Posted By Dave Neese #211897,
Monday, November 30, 2020
Updated: Monday, November 30, 2020
With all the uncertainty provided to us by 2020, my riding time was severely curtailed, mostly by choice. Being retired, I typically average around 15,000 miles per year, but I pretty much avoided riding during springtime. As things opened up, I took a few day trips here and there over the summer, but family and other activities demanded my attention. Still, I longed for at least a weeklong trip before winter set in.
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.
Posted By Peter Davidson #214100,
Friday, October 30, 2020
From as early as I can remember, I had an infatuation with anything with two wheels and an engine. My first two-wheel love was not really a motorcycle, but a Puch Magnum moped. I remember getting my parents to take me to the local Puch dealer in a large barn-like building in Long Island. Sadly, my parents were not inclined to pay for the bike no matter how much I begged and made bold promises of garages to be cleaned, lawns mowed and behavior to be of the highest rectitude.
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.
Posted By Richard Gorzela #173494,
Thursday, August 13, 2020
It was an ambitious plan for us. I hadn’t been on a weeklong trip on a bike before. My son Raymond was only 17 in 2015. He had some experience; we worked on bikes together, fixing up a 1985 Nighthawk and a 1979 Goldwing. My son took the motorcycle safety course, and we did quite a few day rides and an overnight or two. We were up for a somewhat bigger adventure.
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.
Posted By Adam Chandler #207579,
Tuesday, July 14, 2020
In Central New Hampshire, 400 yards from the local ATV trails, there's a piece of private land free from cell phone service. There are no gas stations, either. You can ride and brap away the blues. This escape for locals who want to get some air and throw up some dirt is called "The Rock Pile."
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!
Posted By Kent Gallaway #195534,
Tuesday, June 16, 2020
I looked forward to escaping a cold spring and left our home near Readstown, Wisconsin, on my BMW and towing my Kompact Kamper. The plan was to head south to North Carolina and visit an old friend, one of the few I have from grade school in California. I would go to Rock Island, Illinois, and start my trip picking up Kirk Olson, who I met at the Soldiers Grove Rally. I started talking with Kirk at the rally because he had this beautiful chocolate labradoodle, Moca.
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.
Posted By Matt Wank #217542,
Sunday, March 15, 2020
...but I really want to. I consider 55 mph a sweet spot speed. You can be on a quiet, relaxing side road, taking in the scenery and stopping at will, while still making decent time to your destination. D.C. area motorways are essentially the opposite of that. They are either way too slow due to traffic, or way too fast and chaotic on the off-chance there isn't any. This lack of a speed sweet spot struck me on a recent day trip to Richmond, Virginia, for a college buddy's baby's first birthday. D.C. to Richmond requires the dreaded I-95, twice in one day in this case, taking the shortest route distance-wise. It was the weekend, but I-95 is notorious for traffic even outside rush hour for any number of reasons, including constant construction and routine accidents. So predictably miserable it is that another friend in the D.C. area drove his family down to Richmond the night before and stayed in a hotel. I chose a different mitigation technique, one that would incorporate a sweet spot.
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/.
Posted By Scott A Moseman #196924,
Friday, February 14, 2020
When one thinks about the Grand Canyon, the heavily visited North or South Rims are what typically come to mind. But there’s another location less frequented that has similarly spectacular views: Tuweep Overlook. (Also known as the Toroweap Overlook by some.)
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!
Posted By Natalie Ellis Barros #199011,
Monday, May 11, 2015
"Young, Wild, and Riding Free"
Natalie Ellis Barros #199011
You might say it was a little allegorical that my first solo adventure on a motorcycle would be heading 600 or so miles down the “One” to pick up my college diploma. I was too cheap to pay $60 for it to be mailed, and I was in need of my first real ride, alone. So, closing one chapter of my life and riding straight into the next, I heaved myself and a bunch of gear onto the back of my beautiful GS and hit the road for Southern California.
I know it’s not around the world or anything, but after three hours of mingling with the commuters headed to the Bay area and fighting for the carpool lane on the I-680, bending against the ocean breeze and squinting into the glare of the sun off the iridescent waters felt like a magical world all its own. The wind likes to try to knock you over on that section of the 101, and I wanted to go faster than the 70 mph speed limit because the road just sits there, open and clear for you with the sun smiling down, but the wind wanted nothing more than to throw this 23-year-old out on her first adventure ride off her poorly packed bike. It was in that moment, when all my muscles in my tiny body were tightened together in order to keep the bike up, occasionally having to punch the bags strapped up behind me to keep them from pulling me down, that I started crying. But the tears were not from some “girly” frustration and weakness, but out of pure happiness and the excited thrill of being alive that only motorcyclists can understand.
I stopped in Monterey for a late lunch at a lovely little American diner just off Cannery Road. Ironically, I had some of the best fish tacos in my life. As soon as I took off my helmet, on came the stares and the questions. Being a strong advocate of ATGATT, I can appear pretty genderless with my helmet on, which can of course come in handy if I’m filling up the tank in a sketchy place. But once I expose my head covered in long feminine locks and features, the reactions of the on-lookers around me change and surprisingly almost always for the better.
As a fit young woman, I’ve been objectified and harassed by men frequently. It seems that no matter what I’m wearing, be it sweat pants, dance clothes, cocktail dress, or parka, there’s always someone who feels the need to be crass or send their hungry eyes my way. But every man I’ve encountered while in my gear has treated me with the utmost respect and admiration, often asking me questions about my journey and my bike, but always encouraging my independent nature. In fact, it was usually the women who would either glare in disapproval, ask me why I was “inviting danger,” or simply refuse to acknowledge me. It seems more and more that it is women who put our gender in a box rather than men.
Returning to my journey, the road was beautiful and warm as I headed down the coastal highway. The camping spot that I had planned on stopping at was full, so on down the road I continued. Soon, the sun was setting, and it was starting to get cold. I had passed Big Sur and was beginning to get worried about time. I had thrown around the idea of just stopping somewhere on the road and attempting to toss down my sleeping bag in some brush in the hopes of going unnoticed, but the idea of being awakened by a cop or worse in the dead of the night kept that idea as a last resort only.
With the sun down for about an hour, I was exhausted and knew that I was entering the “danger zone” and not the Kenny Loggins one. The more I continued down the road the more dangerous I knew I became to myself and to others. “Cambria 6 miles” the road sign said, and I pulled off into what I thought was Cambria looking for some answers. My phone was almost dead. I had it in airplane mode to save energy and without it, I felt utterly lost. I didn’t remember seeing a campground on the map until SLO after Big Sur, and I was stuck in the cold in between. There were a few hotels, but this being my only night on the road before heading into to LA tomorrow, I refused to give in and stay in one. Not only was I a broke, recent college grad, but I knew that my trip would have been an utter failure. I rode all this way with all this crap on the back of my bike to prove to myself that I was independent and strong, to prove that I had grown from mom and dad’s little college girl into “adventure woman” ready to embrace the world with nothing but a F650GS and a tent, and I wasn’t just going to call it quits and pitch up in a hotel. Hell no! I took a deep breath, latched my helmet back on, straddled “Lady Godiva” once again and took off south. Sure enough, about a mile down the road, I found my deliverance from the winding One.
“San Simeon State Park.” Apparently I hadn’t passed Cambria like I thought. That little, brown sign with the shiny triangle “tent” icon glowed in the night, and I breathed a solid breath of relief. I followed the dirt road on my trusty dual up the hill toward the inaptly named “primitive” camping. It was dark, but I found my way around to my spot. I pitched my tent and left the sill off because I wanted to “wake up with the sun” since my phone was dead and I had no alarm…terrible idea. Even though it wasn’t as cold as one might think it would be on the coast in November, it was still cold enough to wish I had put the sill over and wake up whenever my body wanted to. Nevertheless, it was a lovely night. I was freezing, but I had the luminescent full moon and howling coyotes for company. Sure, I was frightened; who knew what was out there waiting to prey on a woman alone with nothing but a bit of pepper spray and a pocket knife clung to her chest for defense?
On my own, wherever the road would take me, on the most wonderful vehicle for adventure that humankind could’ve ever invented. This is what I had wanted out of life. So many of my friends and peers were struggling to figure out what they wanted in life, thrown into the “real world” and wishing they were back under the security blanket of student loans and grade point averages to define who they were. I didn’t want to be anywhere else but on the road.
I woke up with the sun after sleeping but a handful of hours, packed up and hit the road. I passed Cambria with the sun in my eyes and saw Morro Bay for the first time shortly after that. I’ve grown up in California and have been up and down it a dozen of times, and yet I’m still finding places I never even knew existed. It was a quiet and fresh morning, and there sat Morro Rock, tall and magnificent, a soldier in parade position waiting at the ends of the Earth for me to pass her and salute.
I stopped for breakfast in San Luis Obispo and discovered that it was about 7:30 a.m. I continued on along the coast to Santa Barbra and decided I’d take the 101 into LA to visit friends before heading to Newport Beach where my best friend was waiting to celebrate the weekend with me.
By 2 p.m. Hollywood was already hell. I thought I hated driving there, but riding there with too much gear and splitting lanes and possibly denting a Maserati was even worse. Luckily, a good friend of mine lives a block away from the Chinese theater, so I parked the bike, locked up my gear at his place, and he and I took to the streets to laugh at the tourists, judge the hipsters, and admire the Art Deco that hides behind the glamour of modern Hollywood.
I spent the weekend in Newport Beach visiting my old stomping ground and finally picked up my diploma from UC Irvine just before heading back up Highway One that next week. I had never gone up past Long Beach on the Pacific Coast Highway, so up I went with what seemed like a lot more courage and self-assurance than I had come down with. My gear never wavered, and I pissed off countless drivers stuck behind each other as I fearlessly scooted between them and past the vast and crowded city.
I took my time on the way up, stopping at “points of historical interest” and points that at least I thought were interesting even if no one else did anymore. I visited some abandoned well, a tree that hung to the ground like an old woman, and the Inez mission that sits just past the way-too-adorable Solvang which I just couldn’t bear to stop at and take a photo of. I camped again on the way up, and this time I remembered to charge my phone longer so that I could throw up the sill. I hit the road early in the morning and got to see the elephant seals playing on the beach before the tourists swarmed them with camera lenses. My gas light went on, and I had to wait at the gas station in Ragged Point for the place to open and my phone to charge. At $5 a gallon, I was once again happy to be riding a motorcycle and not a gas-guzzler.
When I took off again, it was just after 8 a.m. and the road was empty. I slowed down to keep pace with a Red-Tailed Hawk. At first, he almost crashed right into me, but then for about a mile he flew next to me! He was close enough that I could make out the sharp curve of his beak and the bright red of his tail feathers. I smiled from under my helmet, and when my companion finally took off and I went around a bend, I knew I could never feel more alive. I never believed in fate, but as I’m sure most of you reading this have felt, if there is such a thing then this is definitely my fate; this is what I was meant for. I startled a bobcat that scampered up the nearly vertical hill like a bullet, and I slipped past the ever-crowded Big Sur seemingly unnoticed.
I stopped for lunch in Monterey yet again, and as I turned inland I sang at the top of my lungs. The beauty of the full-faced helmet is that you can still look like a bad-ass while screeching Prince’s “Little Red Corvette” at the top of your lungs. When I finally did arrive home I was more exhausted and more fulfilled than I had ever been in my entire life.
Next stop, South America. Anyone down?
Alpine Delight: The 2014 BMW MOA/Edelweiss Bike Travel Alpine Delight Tour
The very first Edelweiss tour in 1981 made its way through the Alps with five riders and two guides, including company founder Werner Wachter. Ever since then, Edelweiss has become a go-to solution for motorcycle riders of all stripes who share a common desire to see some of the most beautiful vistas and ride some of the most memorable roads all over the world.
The 2014 BMW MOA Alpine Delight Tour explored some of the most picturesque and challenging roads in the world, taking in the Alps and Dolomite regions of Germany, Austria, Italy and Switzerland. Five MOA members got together over email to discuss the trip: Paul Bates #30139, Michael Diehl #89137, Chris Hughes #33373, Elaine Rourke # and Shane Whitney #192518.
The ride began last August in the beautiful resort town of Seefeld, Austria. The group of riders rode through the green Bavarian hills of southern Germany, visiting one of King Ludwig’s amazing castles along the way. “The first riding day was easy,” said Chris, “and it gave everyone an opportunity to get acquainted with their motorcycle as well as the riding conditions we could expect for the rest of the week.”
“The switchbacks were as awesome as we’d always heard,” added Elaine, continuing, “One mountain pass had 48 of them!” Several riders agreed that while the roads were narrow and some were subject to traffic, most of the time, there was little traffic, and that made the roads more inviting than intimidating. Paul attributed the lack of traffic to school being back in session and credited the preponderance of “Welcome Bikers” signs at every roadside restaurant, café and attraction for making him feel at home everywhere the tour went.
“The Dolomites were the most stunning landscapes of the rides,” Chris said. Shane agreed, calling the Dolomites the absolute highlight of the tour. “The Dolomite passes were more challenging than the Alps,” Shane said, “and the views were more of a departure from what I see riding through the Adirondacks at home. I enjoyed the total focus it takes to ride the passes at a faster pace. The feeling of exhaustion at the end of the day made me feel like I put in the work and I enjoyed the hell out of it.” Chris concurred, saying, “The unending beauty was a challenge to my senses – I didn’t know whether to keep riding or stop and admire the scenery.”
Michael especially enjoyed Italy’s Passo di Stelvio, which features 36 switchbacks on the western side, the peak (third highest in the Alps) at 2,758 meters (9,048 feet), then 48 more switchbacks on the eastern slope. The 18-kilometer (11.2 miles) pass has numerous, mostly unlit, tunnels as well as sheer drop-offs and stone walls to greet the tour buses, trucks, motorcycles and bicycles that traverse its path. Following Stelvio, the tour wound through Glurns, a 13th century walled city that has remained virtually unchanged since its founding. Stelvio was the last pass of the tour, with the day’s ride ending back in the start city of Seefeld. Michael and Pam plan to view and review their hour-long GoPro video of the ride through Passo di Stelvio in the off-season to remind them of their time on the tour.
Michael relied on his wife, Pam, to navigate and identify upcoming hazards, especially when riding through the tight switchbacks. Elaine has suggested that Edelweiss include GPS units, loaded with the tour routes, on each bike. She said, “In some places the road signs were in German, Italian and a local dialect, which made it difficult to follow printed directions and maps. Having a working GPS on the bike would have added to my enjoyment of the trip.” She eagerly credited the Edelweiss staff, especially guide Michael Keller and Austria-based staffer Karin Gritsch, with making the tour such an easy, enjoyable experience.
All the riders agreed that staying in the same hotel for two nights at one point in the tour was a real plus. “It cut down on packing and unpacking, said Elaine. “The stops gave us the opportunity to explore some quaint towns, like Seefeld, St. Ulrich and Livigno,” said Chris, adding that the rest days gave the MOA riders a chance to get better acquainted with each other as well. Shane liked the two-night stays as well, saying, “There were plenty of nice locations for several days’ worth of local riding, so the necessity to change locations everyday just wasn't there.”
Elaine called the Alpine Delight Tour “the trip of a lifetime, a dream come true.” For Elaine and her husband, it was an adrenaline-pumping way to fight getting old as they celebrated their 25th anniversary and her 65th birthday. “Being from Florida,” she says, “the mountains provided a true departure from our usual motorcycle riding experiences.”
Shane particularly enjoyed the ability to ride on his own or in a smaller group, and explore some of the off-route areas on his own and at his own pace. “I’m an adventure seeker,” he admits, “and that allowed for more adventure than with a group ride. I was very excited to ride through Switzerland and the Alps.”
Paul reminisced about the weather, noting that Alpine weather in late September and early October is not unlike the eastern United States in that it brings clear vistas, clean roads and crisp temperatures. He noted that the Edelweiss bikes were all equipped with panniers and tank bags, giving enough day-to-day carrying capacity to bring along all the layers necessary to handle changing temperatures and the one brief rain shower they encountered.
For more information about Edelweiss Bike Travel, see their website at www.edelweissbike.com.
Posted By Helge Pederson, 45007,
Thursday, March 5, 2015
...
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.
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