dragon is Galax. This Virginia city is steeped in the history of music. The Galax Old Fiddler’s Convention, held the second week of August each year, has earned the community the distinction of being named the “World Capital of Old Time Mountain Music.” Festivals and special events are held at the Rex Theatre and in the downtown, showcasing the area’s authentic sound. Capitalizing on the wealth of local artisans, the area is also home to the Chestnut Creek School of the Arts. A variety of classes offer hands-on opportunities to explore an art or hone a craft with local artists. The words “Galax” and “barbecue” are synonymous, so much so that the annual Smoke on the Mountain, Virginia State Barbecue Championship is held in downtown Galax each July.

This is but a sampling of all the interesting things riders can see and do as they challenge The Claw of the Dragon and explore the interesting communities along the way. For more information, visit ClawoftheDragon.com.

The heat of the day had given way to cool mountain air which soon turned to miserable cold, cutting through our mesh jackets and pants and made worse by the sweaty grime on our bodies. We spotted a sign pointing out a “Mirante” (vista point) to the left. To our right, we were barely able to spot a pink concrete portal reading Hotel Rio do Rastro. But we were looking for the ECOhotel, so we plowed on through the fog.

The road abruptly became a steep, downhill corkscrew, and we soon realized we had passed our hotel, as we were now riding the acclaimed Serra do Rio do Rastro. There would be nothing but forest and steep drops for miles ahead and because we had reserved the room back at the top, we knew we had to turn around. The road was so narrow and steep, I wondered how I would turn the bike around, and the trucks kept on coming at us through the fog. Soon, I found a wide shoulder on the side of the road and pulled over. Would I be able to turn the 400-pound, fully-loaded bike on this steep and narrow road? I began pushing the bike remembering to look where I wanted to go. I made the turn but stalled the bike in the middle of the foggy night. What had I gotten myself into?

About five years ago, my husband Eric and I learned to ride motorcycles. A year later, we bought our current bikes. He rides a 2010 R1200 GSA, and I ride a 2010 F650 GS. Yes, they are big bikes for new riders, but we needed solid bikes to make a 50 mile daily commute on I-80. We have ridden quite a bit together since then and have racked up more than 40,000 miles on our bikes, including trips to several states as well as a weekend at Rawhyde Adventures. So when Alberto, an online friend, suggested we ride in Brazil, it sounded like the natural next step in our quest for adventure. After all, I was born and raised in Brazil and speak fluent Portuguese. I figured if we stayed away from the crazy big cities like Rio and Sao Paulo, how bad could it be?

Soon, I was researching BMW motorcycle rentals, and Eric was looking for reasonable airfare. I found two places that rented BMWs and while working on the April availability of motorcycles, we were also talking about the upcoming trip with Alberto over Skype. Seeing that we were struggling with finding bikes we liked and seriously concerned about riding out of a huge city like Sao Paulo, Alberto suggested he lease us the bikes. Did I forget to mention that he is a partner in a BMW motorcycle dealership in the town of Cascavel? That came as a big relief since Cascavel is relatively small and close to the area we wanted to travel. Eric immediately booked us tickets to Foz do Iguaçu.

After a long flight, we were grateful that Alberto drove to Foz to pick us up and take us back to Cascavel, two hours away. There, he would not allow us to simply rent his bikes and leave, but, in true Brazilian fashion, he took us to lunch and introduced us to many of his motorcyclist friends. One of these friends even planned a route for us to ride, recommending hotels, restaurants, and even gas stops along the way. That night, we ended up having dinner at the house of some new motorcycle enthusiast friends, and the night ran late. The next day we picked up the bikes, got through the paperwork and were led by Alberto to the edge of town to send us on our way. There we were, Eric and I, on our first motorcycle trip outside of the U.S.

Before I talk about the trip, I need to explain some of my fears. On the drive from Foz to Cascavel, I had the opportunity to observe Brazilians driving in that region. Although I had driven many years in Brazil, this was different. For one thing, I would be on two wheels, without a cage around me. Additionally, motorcycles in Brazil are everywhere. When we were last there nine years ago, we hardly saw any bikes. Now it seemed everyone had a motorcycle, both men and women, and they ride like lunatics. As if that weren’t enough to make me nervous, the night before we started our ride our new friends warned us that the road we would be on was very dangerous. “Many people die on this road, stay in the ruts made by the truck tires, and watch out for the trucks because it’s harvest season.” Ugh!

When Alberto finally sent us on our way, I was scared, tired, and on a strange bike. I was riding a G650GS, the lowest bike GS Alberto had in his stock and Eric was riding an F800GS. The road was indeed bad, and there were lots of trucks, speed bumps and speed traps.

Because of all this, we underestimated the travel time and arrived to our first planned rest stop way after dark. We pulled into a small town called Palmas and proceeded to look for a small hotel that had been recommended. It was dark, there were a lot of trucks around, and we got lost in the narrow streets. When we stopped by a couple of gentlemen and asked for directions to the hotel, they began to try to explain all the turns we would have to make until one of them said “never mind, follow me!” Sure enough, we made so many turns I started thinking he was pulling our leg, but soon enough he led us right up to the front door of the hotel. He waved and quickly drove off. The hotel cost $45 a night, was quite clean and comfortable, and served a hearty breakfast buffet with fruit, juices, yogurts, cold cuts, fresh breads, pastries, scrambled eggs and cakes which were all included in the price of our stay.

On the following day’s ride we started getting used to passing double-trailer trucks and got better at spotting the dirt-camouflaged speed bumps. Before long, we were enjoying the beautiful countryside and gaining some serious weight from all the wonderful Brazilian food. Everyone was very friendly wherever we stopped, although they were a little surprised at seeing an older couple riding motorcycles. I say older, because we didn’t see many riders over the age of 30, especially women.

At the end of the third day we found ourselves at the bottom of the Serra do Rio do Rastro and I stalled my bike. But, being a BMW, she started up without a hiccup (unlike my heart, which was hiccupping a lot) and we headed back up the mountain. Sure enough, when we rode off the road into the dirt under the pink structure that said Hotel Rio do Rastro, we saw the small letters “ECO” which in the dark and fog were invisible from the road. From the portal-like entrance, we proceeded into the darkness, not seeing anything ahead and blindly trusting the occasional double arrows on each side of the “road” to show us the way. The long driveway wound down a hill, and we bounced along through ruts and over rocks. At the bottom of the hill we went through a little creek that crossed the driveway and were splashed by a wooden water wheel on the side of the road, barely distinguishable in the fog and dark. A lodge reception light appeared ahead of us, and when we pulled up we were treated to a cup of wonderfully thick dark chocolate, the keys and directions to our cabin. After changing our clothes, we wandered down to the restaurant and enjoyed an amazing dinner and some wonderful local wine.

The next day we got lost on our way to the coast and had to cut through 22 km of dirt road. Again, it was hot, and we were soon caked in red dirt. But, once we got to the asphalt and proceeded to climb again, we again found ourselves in fog. Soaking wet, cold and filthy, we arrived late Friday night before the Easter weekend in the city of Florianopolis. That was the hardest riding day of the trip.
On the motorcycles, we visited three states in the southern portion of Brazil and spent most of our time rushing from one town to another because of all the people we promised to visit. Though scheduling issues only allowed us to ride for one of the two weeks we had planned in Brazil, it was an incredible week. Miles and miles of coastal rainforest, amazing views, incredible weather, and…the FOOD! The hospitality of Brazilians is unbeatable, and we felt like royalty because of everyone offering us food and lodging. They gave us directions and were disappointed when we didn’t have more time to ride around with them. We returned the motorcycles unscathed and are very grateful to Alberto for the opportunity he gave us.

In a country with so many motorcycles on the road I noticed that car drivers were very aware of motorcyclists. Motorcycles there are a useful, economical and often the only affordable way to travel, and car drivers seemed to respect that and even make room for bikes, allowing them to split lanes. I hope that someday this courtesy will be common the U.S. as well.

It was a wonderful ride and we’re planning to go back again for more beautiful Brazilian scenery, delicious food, and, for sure, more adrenalin.

I feel like a queen as we pass two-up beneath the welcome sign of the 2014 BMW Motorrad Rally in Garmisch-Partenkirchen, Germany. Everyone is ogling our BMW K-1600 GTL Exclusive, and as I lean back on the upholstered backrest behind my man, Jamie Anthony, I’m almost tempted to raise my hand from the leather armrest and give the Royal Wave. 

From the moment we hit the road in Munich for the one-hour drive to Garmisch, I could tell the Exclusive was special. The gleaming silver and white bike is so sleek and cool-looking that every biker on the road has been giving us the thumbs up sign. I know they’ll keep doing that for the next six days as we take the bike on a tour of Germany’s most famous and scenic route, the Romantic Road. 

This scenic route, relatively unknown to Americans, runs from the steep vineyards along the River Main in Franconia’s Wurtzburg (where they drink wine) to the Alps of Schwangau in Southern Germany (where they prefer beer), a distance of 310 miles. The two-lane country road meanders alongside turquoise rivers and borders hay fields gleaming golden in the sun and pastures dotted with sheep and cows. We wind through countless picturesque medieval towns with onion-domed churches and half-timbered medieval houses as we follow the route.

Most visitors drive from Wurtzburg south to take in views of the approaching Alps. They end their journey in Schwangau, home to the world-famous Neuschwanstein Castle, which Disney used as the archetype for Sleeping Beauty’s Castle. We plan to drive it the opposite way, which is less trafficked. Our route from Garmisch leads us to Fussen to visit the Neuschwanstein Castle, then heads north on the Romantic Road.

Read more of Margie's story in the September issue of the BMW Owners News.  Visit the online digital edition now.