Yet by chance, with changes in the university, there Dave and I were, in the same classroom on one perilous day, sitting side by side. By chance, in a matter of speaking, Dave pushed me to the front of the classroom. No need going into the details, it was what amounted to a turning point in my life. In no time we were friends, then not much later, best friends, to this day.

Dave and Ken at the Fat Boy’s Pork Palace near Brandywine, WV. Found on US Rt. 33, until it closed, Fat Boys either sent you on your way over the Allegheny Mountains into Virginia, or welcomed you on the West Virginia side with a fine meal, the highway and the meals, both favorites for the two riders.

The middle years of our lives were one motorcycling adventure after another. Decades ago, after our jaunt down the Natchez Trace, we’d made our way into Mississippi on Dave’s personal quest to find the South’s finest bowl of gumbo. I’d spotted a place just off the main highway; it called to both of us. It was a dumpy place with a dining area of only two or three tables. It was there Dave violated one of the few rules forming the basis of his life: Never dine where both food and fish bait were sold.

The place was nondescript, a cubby hole, nothing of note to give it any semblance of a personality. What we saw inside was much like we’d seen from the street, neglect, the discolored walls, its rough demeanor, unwelcoming. It was a local hangout, a place neither of our wives would ever consider darkening its doorway, perish the thought. To those inside, what Dave and I thought in that moment was of no significance. They could care less, our opinion.

Dave and his Connie on US Rt. 50 in eastern West Virginia. Over Ken’s decades of riding, other than Lombard Street in San Francisco, he had never seen a stretch quite like this. The highway has since been straightened, robbing riders of an exciting run up or down the hill.

Food was ordered through one of two irregular holes cut in their back wall, not far from the other where the same was done for fish bait. One dared not look back into the kitchen in fear of what you might see, but soon, a huge Styrofoam cup appeared, hot to the touch. It was our dinner.

Watching us had been another man, a local constable of some sort, seated at one of the tables, holding court, he in his police attire. Without so much of even a hello, in the richest Southern dialect to be found anywhere, he asked, “Watsh you boyz gonna drink wit tat thar gumbo?”

Dave and Ken’s cycles parked in front of the Log Cabin Café in Silver Gate, Montana. This photograph appeared in Rider magazine, with a story Ken wrote where the restaurant was featured.. Ken would learn that for years, other motorcyclists would arrange their own cycles in the same configuration for their own pictures when they stopped for a meal.

Dave and I were lost in regards to his question, not so much answering, but gesturing in a way revealing our uncertainty. With what you can only call a neutral expression, he went on to share with us our only choice, “root beer!” Who were we to disagree with anyone wearing a uniform of the law. Root beer it was, and it will forever be. Dave and I managed to get our dinner-to-be to a beautiful city park, and with the Gulf of Mexico as our backdrop, both of us went about feasting on gumbo never again in our lives to be duplicated. We talk about that dinner to this day, it one of the grandest feasts of our time together on the road.

Together, Dave and I have plied our talents in pursuit of photographs since day one. On our rides together there was an understanding that when one of us found something special to aim our camera, the other would stay to assist or to look for their own pictures.

Ken, in 1976, on his ‘72 Honda 750 parked at Siegfred Hall on the Ohio University Campus in Athens, as it appeared when he purchased the bike. In years to come he would add stock mufflers and replace the Wixom with a Windjammer fairing. Photograph by Dave Levingston.

On one of my day rides I found something special, a beautiful stretch of highway, almost perfect, it requiring only the inclusion of two motorcycles. I called Dave, telling him of my find, it only half an hour’s ride from his home. He begged off once, then again the next day, until on my call the third day he couldn’t hold me off, finally relenting, we agreeing to do the photograph the following morning.

That special stretch of highway, to be photographed properly required a longer lens, and with the two of us riding together, a remote trigger, something I’d jury-rigged with the radio controls from a model airplane kit. To this day it’s one of my favorite photographs of the two of us, and the only time when we ever rode side by side. Sometimes artistic license requires bending your rules a bit. I would learn the next day that while we were gone, Dave’s wife went into labor with Esther, their first child.

Ken and his Connie, a ‘95 Kawasaki Concours, a bike he owned for 15 years. Best friend Dave Levingston made the photograph during a visit. There are only a handful of pictures of Ken and the bike together.

In addition to our photography, our other common interest was motorcycles. In no time we became riding buddies. Together we’ve shared tens of thousands of miles, Dave enduring decades of my abuse. All of this was well before I owned my RT, way back when we both had full heads of hair.

Over the years we’ve shared our life histories. Dave told me about his youth and of his dreams growing up. He told me of the many nights he’d lie awake, reading in the sporting magazines about Ely, Minnesota and the Boundary Waters Canoe Area Wilderness. For Dave it held an almost mythical quality. It was a place we needed to share. We made it the beginning of one of our long trips together.

We arrived in the small town of Ely late one evening in the rain, not a big deal. We set our sites on the next morning, riding through town, Dave absorbing every square inch. To our left and right were the canoe outfitters, it seemed by the dozens, ready to set you free for 3 or 5 or 7 or 10 days, even beyond 21 days to explore the wild.

All Dave needed to fulfill his life-long dream was a short time on the water, nothing more. We found a restaurant and settled in for our morning meal. In time our waitress stopped by, with Dave asking where he could rent a canoe - for an hour.

Believe me, no one goes to Ely with such a simple request. We could almost see the young woman recoil, so strange was Dave’s question. She had no answer herself, but turned to the booth behind ours, asking the somewhat elderly man sitting there if he knew of such a place.

Dave Levingston, riding on I-64 in southeastern West Virginia, featured on the April 1981 cover of Rider Magazine. To get the photograph Ken needed to climb a steep cut in the hill to get this vantage point, now impossible due to overgrown trees of all types.

The man appeared rough hewn, a bit grizzled, perfect for where we were. He turned to give us a peek, in a second sizing us up, telling us, no, telling Dave, “If you’ll follow me seven miles, I’ll get you to an island where you can take out my canoe.” When we arrived at the island there was a sign telling us his place was called “The Razor’s Edge.” Our new friend, John Juranitch, unlocked the gate, pointed over a short bridge to his canoe, and told us when we were finished to return it, and when leaving to lock the gate. Then he was gone. We later learned he owned a local business, known nationwide as The Razor’s Edge where he manufactured equipment for sharpening knives.

That morning, on the water with Dave, I learned the “J” stroke, and came to understand why it was so important for Dave to have his few minutes on their water. We could have been there for only an hour, but maybe much longer, Dave’s life dream had come to now be a memory. After we’d parked the canoe as we had found it and had written a warm note for its owner, we found ourselves stopped, back at the main highway. I asked Dave where he wanted to go, he telling me in no uncertain terms, he didn’t care, we could go anywhere - and we did.

Dave, a cautious rider with a penchant for always obeying the speed limit, to whom I’d often wanted to give a slight nudge to get him moving along a bit quicker, once led me on a race down eastern Arizona’s Devil’s Highway, the old US Route 666, now US Route 191, a place he’d heard of, it one of America’s finest motorcycling highways with me barely able to keep him in view. On another ride, stopped in northern Utah in the middle of nowhere for photographs, after days of riding, our last showers long behind us, a car filled with teenagers went roaring by, one of the boisterous boys, his body half hanging out a car window, fist raised, yelling at us, “Mötley Crüe!” in obvious reference to our distressed stinky demeanor.

Ken removing the license plate from his Honda 750 when he donated it to the AMA Hall of Fame Museum in Pickerington, Ohio. The Connie that followed filled the next 15 years, with the RT he rides now a truly special motorcycle. Sorry, it’s doubtful either of the two will ever be as special as Ken’s old Honda.

There was one morning long ago, over our annual Columbus Day weekend ride, after a run through a cold and rainy West Virginia day and an equally miserable night of wet camping, we awoke to a brisk bright sunny morning, with the ride from our campsite to the main highway unlike any other. Beneath us was no semblance of any roadway surface, only the glistening of a million sunlit yellow and red leaves beneath us, many taking flight as Dave raced over them, the road filled with magic as to make Dorothy’s yellow brick road to Oz pale in comparison. At the remarkable nature of what Dave and I witnessed, at our first stop Dave turned to me and said, “That’s why we ride!” To this day, those brief miles, so magical were those few minutes, they remain the most extraordinary experience of my nearly six decades of riding.

Years before, or maybe later, late into a long hot day, riding into Coon Rapids, Iowa we happened upon the small town’s municipal swimming pool. The lady-in-charge, the only person there, took one look at us, and seeing our look of desperation allowed us to take a quick dip, despite Dave’s warning we might leave a “ring around her pool.” Memories such as we shared there you never forget.

One wonders, in my remaining years will I be able to revisit any of the far away places where Dave and I have enjoyed our favorite meals. On top of my list, Dave’s too, is the Log Cabin Cafe in Silver Gate, Montana, only a stone’s throw from the northeast entrance to Yellowstone National Park. Inside was an antique British phone booth, it being the centerpiece for a visiting horde of Japanese tourists, flocking to get a picture with it. I couldn’t resist, jumping in, offering to take pictures, soon with a table full of cameras in front of me.

An unfortunate oil leak, late in the game before a major trip with Dave, called for extreme measures, a towel wrapped around the cylinders to collect errant oil. It worked, at least well enough, but what a mess.

That day, our first time there, sitting off to one side was a Harley rider from Cleveland, his white-as-snow beard tied in intervals, his way to keep it from blowing over his miles and miles of riding. It was there I saw the most beautiful waitress I’d ever seen, and still is to this day.

That day the cosmos came together. There was true magic in that log building. When Dave and I left everyone inside came out to give us a proper send-off and to wish us well. One woman, warning us about the ride over the coming Beartooth Pass, told us, “Whatever you do, watch out for the Port ‘o Johns up there. They’re as cold as you will ever find. EEEIIIIOOOOWWWWW!”

Years later Dave would stop there with his family in tow, pointing to a copy of the story I wrote, published in Rider Magazine, on display under glass near their cash register, telling the person behind the counter, “I’m Dave!” For the remainder of their stay Dave and his family were treated as though royalty. On my last visit there only a few years ago I saw the old phone booth was gone, but everything else thankfully was much the same. The trout dinner they served me was the finest I’ve ever eaten.

For decades, over the Columbus Day Weekend, Dave and Ken would venture into West Virginia for what they called their “last ride of the year.” Many times they would find their way to Philippi where they’d make their way over the town’s covered bridge, some version of the bridge in place since before the Civil War.

Dave and I had a knack for finding special places to eat, some with a dining experience not to be duplicated.. For years there was fine eating in a huge log building, the Chimney Corner in Redhouse, Maryland, a tiny dot on the map where US Routes 50 and 219 cross. It was a classic, but on my last ride through the area, it than a church, serving a different need.

Decades and decades ago when Dave and I were in our prime, we stopped at a Rhode Island gas station, filling up. A few pumps ahead of us was another man, doing the same to his bike. At some point he removed his helmet, revealing to me he was an old man, his thinning gray hair and the lines in his face showing the effects of many miles. I turned to Dave, getting his attention, motioning ahead to where the gentleman was standing, telling Dave, “It’s me!” All those years ago I could see myself, still riding, well into my own old age. It was me. It is me! Today I am that old man.

Years later, I was out with Dave again. We were on our way home from somewhere south. This ride would be memorable for another reason. I’d decided this was to be my last ride on the old 750, our final hurrah together. There was almost nothing on the bike that wasn’t worn out. The rear brake drum had worn to the point it wouldn’t take a further adjustment. Any combination of mechanics had worked their various magic to keep the carburetors working, with at that point just enough success to keep the motor running well enough, most of the time. The wiring harness was as brittle as uncooked spaghetti. The wheels, the rear the third on the bike, showed rust from the inside out, the four mufflers, the third or fourth set on the bike, the same. Still, at highway speeds that bike never wavered. There was a beautiful sound its engine made in its power curve I’ll never forget. My RT has a somewhat similar tone. I listen for it every time I’m on the road, hearing it only when the conditions are perfect.

Ken’s ‘72 Honda 750 and ‘95 Kawasaki Concours. The two motorcycles would carry Ken on forty years of adventures. There was a time when the old Honda would shine up well, but later on, not so, not that Ken cared. It seemed that forever there was a film of chain lube soaking its rear wheel.

The paramount problem with the 750, emerging just days before we were to leave was a bad gasket at the base of the engine’s cylinders. Each and every time the crankshaft turned over a tiny gusher of oil would squirt out, making a mess of things. Before my remedy, the poor bike would leave a Honda Valdez reminder of everywhere we’d been.

Any proper repair would require removing the engine, something impossible at that late date, and quite frankly, unwarranted for a bike on its last legs. I wrapped a bath towel around the cylinders, securing it in place with a bungee cord, and off we went, adding oil as was necessary. The towel acted something like a 20W-50 wonder-bra. When it got dark, I simply removed and replaced it with a clean towel. It wasn’t pretty, but it worked.

Ken’s ‘95 Connie aside his ‘05 BMW RT. It was a beautiful morning five-years-ago, when Ken walked into a dealership to see a bike he’d heard about, the bright sun from outside shining on it alone, the bright red RT soon to be his.

We were on our way home, when near Milledgeville, Georgia I casually slipped off the road. The odometer was about to turn over for the third time. I needed a picture. With that photograph, an era of my life was coming to an end. I knew the gravity of what I was doing. That bike had witnessed everything important in my adult life, from my college years well into middle age. The Honda knew the bottom side of every woman important in my life, of Cindy, and our son, Kevin. Dave was there to get his own pictures. He understood. To this day, with due respect for my Beemer which I’ve ridden for only six years, that old bike is the only machine I’ve owned I believe had a heart and a soul.

I was barely able to keep it together, until finally, pictures done, we were again on our way, but by then there were tears running down my face. When I got home I removed the speedometer, it stopped with the 99999.9 still there, it only a few feet away as I type these words. What a great bike. That great motorcycle is now a part of the collection at the AMA Hall of Fame Museum in Pickerington, Ohio, forever warm and dry, where it will outlive me.

Dave Levingston on one of the trips he and Ken shared on their cross country treks. Where this was, Kansas, Nebraska, maybe Iowa, Ken doesn’t recall. The year of the photograph, the same. The specifics of the image are long ago forgotten.

Dave and I have found great meals at the Purple Palace in York Beach, Maine, and for too short a period of time there was really fine eating at Fat Boy’s Pork Palace near Brandywine, West Virginia, run by a retired US Navy cook, it alone enough to make West Virginia a destination. One day it was there, the next gone, and still truly missed.

On that last ride home on the 750, late on our final day on the road, Dave and I stopped. It was tradition for us. Always, there was a handshake, and Dave would always add words to the effect, “Ken, another great ride!” then we’d put our bikes in gear and off we’d go. On that ride home we came to a point along the highway where I’d continue straight, Dave slipping to the left for home an hour away from mine. To this day I can still see him easing on his way, in the near darkness, leaving me alone with my thoughts.

It was naturally Ken’s idea. All the silly pictures of the two friends over the years always were. The dinosaur, at the Wall, South Dakota exit for Wall Drug proved too big a temptation. What most people never consider, looking at a simple picture like this, is we spent a good half an hour getting it completed. It was worth it!

I was at peace. There were changes ahead. For the next fifteen years I’d ride my Connie, a ‘95 Kawasaki Concours, and now my ‘05 RT. Ahhh, the RT, now just as special as was the old 750. Dave knew a change of his own was coming and decided his years of motorcycling were behind him, moving on.

After years, many years of his asking, just last week I finally relented, taking off in his car for a day drive back towards our old college stomping grounds. Not that I’d admit it to him, but there was some comfort to be found in an air conditioned car on a hot and steamy day.

Here’s to best friends.

Dave and Ken, still best friends today. Their hair may be a different color and their hairlines, well, never mind. Of note, Dave hasn’t shaved since he left the US Army nearly five decades ago! Photo by Timothy E. Black Jr.

Found by Ken, what a perfect road for a picture of the two best friends. Unknown to Dave, his life was going to change dramatically when he returned home.

I have owned eight GS motorcycles, one of each iteration of the boxer GS series from the R 80 to the R 1250, except the R 1150. I found the Wasser Boxer a reach too far for my technology-impervious brain, so two F 650 GS singles and now an 800cc water-cooled twin called an F 700 GS. I estimated I’ve ridden about 190,000 miles on the GS genre.

I acquired the first one, a 1984 R 80 GS, in 1988 or so, when we still lived in Lexington. It was a lighter version of the boxer twin, with the single-sided swing arm that was then an unusual innovation. Coming from an enduro/trials riding background, I loved the upright, dirt bike-like riding position and its flickable maneuverability.

One afternoon after work, I took it out for a short ride around Lexington. In a subdivision, I came around a corner leaned over a bit farther than I should have been when a car in front of me slammed on his brakes, apparently looking for an address. I braked, still heeled over, lost the front end and slid, coming off the bike on my left shoulder. I watched the R 80 bounce on its crash bar, stand back up like a horse that had just shook off its rider, and meander slowly off the road, where it laid down in a yard, undamaged but looking mildly offended, waiting for me to come over and get it.

I took my first track school, a Reg Pridmore session at Road Atlanta, on that bike. Brenda and I rode it down to Flowery Branch, Georgia, checked in at motel where I removed the bags but inexplicably left on the windshield, and went the next morning to the track. It was a revelatory experience, though I had been riding motorcycles for decades at that point, to take a few laps on the back of a K bike with Jason Pridmore, where I could learn what smooth really felt like. The R 80 GS acquitted itself admirably among the mostly sport bike crew populating the class, sort of like a Labrador retriever which wandered into a greyhound kennel, but is still having a great time.

While at the school, I took advantage of the opportunity to demo an R 100 GS, then a new model, for a few laps of the course. It was shod with the Metzeler Sahara 3 semi-knobby tires that came stock on them at that time and I learned what it felt like to have the front tire walk sideways a bit when leaned over hard in a turn at speed. One of those experiences that is scary at first, then draws you in to feel it again, perhaps like a first ride on a roller coaster as a kid. I left the course with a serious case of bike lust for one of the new bikes, though the R 80 was still perfectly serviceable for just about anything I cared to do. Within a few months I ordered a new R 100 GS/PD from Wilbur’s BMW in Linton, Indiana.

In my defense, there were some definite advantages, like the new tubeless “outside spoke” rims that eliminated the fear of flat tire changes on the side of the road, a larger seat platform for two-up riding, a bit more torque, and the 9.3-gallon fuel tank which, back then, I could exhaust before needing a stop for tree inspection. I must admit to enjoying the puzzled look on gas station clerks, in those days when we still had to go inside to pay, who saw a guy on a motorcycle getting eight or more gallons of fuel.

I liked the 1993 R 100 GS/PD so much I bought it twice. I put over 90,000 miles on it, with only a few glitches, and it is now in better hands with my nephew, Paul. In the beginning, I used it on and off road, even on some single track. I recall once ascending a long, steep, rutted hill and being amazed at how well the big bike handled the climb—before realizing I had to get it back down again.

In the fall of 1998, Brenda and I visited the new Ashland BMW dealership, which included a motorcycle café. While perusing the various attractions offered, I happened upon a black R 1100 GS. The dealership owner came over and made me an offer I couldn’t refuse for a trade in on my PD. I’m not proud of the fact I so easily gave up what had been one of my favorite motorcycles, but I was seduced by the promise of technological advantages like ABS and fuel injection.

The R 1100 GS was fast but vicious. It had the fuel injection glitch that kept it constantly hunting for an RPM to settle on at any steady throttle and frequently let it die at the just off idle position. This shattered my clavicle, the only broken bone I have sustained in a motorcycle crash, when it coughed and died as I was in a slow speed turnaround on a slope. When it wasn’t hunting for a mixture it liked, it was so good at speed and at turning and stopping that it constantly whispered in my ear, urging me to do stupid things my ego listened to and believed I was capable of making happen. I took it to a Pridmore school at Mid-Ohio and felt what it was like to not get passed by so many of the sport bikes on the back straight and to have my foot trapped against the frame by the foot peg folded up tightly in the curves.

After the broken bone incident, the scales fell from my eyes and I realized I had been happier with my steady partner, the PD. Like a penitent philanderer, I returned to the dealership and traded the 1100 in for my old PD, still there after a year of patiently waiting for me to come to my senses, and an R 100 R that needed to come into the deal to make it palatable to the dealer.

The PD became more of an everything bike; it took my wife and I on long trips around the US and Canada and served as a fine back road explorer on weekends. I took several more track schools on it, where it acquitted itself probably much better than its rider.

In late 2009, I got an email from Jeff Cooke, the BMW dealer in Louisville, about a close-out deal on an R 1200 GS, the last one of the old style remaining before the new camheads came in. I traded in the R 100 R and a 1969 Triumph Daytona and went home with the R 1200 GS. No way was the PD going anywhere this time! It has stayed in the family ever since.

The 2009 R 1200 GS was the one that got away. This bike was everything I could have dreamed of when I was a kid, noodling around on old used motorcycles that were always problematic in some fashion. This one handled superbly, had more power than I knew what to do with, started every time, stopped like running into a wall, and could carry anything my wife and I needed to go anywhere. It was so competent it didn’t need us! If it had a credit card, it could have traveled on its own. We used it on many trips, including my five-week solo retirement trip throughout the west and up into Canada. I sold it after that trip for reasons that now seem trivial, one of dozens of bikes that I wish I hadn’t parted with.

At the MOA rally in St. Paul, Minn., I saw an F 650 GS attached to a sidecar and fell hopelessly into bike lust again. Several months later, I made the deal with DMC Sidecars, flew out to Tacoma, Wash., and rode it home, learning how to drive the contraption on the way. The 650cc single was much stronger than I expected, apparently nearly indestructible and a world of fun to drive with its sidecar companion. This particular one was a “Bitsa”, having been put together from two salvage bikes by DMC as a tug for a new model sidecar at the show and I later replaced that F 650 with another, a year newer. The second one was just as impressive.

On trips to the mountains, with Brenda in the sidecar and all our stuff loaded into the trunk, the little rig always returned at least 50 MPG and, though requiring lower gears to make it up the steep hills, never really seemed too bothered. After decades of two-up adventures, Brenda loved the sidecar life and we decided it would become our permanent way of traveling together into our later years. For that duty, perhaps something more sophisticated was going to be required. I started looking at DMC’s website, saw the Expedition models mated to R 1200 GSes and the red mist descended over my eyes again. I bought a 2012 camhead Rallye Edition GS from a friend and shipped it across the country to DMC, flying out a month later to drive it home.

The 2012 R 1200 GS, now married with sidecar, was probably the best one yet, if I was still young enough to make use of what it has to offer. It was strong, but with still barely understandable technology I can live with. I can adjust the valves on the rare occasions they need adjusted. If only, in my 70s, I was still stout enough to feel confident with its weight and height, I would love to have one on two wheels. It was unencumbered by sidecar duty only for a few winter months before shipping it off for mating. In that time, I liked it a lot while realizing the window for me to make full use of its immense capabilities had closed some time ago. For nearly 30,000 miles as a sidecar rig it has pulled its load without strain or complaint, mountains or desert, rain, snow or whatever I can throw at it.

In 2014, I bought an F 700 GS on the road, at Gina’s BMW in Iowa City, hundreds of miles from my home on a bike trip, trading in an Airhead that had become frustratingly problematic. It was an impulse purchase that turned out extremely well. The F 700 was not as engaging, not the same kind of fit as my airheads (except for one) have been, but just too good a total combination to be replaced by anything I’m currently aware of. It is more like a good tool, but not really a partner with an emotional attachment. It is light, handles well, has all the accoutrements I need for extended travel and so far has been extremely reliable, almost to the point of inviting neglect. I suspect it will turn out to be the last new motorcycle of my life.

If I could have a perfect GS today, it would be an airhead R 80 with tubeless wheels, twin front discs, ABS and the suspension from my F 700. Yep, that would do it.

Follow the two adventurers in this docu-comedy drama as they tackle the off-road route with enthusiasm. It's a story of persistence, self-discovery and a glimpse into the longing for more in the world of adventure motorcycles.

A couple of months of house arrest has made me more than a little loopy, and I wondered if this could be the trade I was not-looking for? The machine looked pretty in Lupine Blue with pinstripes. Who doesn't like pinstripes? I was familiar with the motor - I'm an ex-camhead owner - and because it's an R NineT Pure, the price was basement by BMW standards. Imbibed nostalgia coursed through my varicose veins.

My main hesitations were the bike's tubed tires and a dry clutch. My opinion is skewed against these two technologies and I’m admittedly scarred for life. My old camhead had a rear seal repaired, which cost an arm and a leg to fix and caused my local independent mechanic to proclaim he'd "never work on one of these again!" I've had enough flat tires in my life I regard tube-type tires unnecessary for any road-going motorcycle. The Slash 5 Pure in the photos was appealing, especially in an urban environment where nobody in their right mind would park that particular bike. I had to see more than just online beauty shots. The closest example of the Slash 5 Pure was a three hour freeway ride away. It was June, affectionally known in the Pacific Northwest as Juneuary, but I didn't view the elements as an obstacle. I have the weather protection of a 2016 R 1200 RT with an ancient and oft-Nikwaxed GS Dry Suit to see me through.

There was no logic in my decision to ride in stormy weather and take a look at a bike 165 miles away other than I just wanted to see it close up, and just maybe trade in my RT. I downloaded a 500-mile route onto my Nav V for the day, which included a visit to the Slash 5 Pure's dealership. As a side note, the dealer was open seven days a week, which I found handy. I've often wondered why Sundays and Mondays for most dealerships are still verboten in 2020, but that's another conversation.

I loaded up the RT's luggage with a tool kit I'd probably never need, spare jacket, snacks, water, camera and selfie stick in case an Instagram opportunity presented itself. I set the bike's ride mode to Dynamic and Wonder-Wheeled the suspension to the Luggage setting. I remembered to turn on the Cardo headset before depressing the bike’s push-button power-up, as doing so successfully pairs the headset to the bike, then tuned to SiriusXM's Classic Vinyl channel. I was off to check out the Slash 5 Pure. If it's as nice as it looks in the pictures, then maybe a trade would be made.

The Juneuary rain started about an hour away from my destination, producing spray swallowing all but the largest of semis and hiding the ubiquitous grey cars we have on our roads these days. It was under these difficult riding conditions the knowledge of having ABS and traction control moved from the back to the front of my consciousness. I turned on the heated grips and heated seat and adjusted the windshield. At a touch of a button, I raised the shield to a point where I could peek over it, making most of the deluge sail over my helmet. My visor was still cracked open in commuter mode and I kept a brisk pace. I glanced at the GPS with about 60 miles to go. Back to the Wonder Wheel on the left handgrip to flip the reading from "tire pressure" to "range." Plenty of fuel and the tire pressures looked good, too. Getting closer to the dealership, the GPS guided me through a spaghetti bowl of on- and off-ramps, right to the door.

I didn't particularly want to trade in my RT, but my curiosity had to be satisfied. Arriving at the dealership, I spotted the Slash 5 Pure in the front window. I was soon greeted by, but had to wait to talk with, the salesman. I really don't mind having to wait in a room full of motorcycles, and the extended delay did give me time to evaluate the various period-costumed camheads. Other than the pinstriped tank (with a fancy 50-year anniversary badge), the Slash 5 Pure was definitely "pure." Nice looking with only one dial, a speedometer and no adjustable suspension. I already knew about the single gauge, but there had to be a few idiot lights; they're necessary for this idiot thinking of trading his RT.

The Pure sat next to a shiny but dusty and fancier R nineT with attractive gold front forks, two gauges, adjustable rear suspension, quixotic luggage and other Motorrad-produced doo-dads bringing the cost to $5,000 more than its Cyclops-gauged cousin. Even with the upgrades, there was still a dry clutch behind the engine block, and those golden forks sported tubed wheels.

My initial thought after seeing Slash 5 Pure close up was it is easy on the eyes, and looked like a platform for the custom-ambitious. I like to do my own service, but all upgrades I make are usually bolt-on, plug-in or attach to the battery. Other than the tank and seat, quite a few of the acceptable OEM components would no doubt be replaced by the Owner To Be Named Later.

The trade-in conversation didn't go well. It was sort of like the old car dealership experience where the mysterious sales manager sits in the far-away back office and sends out the green peas. In this case, it was two young chaps, with one admittedly knowing nothing about BMWs. I didn't expect much and wasn't disappointed, but no harm was done, as my mind had been made up. Perhaps the transcendental sales manager already knew my lack of intent, but they didn’t even try, which meant an easy retreat for me.

During my brief exchange with the two young lads, avoiding asking technical questions, I still couldn't get a straight answer about what idiot lights were on the speedo. I kept to myself a suspicion the oil cooler may need to be removed to access the alternator belt. My local dealer would've been able to answer those pressing inquiries. Needless to say, I had a re-awakening as to what kind of BMW I like to ride and the reasons why as I departed from the Slash 5 Pure on my RT.

After about what seemed longer than half an hour, I set the Nav V for the long way home. Through Oregon's Columbia River valley with wind howling and stormy skies, keeping an eye on all the feedback the RT offers. North at Biggs Junction and heading towards Toppenish. There's a sign reading "no gas for 50 miles." The bike's readout for "range" showed adequate supply. Then into the desert, through the wide open spaces of the Yakima firing range, and coincidentally "Hotel California" entered my helmet courtesy of satellite radio. Roughly 50 miles from Seattle brought me to Snoqualmie Pass, more heavy rain and clouds interspersed with mountain scenery. Stormy and fantastic, this is actually one of my favorite times of the year to be in the Pacific Northwest. The bike's Dynamic Mode works just as well in the rain.

If I had the garage space and disposable income, I would have purchased a Slash 5 Pure. It’s an enchanting machine for what it is. A bike with nothing more than what's necessary. However, my motorcycling interests have changed more than once over the years, and my fickle enthusiasm is reflected in my garage. These days my road bike of choice is a 21st-century machine, but I may have a different point of view if posed with the same question tomorrow.

Maybe in 2023, Motorrad will build an R 90 S tribute bike on a wethead 1200 platform, with tubeless spokes, wet clutch and luggage addressing both form and function. I’d ride another 500 miles to see that.

In that same nearby dealership, an astute BMW tech, Doug Smith, became Ventura County BMW’s Service Manager after several years of endearing himself to the shop’s customers by his patient and knowledgeable explanations of all things BMW as a certified tech. A recent personal project was a full restoration of an R 100 S and convincing the shop to install a vapor blasting machine to further their available services.

Being a gearhead at heart, Doug sought the holy grail of motorcycling for himself. He always loved the original 2008 HP2 Megamoto, a bike seemingly designed for hooliganism. When BMW announced the new R 1250 R with the HP Billet package, Doug was smitten and saw his opportunity to recreate a legend with contemporary BMW parts. Alas, this bike is neither a prototype nor a production bike, but it could be, since virtually all the pieces come from Munich parts bins.

Doug started with a 2020 R 1250 R, ordered from the factory with the $2,700 HP Billet package. Although expensive, the package is considerably cheaper than ordering the parts separately and if you value aesthetics, the option is worth every penny. The bike was also equipped with the Select Package.

To raise the bike up and give it the Megamoto stance, Doug replaced the forks with those from an S 1000 XR, while the rear shock came from an R 1250 GS. This allowed retention of all the electronic functions of the BMW suspension for damping and ride height.

The approximate three-inch increase in height necessitated new brake and clutch lines; that task went to Spiegler, who make both stock replacements and custom lines as well. Doug moved the rear brake reservoir to allow relocation of the rear ride height sensor to trick the computer into thinking all was normal. Even though Doug can get all these parts at dealer cost, the tally would have paid for another brand-new (but pedestrian) motorcycle. Gearhead Doug scoured eBay until he found pristine XR forks and a nearly new R 1250 GS rear shock.

The new exhaust is an all-titanium Akrapovic exhaust system, including a high-mount GS muffler and custom exhaust hangar bracket. The shift cam boxer engine now announces its presence with commanding authority. Another custom part was the side stand extension. A Sprint high-flow air filter complemented an ECU flash by Bren Tuning. Carbon fiber parts are from Ilmberger. The dazzling blue tubeless spoke wheels were custom made by Alpina and are works of art.

We photographed this bike shortly after completion, before even riding the break in miles. Doug reports the ride and handling are first class and the machine fulfills all his expectations; handling and performance are breathtaking. I only see his smile growing wider as the break-in period ends.

Will some employee at Designworks be looking out the window as Doug rides by? Perhaps they’ll be inspired to bring back the Megamoto for the highly rumored M Series. Comment below and get the conversation going!

"Because we’re doing an off-road tour and that’s what I want to ride," I responded, wondering why it was an issue.

"We’re doing an ON-road tour," he replied.

"Oh, really?" I thought.

When a friend asked me to join him on a tour with the BMW Performance Center, I assumed it would be for an off-road tour. To be honest, I didn’t know the BMW Performance Center offered tours, and while I know the staff has fantastic instructors and classes are offered for all riding styles, I was unaware they offered more. In September 2019, I found myself geared up in street-riding apparel - or at least the closest thing I had to it - and sitting in a briefing on what we would experience over the next two days.

BMW Brand Ambassador Shawn Thomas and BMW Performance Center head instructor Aaron Rankin suggested riding something other than what I was used to. Shortly before arriving in South Carolina, I found out I’d be riding an S 1000 XR. That sounded good to me, but I knew nothing about the XR except it has two wheels and is made by BMW.

The next morning, the tour participants met over breakfast. Our group was small and included five riders and four staff members, three who would ride with us and one who would drive the support vehicle. Immediately after breakfast, we headed into a meeting room where the PC staff introduced themselves and gave us a rough itinerary of what was to follow, as well as the basic rules of riding in a group. Aaron Rankin would lead the group, accompanied by Ricardo Rodriguez riding sweep along with another instructor at the PC. The chase vehicle would carry our overnight bags, meaning we'd be able to ride carrying minimal gear.

After the brief meeting, we were finally released to our bikes, and I hopped on the XR and immediately began experimenting with its height and balance. Before long, all of us were chomping at the bit to get riding. The reasonable temperatures felt earlier that morning were now giving way to South Carolina’s late summer heat and humidity, something this Colorado girl was not used to.

We were all ready to ride, and we set off on wide, fast roads chosen by the Performance Center to get used to the bikes. Included in our group was my XR, a K 1600 Bagger, an R nineT, an F 850 GS, an R 1250 GS, and a handful of R 1250 RTs. As we shuffled around in the pack finding the spots where we wanted to ride, we quickly turned off onto small, winding two-lane roads. We rode through farmland dotted with lovely little houses and animals as we snaked through the state park full of towering trees while making our way up into the Smoky Mountains.

Our first stop was a quick break near Hendersonville, at a bakery offering mouth-watering pastries and curious locals wanting to know about our adventure. In exchange, they gave us a little history of the mountains we were riding. Our timing was perfect, as our next destination was the famed Blue Ridge Parkway in the middle of those mountains. Once there, I found myself having a great time zipping my XR through the twisties and scenic sweepers. Before long, we arrived at a lookout point and stopped for a photo opportunity.

The Smoky Mountain views were breathtaking. Often when people come to ride in Colorado, I hear comments on how rocky our trails are. That typically elicits a smile and a comment along the lines of, "The Rocky Mountains, not just a clever name!”

I have to admit that as I looked across the valley at the blue-hued mountains in the distance, I thought, “Huh! Smoky Mountains, not just a clever name!” as I was utterly charmed by the beauty laid out before me.

We stayed just long enough to get the photos we wanted. If beautiful roads, pastries and stunning scenery were not enough, we had more to see. When another rider asked if I wanted to swap bikes and try the Bagger, I jumped at the chance. I admit I was intimidated by the bike, but this seemed like the perfect place to try it out. Riding the Bagger on the Blue Ridge Parkway put a huge smile on my face as I felt myself relaxing and enjoying the powerful machine beneath me and the beautiful scenery all around me.

After more miles of eye-popping views and lunch at a tiny but delicious local restaurant, we found ourselves at Dale’s Wheels Through Time motorcycle museum in Maggie Valley, North Carolina. The museum is a beautiful collection of more than 300 running vintage motorcycles, and the Performance Center had arranged for a fascinating presentation on one of the most interesting bikes there with a bizarre history.

After leaving the museum, we had one more stop scheduled for the day: The Tail of the Dragon. I had heard of this famous stretch of road for many years, and the information always boiled down to two things: The Tail of the Dragon is super fun and always super crowded. Arriving at the end of the day, we were given a choice to ride it that afternoon or to come back the next morning. Seeing the Dragon’s lack of traffic, we chose to ride the 11 miles and 318 curves that evening.

I was back on the XR when I rode the Dragon and just enjoyed every curve. Traffic was light, with only a few other riders out. Once we reached the Tennessee state line, we turned around and rode it again since we were staying in North Carolina for the night. It was the perfect end to a great day of riding.

One would expect the riding on a BMW Performance Center tour to be fabulous but may wonder what the hospitality would be like. Wonder no more. Our accommodations sat smack dab in the middle of the mountains at the rustic, but beautiful, Snowbird Mountain Lodge.

The next morning began with us on the Cherohala Skyway and sweeping through the Nantahala National Forest. The many shades of green and the fresh scent of the forest vied with the beautiful roads as my favorite place that day. North Carolina has the most beautiful and well-kept roads I have seen anywhere. Gliding through sweepers or concentrating on the apex of tight turns was easier without having to worry about potholes or broken pavement.

As we rode, we experienced more twists and turns through the national forest along with several small waterfalls and creeks, all while sunshine streamed through the trees or shone brightly on walls of kudzu. If you don’t live in the south, the undulating kudzu covering everything in its path is a sight to behold and was not scarce on this tour.

After lunch, we stopped at a rock outcropping where a waterfall cascaded over us. While there, we encountered another group of riders, took pictures of each other, and acknowledged what a beautiful day it was and how fortunate we felt to be able to enjoy it in our own way.

Finally, after a few more gas stops, we were rolling back into the Performance Center as a storm moved into the area. Our arrival was timed perfectly to avoid getting soaked. We sadly exchanged goodbyes despite knowing we had just spent two fantastic days of riding together while making new friends.

If you did not know the Performance Center hosted tours, you were not alone. The PC offers a wide range of them, both on-road and off-road, from one to three days in length. This is a great way for someone like me who came from thousands of miles away, and who wanted to ride the area. It’s the ultimate fly-n-ride. I also came away from this tour with an all-new love of road bikes, especially the K 1600 Bagger.

If you're looking for a well-thought-out tour to ride the best roads in this area, this is the way to go. Likewise, if you are thinking about a new bike, this is the perfect way to spend a couple of days on the model you’re thinking about to help make your decision. I enjoyed myself so much that I am now eagerly waiting to try their off-road tour.

I’m a strong believer that a half-full glass contains a darn sight more than a half-empty one. My four bikes are gleaming in the garage. I have serviced, detailed and even installed new tires and brakes on one. Tomorrow, I’m putting front and rear video cameras on my GS.

Taking home-projects to an entirely new technical level, fellow MOA member John McLaughlin removed his wheel spokes, powder-coated the rims and re-trued his wheels. What a project!

Like many others, my wife is working from home, and while lodged in the study, I hardly notice her. Instead of her daily three-hour commute to New York City, we now take walks in local parks and, once the parks closed, the streets of adjacent townships. Exploring these streets got me thinking about local roads I have never ridden. New Jersey, the garden state, is blessed with some beautiful motorcycle runs that, with the right gear, offer three riding seasons.

Over the years, owning multiple bikes and having many house guests who also ride, I have visited all New Jersey’s motorcycle landmarks several times, or so I thought. Using Goggle Maps, I’ve discovered roads through private and national parks I didn’t know existed, local lakes and reservoirs I’ve never visited, and interesting roads meandering along river banks. Some of these routes are narrow and are short detours you normally just wouldn’t consider, but by connecting several of them, you get a whole new, beautiful riding experience. Though some of these roads are in appalling condition with rutted tarmac and unmaintained dirt, their condition just adds to the fun by slowing you down to enjoy rural beauty not seen before.

The Raritan River Road between Califon and High Bridge, New Jersey, is rutted so badly in spots your suspension chatters, yet nature’s beauty amply compensates with foamy water, overhanging trees, dancing shadows and the moist smells of a forest. I can almost close my eyes and return to the rugged beauty along the west coast of Ireland, lashed barren by the Atlantic Ocean.

My first motorcycle back in Ireland was a Honda 50cc step-through, three-speed automatic. The year was 1971, and my father had no idea I was borrowing it, until I reached the tarmac. Two years later he upgraded to a Heinkil Tourist 175cc and gave the Honda to me. I toured the country on that bike even though my younger brother called it a sewing machine—rich, coming from someone riding a bicycle!

At 17, the thrill of independence, the freedom to travel and the sheer delight of a motorcycle were intoxicating. At full throttle and riding downhill without a headwind, the speedometer needle bounced close to 60 mph. Because of the leg guards, the engine was prone to overheating, but this could be alleviated by coiling the spring from a ballpoint pen around the oil pipe to improve cooling. My second bike, a single-cylinder, 175cc two-stroke BSA had seen better days by the time I bought it. Poverty mandates ingenuity, so I “machined” the cylinder head with a smooth file to regain compression. I still remember the almighty bang while flogging it up the main Dublin Road. I never found the cylinder head.

Modern bikes only have two wheels and a brake lever in common with the bikes of my youth, and thank God for that. At 64 years young, I just want to throw a leg over and ride as fast, far and energetically as I wish. Maintenance should be an oil change every 10,000 miles and perhaps a set of brake pads every 20,000. But nowadays, you can put 60,000 miles on most motorcycles without a rebuild, and if it’s a BMW, triple that with a smile. The difference between the old bikes of my youth and modern motorcycles is like comparing a dog’s lifespan to a parrot’s. I love the gizmos on today’s bikes, especially traction control to tame my enthusiasm. I’m fine with ABS providing you can switch it off.

COVID-19 is unfortunate, but I have seen more of New Jersey because of it. With most all rallies cancelled, I’m planning a few adventures of my own. A tour around the east side of Lake Erie is definitely in the cards. Camping shouldn’t be a problem, and because I like my beans cold and tuna from a tin, my fine dining is covered. My only need is to plan the dates.

Do I feel like a renegade for riding my motorcycle during COVID-19? After careful consideration I look at it this way. At 64, I am indeed fortunate to be in respectable health. The reality is that this is the closing chapter of my lifespan, and if I can’t spoil myself now, WHEN?

Motorcycling is in my DNA. It is as much a part of my life as my wife. My glass is still half full, and I will keep sipping until it’s empty.

Ride, safe, y’all.

In college at Texas Tech in 1997, I took the MSF basic rider course with a borrowed helmet and earned my M endorsement. Sadly, as a broke college student I didn’t have money for a bike.

Finally, after college I found a job in Seattle with a decent paycheck selling aluminum and was finally able to buy my first motorcycle, a black Kawasaki Concours. While I wouldn’t recommend a Connie as an ideal first bike, I had always liked Mr. Gover’s bike and I was just old enough, or scared enough, to respect the machine and not hurt myself. I learned to ride through rainy commutes up and down I-5 to Seattle.

While the Concours was good for commuting, there was something about my overall experience that was missing. On Saturday mornings I enjoyed riding the relatively quiet downtown streets and stopping at a Tully’s coffee shop near the Harbor Steps. From there, I would head to West Seattle or across Puget Sound on the Bainbridge Ferry. But on one Saturday morning I dropped in behind another motorcyclist in Belltown and followed him to Seattle Ducati. Once there, I discovered their free coffee and donuts as well as a dozen other riders hanging out. That was my first experience with the social side of riding. I would spend many Saturday mornings at that shop and eventually, the Concours was traded for a red Italian.

The Ducati ST2 fit my needs, as I saw them. It was extremely attractive, could easily pull the speeds I was comfortable riding, and had side cases. While I was just a daily commuter, I grew up loving road trips and dreamed of travelling on a bike. Six months later I had a chance to cover some distance when a few guys from the Saturday Seattle Ducati gang suggested a lunch ride to Bend, Oregon, some 350 miles away. With eight other guys on various bikes, I made this 700-mile ride which was both exhilarating and exhausting. Over our burgers and fries, the conversation centered on sore backs and bike mods needed to make long distances more comfortable. One of the riders in the group claimed his ride to Bend was as comfortable as sitting in a recliner and while I don’t remember the model he rode, I do remember it had a blue and white roundel on the fairing.

I rode back to Seattle proud of successfully making my first ride on a motorcycle across state lines. While I continued to have coffee at the Ducati shop, at some point I found my way to Ride West BMW, a little neighborhood dealership along Green Lake. There, I befriended Howard, a salesman there who didn’t seem to mind my weekly rides on their demo bikes. Eventually, I decided to let the ST2 go in favor of a real touring bike.

Initially, my heart was set on a dark blue K 1200 RS Ride West had on consignment. It almost worked out. After I cleaned the ST2 and made a final donut run to Seattle Ducati along with a final ride around Green Lake ready to trade for the RS, when I finally arrived it was gone. Howard told me the seller found a buyer on his own. Knowing I wasn’t going to buy new, he told me to wait and that another clean RS would eventually come along. Emotionally I had already said goodbye to the Ducati and we talked about my desire for a bike to travel on. Howard then gave me the keys to a used RT and told me not to come back until after lunch.

I rode the RT across Lake Washington and down the 405, eventually ending up at Dash Point State Park, a place visited frequently close to my home. The RT felt larger than the RS I had wanted, but not as heavy. It also seemed easier to ride and had a top box. While the RT lacked the exoticness of my Ducati and wasn’t as sporty as the RS, I decided it may just be what I needed to really travel. I rode back to Ride West and made the trade.

That first RT gave me room to stretch my legs and I could ride through a couple tanks of gas before needing a break. Its upright seating position never made my back sore like my ST2 did and I soon started planning Saturday rides and putting in some miles after having coffee at the shops. I continued going to the Ducati shop every now and then and nobody seemed to care that I had moved to a BMW. I made little trips into the Cascades or across the Sound to the Olympics in search of good lunch spots, sometimes with other riders, but usually alone.

In January 2003 I was laid off and found myself out of a paycheck. Reevaluating my skills and interests and unable to find a comparable job. That winter was especially gloomy in the Pacific Northwest and in a moment of weakness I sold most of my stuff, including the RT. After returning old Texas college town, it would take some time to find my place in the working world again, and to get back to riding.

Around that same time, my parents bought an RT thinking they would travel on it. My dad had taken the basic rider course but wasn’t a rider yet, so they asked me to come down to San Antonio to ride the bike home from the dealership for them and maybe give my dad some pointers. Over the next couple of weekends, I rode the bike to a large parking lot at Blossom Athletic Center, and watched my dad work on his riding skills. He believed the bike was too top-heavy, and it just didn’t work for him. After several drops and a lot of frustration, my dad had me back the motorcycle into the corner of his garage and park it. After a year of ike sitting there with a dead battery and a layer of dust, I offered to buy it and they agreed. It was the same model I had commuted on in Seattle and I was ready to ride again.

Soon, I found a local BMW club in Lubbock, the Dust Bowl Beemers club. Though West Texas lacks the curvy roads and beautiful vistas I’d enjoyed in the Pacific Northwest, I was just thrilled to be back on a bike. The DBB club I quickly made friends and started planning my vacation time around them.

One day, DBB club member Darrell Newsom mentioned someting about an Iron Butt ride. I had never heard of the Iron Butt Association and had no idea there were people challenging themselves on timed runs but as a child who grew up watching the Cannonball Run movies, I was immediately intrigued. Darrell also mentioned that Michael Graves, another club member was going to attempt a 1,000-mile day, known as a SaddleSore 1000, that coming Saturday. After calling Michael and asking if I could ride along with him, that Saturday morning we met at the starting gas station and riding a loop through New Mexico, we successfully completed our first Iron Butt rides that December day in 2004.

The RT played a main role in my development as a long-distance rider. It had a 7.25-gallon fuel tank, luggage, and a comfortable sitting position. I continued to push myself with more difficult Iron Butt challenges, eventually riding that RT from coast to coast and from Mexico to Canada. I rolled over 140,000 miles before selling it in favor of a bike with an even larger fuel tank.

In the 2000s I went for years without a car and took pride in riding every day, and even made the RT work for my advertising sales calls even those requiring me to wear dress clothes. As my love of riding grew, so did the bikes in my garage. Over time, I tried off-roading and moto-camping with my F 650 Dakar. I also owned a classic K bike and a couple of the K 1200 RS models I had wanted while living Seattle. I also fell in love with Airheads and bought a pair of 1975 R 90/6s, which I still have.

As my passion for long-distance riding grew, I sold the RT and bought a demo bike from Sandia BMW in Albuquerque. That R 1200 GS Adventure came stock with an 8+ gallon fuel tank, heavy duty luggage, crash bars, and additional lights. I found it to be the perfect bike for my tastes and riding interests. After about 50,000 miles with that first GSA, I had an accident on a rural highway in Wisconsin. The bike was totaled and while I suffered broken ribs and a broken wrist, there was never any question in my mind about riding again. While in my hospital bed, I started checking Sandia BMW’s inventory on my iPhone, and when heading home from the hospital, I put down a deposit on a GSA nearly identical to the one I just lost. Six weeks later, I started riding my new GSA to my orthopedic and physical therapy appointments.

My R 1200 GS Adventure would carry me to two bronze-medal finishes in the 11-day Iron Butt Rally (2015, 2017), and help me complete the SCMA Four Corners Tour. The GSA also proved to be a great two-up platform for riding with my wife Mikki and together we have travelled through most of the Rocky Mountain and western states and down the west coast.

If I had to start over again, my first bike would be another GS Adventure.

Motorcycles I own
• 2016 BMW R1200RS
• 2012 BMW R1200GSA
• 1975 BMW R90/6
• 2011 BMW R1200GSA
• 1975 BMW R90/6

Motorcycles I've owned
• 1985 BMW K100RS
• 2002 BMW K1200RS
• 2002 BMW F650 Dakar
• 2000 BMW K1200RS
• 2000 BMW R1100RT
• 1999 BMW R1100RT
• 1999 Ducati ST2
• 1997 Kawasaki Concours

Drew let out his full lexicon of grunts and hollers, which, at 11 years old, were funny if not extensive. Also amusing was that I was the one doing all the work, groaning and struggling to navigate the hill climbs, boulder gardens and sand washes before us. He was just the passenger along for the ride, but to hear him over our two-way communications system, he was really working hard.

We had started our adventure in the Sierra foothills, then traveled east toward the Mojave Desert and eventually, the mountain passes near Death Valley National Park. But unlike most tourists that make their way via nicely paved roads, we were going in the hard way: over an old stagecoach road to Goler Wash and then over Mengel Pass. These roads—mostly jeep trails and some single-track—are rarely predictable and always challenging. I have ridden these trails many times before, always with another adult present, but this was an important trip and worth the effort.

I have been a parent for 13 years and have done my best to navigate the role. I have never claimed to be great at being a father, better than my own dad most certainly, but not deserving of any awards. Like any parent, I have quietly contended with challenges as they come. In the case of my son Drew, my biggest struggle has been to compete with the small, thin electronic device now nestled in his backpack.

If I allowed it, Drew would be on his iPad from when he got up in the morning to when he went back to bed. This is not so different from me when I was his age when Ataris and Nintendos were king. But unlike my dad, I am present and want to connect with my son. Still, competing with electronics for his interest has proven to be a challenging endeavor.

Drew and I have been on several motorcycle adventures. He loves them in theory, but in the moment, he gets bored and is constantly asking when the day will be done. To combat this, I chose a route that was as intense and interesting as possible, with views and history and challenges that would hopefully captivate his interest. I even loaded the bike into our truck for the first and most boring¬ five-hour leg of the trip, so the gravy riding would be even more proportionate.

As we bumped over an old stagecoach trail along the edge of Panamint Valley, I said, "This road was built mostly by Chinese immigrants, Drew. Almost every rock and boulder you see was hand laid. These days almost no one sees this area. The road is just too difficult to pass in anything but 4x4s and bikes like ours."

As if on cue, we rounded a corner and stopped staring face-to-face with a Ford Mustang on the trail.

"Is that a 4x4?" Drew asked, staring wide-eyed at the silver sports car.

"Definitely not," I laughed.

On closer inspection, the car seemed deserted as the hood was missing and tow chains still adorned the frame.

"It looks abandoned," I said. "Maybe it was stolen and taken for a joy ride. We’ll report it when we get back to civilization."

We edged around the wreck and continued down the trail, soon dropping into the valley headed toward the eastern mountains before turning south and skirting another dirt road.

"See those huge mountains, Drew? That’s where we’re going. We’ll make camp on the other side of them."

Drew groaned. "How are we going to get over those? Will we have to walk?"

"Haha, no, buddy," I replied. "There is a spot called Goler Wash, where water flow created a canyon through the mountain. We’ll enter there and work our way up gradually."

Once we found Goler and headed east, we picked the smoothest line up the rocky slopes. The hill climbs were tough as between Drew and all of our gear, the weight was biased well to the rear. Even with the suspension preload and traction control set to maximum, it was easy to wheelie the torquey BMW R 1250 GS Adventure. Throttle and clutch control was key, as was intense concentration.

Right around this time, Drew opened up, launching into a monologue about his favorite video games. I struggled to listen and ride, not wanting to interrupt his passionate presentation. I asked questions, laughed with him, and did my best to be interested in a world I knew so little about.

As we cleared the worst of Goler and enjoyed some smooth trails, I pointed out old mines, and Drew made a game of counting purple cactus plants. I quizzed him on the knowledge I had shared along the trip, asking him about Joshua trees, Chinese immigrants, and landmarks.

Suddenly, and without warning, the trail became intensely difficult. The bike began to drift as gravel gave way to fluffy sand and technical hill climbs. Drew was growing nervous, clinging tight to me as we maneuvered our way through the challenges.

"Don’t worry buddy, I’ll keep us safe, and it’s OK if you want to hop off and walk through some of this. Your call, OK?"

He stayed with me through the most challenging bits, then ironically chose to walk through some of the easier parts. I shrugged and rode on, encouraging him via the COMM system as he trudged through the sections on foot.

The challenges eased, and we made our way to Mengel Pass, stopping at the summit to enjoy the incredible open views.

"This is it, buddy. A few more technical bits, and we'll have a smooth ride to camp," I said.

The eastern slope of Mengel Pass had the distinct advantage of gravity, which was helpful when taking on the impending challenge just beyond the summit. The section, aptly named "Boulder Garden," was a mass of giant, smooth boulders and smaller rocks impregnated in the short canyon traversal. Riding through required no engine power due to the incline, but only small, measured movements with attention to avoiding tip-overs due to side impacts of high-centers with the solid, uneven terrain. Drew opted to walk the garden, then began to run as I picked up the pace on my newly unladen bike.

"I thought you were gonna run me over!" he barked with a laugh.

Finally, we entered Striped Butte Valley and skirted the trails toward camp. Along the way, we came upon a small, stone cabin proudly situated on a high hill along the western edge of the valley.

"That is called the ‘Geologist’s Cabin,’" I explained. "It's been here since the 1930s and is free to visit and even stay, so long as it's not occupied. Want to check it out?" Drew nodded enthusiastically as we took a fork in the trail, heading up toward the cabin.

"No trucks or bikes around, it looks vacant. We can continue to our campsite or stay here for the night. Your call, buddy."

Drew chose the cabin, and we hopped off, shedding our gear against the hot sun and exploring the area. I opened the old wooden door, revealing a clean, single room with tables, windows, stocked shelves, and even neatly packed sleeping bags and blankets.

"People who stay at the cabin take responsibility for keeping it clean and provisioned. It is encouraged that we do the same, as will the people that come after us," I said as I pointed at a shelf where an American flag sat reverently folded. "We’ll unfold the flag and fly it on the pole outside; that way, anyone that enters the valley will know the cabin is occupied. Tomorrow we’ll re-fold the flag and stow it for the next visitors."

We went outside and unfolded the flag then ran it up the pole and watched as it fluttered in the southern winds. The task complete, Drew asked if he could play with his iPad. After a long day of riding, he was deserving of a break. I nodded, and he retrieved the device, nestled himself into an outside chair, and lost himself in a game.

"Da-aaad, where’s the wi-fi?" he asked.

"None of that here, buddy, we’re a good 80 miles from civilization," I replied.

"UGH. I thought since we were at a cabin, we'd have power and internet!"

We each rolled our eyes, and he compromised with an off-line game. I then set up our bedding on the cabin floor, cooked up some dehydrated food, and invited Drew in for dinner and a game of Crazy Eights, compliments of a deck of cards left by another adventurer. For the next few hours, we whittled away the daylight with games, telling stories and laughing with one another. With some encouragement, Drew wrote an entry in his note pad, highlighting the joys and challenges of the day. He included a surprisingly detailed account of his adventure, even opting to sketch a detailed map of our route. We decided on an early night, nestling in our sleeping bags as the sunset and the high winds whistled against the old structure.

The next morning, we woke early and caught the sunrise as we made a batch of hot chocolate. Neither of us slept well as the inflatable pads were stiff, and the winds had been ominous and loud. Quietly we packed our gear and mounted it to the bike, refolded the flag, then suited up and headed east toward the road to Furnace Creek.

"It’ll take us a few hours, but we can make our way into Death Valley and eat a late breakfast there. Sound good?" I asked.

Drew wearily agreed, then began another monologue about video games. I listened and encouraged the chat, trying to remember important details.

We stopped at Badwater, the lowest point in North America.

"Take a look at the GPS, buddy. We are over 250 feet BELOW sea level!"

Drew stared at the screen, wide-eyed. "Whoa! How are we not drowning right now," he asked?

I laughed and explained what I knew about land and ocean, which admittedly wasn’t much, and soon we were at a small restaurant in Furnace Creek. Settled with our plates of food in front of us, I discussed our options for the day. As I laid out potential routes, it became clear that with his disconnect from the digital world and a dismal night of sleep, Drew was looking for the end of this adventure. I was disappointed, but I did not want to push anything on him. When I suggested we cut the trip short, he happily agreed.

With Furnace Creek in our rearview mirrors, we made our way back via asphalt, opting for fun and interesting roads while keeping a good pace, and in a few hours, we were back at the truck where I loaded the bike, and we settled in for the five-hour trek home.

Thinking about our adventure as I drove, I wondered if it had been worth it. Did it matter that we were returning early? Did Drew have any fun at all? Would he want to go on another adventure, and, if not, what else could I do to connect with him? It was a struggle to think on, and I found myself depressed at my skills as a parent.

We arrived home late. I directed Drew to shower and get some sleep, then followed suit myself as both of us were exhausted and needed rest. I slept well that night and awoke the next day with thoughts of home maintenance and leisure time. Drew asked for extra chores, wanting to earn money for a new game. I set him to work washing cars and vacuuming floors, then thanked and paid him for his efforts. Things were settling back into our normal routine.

Later that afternoon, as I started dinner, Drew was in the adjoining room on the couch video chatting with his best friend. As I prepared the food, I overheard Drew as he shared stories with his friend.

"And then we went to this really cool cabin, and I learned how to unfold the American flag and beat my dad at Crazy Eights, and the winds were crazy, and some of the roads were scary but fun! And there was this really cool abandoned car, and…"

Hearing that, I smiled, and my heart began to swell. I realized we had a perfect adventure.

The dream got closer to reality when I happened upon a gorgeous white R75/5 on eBay. I showed the photos to my long-suffering wife; much to my surprise her reaction was That’s a pretty bike . . . We were living in Virginia at the time so we drove north to the Philadelphia area in July 2011 and came home with a 40 year old motorcycle. As we later read, What could go wrong? Billed as ready to ride across the country complete with a larger /7 fuel tank, it wasn’t—of course. A new starter, replacement electronic ignition, carburetor rebuild, new pushrod tube seals, some racks and luggage and the owner’s retirement and subsequent cross-country move, and finally we’re ready!

I’d ridden my R1150GS back to my hometown in eastern Oregon earlier in the summer (see BMW ON Nov 2013, ADV Ride Report). This time the destination was the tiny town of Maupin, located on the lower Deschutes River 40 miles south of The Dalles Oregon. Held September 5-8 this year, the Fireflight Rendezvous is a yearly gathering of BMW airheads from all over the Pacific Northwest. Originally taking place in the forested high country along the east side of the Oregon Cascades, the Rendezvous had moved to Maupin under the threat of forest fires one year. This move proved serendipitous—the event’s been held at the Maupin City Park ever since.

Maupin may be the ideal setting for a gathering of old motorcycles. Straddling the river with deep basalt canyons on either side, Maupin began as a river crossing in the 19th century and grew as the railroad extended down the canyon. With a current population of under 500, it appears the town’s main claim to fame is as a fishing and river running center in the summer months. While there’s only one gas station and a few restaurants, the local grocery store has a prime selection of malted barley and fermented grape products—all within easy walking distance to the park’s campsites.

Leaving my home in western Washington on Thursday afternoon, my route took me south on I5, then east on Washington 14 through the Columbia River Gorge and into the high wheat country of central Oregon. The R75/5 is not a fast motorcycle; while heralded as one of the finest touring bikes in the world when it was new, motorcycle technology and interstate highway speeds have long overtaken the old bike. Its four-speed transmission coupled with my reluctance to flog a 40-year-old machine dictates a slower pace. The bike seems to be in it’s groove in the 55-65 mph range, so there it stays!

An Interstate is usually just that—a way to get somewhere. But the ride along the Columbia River Gorge never gets old; the transition from the western slope Douglas Fir forests and moss-covered rocks, through eastern-slope pine groves, to the open sage lands of the dry side makes a marvelous riding experience. The twisty curves and numerous tunnels along highway 14 are an additional highlight as much of the heavy truck traffic stays on Interstate 84 on the Oregon side of the Gorge, and the slower pace of the Washington route suite the old BMW just fine. Through Washougal past the Pendleton Woolen Mills, Beacon Rock, the Bonneville Dam, through the tiny towns of White River, Carson, Bingen, fruit stands and espresso shacks, past the Bridge of the Gods and on to the east side, the Slash 5 motored on like the trooper it is.

Even in early September, even the dry side sometimes isn’t. While the western slope of the Coast Range and the Cascades catches most of the moisture, strong weather systems do bring occasional rain to eastern Oregon. I was reminded of this pattern climbing out of the Gorge on US 197 when the sky to south turned an ominous shade of black! Yes, I discovered the old Aerostich Darian is still waterproof, and their Triple digit rain mitts and VeeWipe squeegees still work too! Riding through a short 15 miles of almost torrential downpour, the old bike soldiered onward. The rain eased off just north of Maupin where the Oregon Air Marshal Garry Newby and several other airheads were already camped at the Park. The rain pause allowed me to get my tent up without even getting wet. While it rained later that night, the weather got progressively better throughout the rest of the weekend with the later arrivals at the Rendezvous staying dry the entire weekend.

The Fireflight is not an organized rally. Billed as a rendezvous, it’s a gathering of like-minded motorcyclists in a gorgeous small-town location to meet, chat, occasionally wrench on bikes, engage in evening barley therapy and ride when—and where—they wish. As a laid-back event the goal is simply to have a good time with good friends. And we did—by the end of the weekend I counted over 40 bikes along the curb in the city park. Mostly BMW airheads of course, but a smattering of oilheads and the occasional off-brand was also welcomed.

Friday and Saturday were chances for me to ride my old airhead around parts of Oregon that I’d avoided when I lived in the state during my misspent youth. Friday proved to be the laziest day with storm clouds dissipating and the sun making it’s appearance. I made a short loop of it, riding east up curvy Bakeoven Road to the not-so-thriving town of Shaniko, north to Grass Valley, and back west down Sherars Bridge Highway to Tygh Valley. Both roads out and back into the Deschutes Canyon are well graded, fun, twisty roads—but the previous thunderstorms had the unfortunate effect of washing fresh mud and gravel over the best corners! Many excellent reasons to never out-ride your sight lines were demonstrated on these roads today!

Shaniko was a once lively little town. During it’s heyday in the early 1900’s it was known as the "Wool Capital of the World" with rail service north to the Columbia River, a population at it height of almost 500 people and was the center of a huge area of wool, cattle, and wheat production. The 2010 census listed 36 people living in Shaniko, which has recently become the center of a water rights dispute between a wealthy investor and some of the remaining townspeople. Many of the original and restored buildings are shuttered, and there’s no fuel available in this now rather sad, tiny town on the high plateau.

Saturday’s ride was a loop west through the Warm Springs Reservation. Open roads and clear blue skies allowed fantastic views of the Cascade Range to the west. Mt. Hood, Mt. Jefferson, Three Fingered Jack, and to the southwest, Mt Washington and the Three Sisters could be seen along this route. Wapinita Road through the reservation drops down from the plateau country to the Warm Springs River through broad expanses of sagebrush as well as groves of Juniper and Ponderosa Pine forest. The modern lodge and golf course at Kah-nee-tah is a stark contrast to the surrounding forest and small ranches . . . I rode through without stopping at the lodge.

I paused instead at the Warm Springs Museum in the town of the same name along US 26—a highly recommended stop. Displaying the Native American perspective it provides insights into the culture and lifestyle of this beautiful area’s inhabitants both prior to and resulting from European influence.

Among many other interesting subjects, the Museum discusses native pictographs and petroglyphs; rock art left by a variety of tribal artists over millennia with examples scattered across the West. I’d heard than a few examples were visible near Sherars Falls on the Deschutes River just a few miles north of Maupin. Arriving back at camp early on Saturday I ventured along the River Access road toward the Bridge, stopping to watch river rafters during the warm and sunny afternoon. Some of my previously mentioned misspent youth put me on several wild Northwest rivers for Northwest Outward Bound, and I enjoyed watching both the guided and individual boats negotiate the rapids—and I suspect one of the guides spun his raft on purpose to bury the upstream gunwale and put a couple of his passengers in the water! It’s all part of the fun.

Parking the /5 near Sherars Bridge, I walked along the highway. The Warm Springs tribe has recently been given traditional fishing rights along this stretch of the river and a number of the platforms above the roaring water were in use today. I saw one fisherman walking back to his truck with a fine salmon, over two feet long. Turning to the outcroppings next to the road I finally spotted several pictographs carved into the rock. Even though there’s evidence of more recent vandalism, several carvings were easy to spot and were a visual reminder of this area’s historical significance to the local tribes.

Sunday’s ride home was a fantastic ride through the best scenery that the Pacific Northwest offers. Up early, packed quickly and I was soon retracing my northerly path to The Dalles and across the mighty Columbia to Highway 14 again. With the mountains shining in the west and the river sparkling brightly in the morning sun, the old /5 seemed to know it was heading towards home and purred sweetly through the sleepy Sunday towns along the way.

Rather than just repeating Thursday’s ride, I turned north at Carson along the Wind River Road, navigating toward Forest Road 25 and the east side of Mt. St. Helens. The was the same basic route I took in June on the GS, except this time I wanted to ride FS99 to the Windy Ridge viewpoint on the eastern flank of the mountain. Where FS25, the main north-south Forest Service road, is rough and spectacularly frost-heaved, FS99 is much newer with mostly smooth pavement, sweeping curves, magnificent vistas, with tourists creeping skyward while marveling at the scenery.

I’d climbed Mt. St. Helens several times while in college, years before the 1980 volcanic eruption that killed 57 people and completely changed the look of the mountain and much of the surrounding terrain. So this was the first time I saw the new Spirit Lake amidst a vast array of gray volcanic debris, skeletal trees and emerging green undergrowth and new forest; it was so much different than the idyllic mountain lake surrounded by forest that I remembered. It was sobering to think of the devastation wrought by those natural volcanic events and reflect on the fact that the entire Cascade range has been formed in much the same way over the millennia—and that volcanic change will continue unabated in the future with equally dramatic effects on whoever lives in the region.

At least the spectacularly good weather allowed magnificent views of Mt. Adams as well as Mt. St. Helens. From desert plateaus through rocky canyons and river gorges to fertile farmland, verdant forests and snow covered volcanic peaks, the Pacific Northwest has it all. One of the best ways to see the region is on an old BMW - slowly.

Aside from this daily YKK symphony of tents, clothing, bags and boots, spending a week motorcycle camping in the Colorado high country provides complete serenity and rejuvenation for one’s soul. Each night, as we sat around the campfire, my traveling companion Joe Farrell and I would calmly reminisce over the days adventure and share our appreciation for how fortunate we are to be living and riding in this glorious land.

The state of Colorado, home to some of America’s most beautiful scenery, has graced us with 26 Scenic Byways allowing us to experience and marvel at this majestic landscape surrounding us. In early spring of 2019, Joe and I decided to try and link together as many of these byways as a week-long tour of the Colorado high-country would allow. We accessed Colorado’s many online tourist resources and other related websites and discovered that Scenic Byways tend to be mashups of smaller secondary roads linked together to form the named route.

Because we were riding heavily laden BMWs with street tires, we wanted to avoid the many dirt and gravel roads in the region. We did extensive route planning to familiarize ourselves with the various roads and turnoffs, often using local expertise to verify road conditions. The popularity of our destinations made it wise to arrange many of our campgrounds ahead of time and because our departure date was in prime bear foraging season, we decided to eat out rather than bring food along. In late July, we packed the bikes, loaded the navigation systems and were on our way.

Day 1: July 23 - Snowmass Village to Estes Park - 247 miles

Just below the Continental Divide on the constant, twisting climb to Independence Pass, we arrived at the historic ghost town of Independence. It was here, in 1879, where gold was first discovered in the Roaring Fork Valley. Independence sprung up as the first mining site and today, the ghost town is a historical preserve.

Independence Pass, a very popular destination along the byway, is well above tree line and surrounded by hills and meadows of fragile, grassy tundra. Cresting the pass, we rode through switchbacks and sweepers to last winter’s avalanche debris fields. The massive snow fields above us had collapsed and sent hundreds of huge aspen and pine trees downhill where they raced across the valley floor and shot far back up the opposite mountain side. The destructive power was awesome.

A few miles on, arriving in the town of Twin Lakes, we rode north to Leadville. The highest incorporated town in the U.S., Leadville was also the perfect spot for a breakfast break. After enjoying burritos and fresh coffee at City on a Hill, we refueled and were on our way. Taking the eastern branch of the Top of the Rockies, we followed the scenic East Fork of the Arkansas River, rising over Fremont Pass (11,318 feet) to Copper Mountain Ski Resort, where the byway ends.

At Copper, we headed to Silverthorne and rode along the Blue River through the Arapaho National Forest, past Green Mountain Reservoir, to the silver town of Kremmling. Here, we joined the Colorado River Headwaters Scenic Byway and rode beside the mighty Colorado River passing through the Three Lakes Reservoir region to Grand Lake. Surprisingly, on this portion of the byway, the “raging" Colorado River often resembled a relaxing brook, gently tumbling down meadows and rock faced falls. At about midway along this route, the air filled with a telling aroma, and we knew we were arriving in Hot Sulphur Springs.

At Grand Lake, in Rocky Mountain National Park, we arrived at the beginning of the Trail Ridge Road Scenic Byway, one of Colorado's most popular roads. This 48-mile byway is America's highest continuous highway, climbing over Milner Pass (10,759 feet), over the Continental Divide and Iceberg Pass (11,827 feet) before descending toward our destination at Estes Park and Mary’s Lake campground.

We set up camp accompanied by our first official overture of “The Zipper Tour” symphony and, after the musical interlude, headed to town for fuel for the bikes and ourselves. Soon after leaving camp, the skies opened, but once the storm passed, we were gifted with our first double rainbow of the trip. After dining at The Rock Inn Mountain Tavern, we returned to our slowly drying camp for libations around the campfire before another musical interlude and bed.

Day 2: July 24 - Estes Park to Echo Lake Park - 146 miles

Our initial plan was to follow the Continental Divide out of Estes Park through abandoned ghost towns along the scenic and twisty Peak to Peak Scenic Byway to Idaho Springs. We would get on the Mount Evans Scenic Byway to Echo Lake Park and ride up to the summit of Mount Evans.

On the Peak to Peak, passing through some of Colorado's most popular destinations, we soon crossed over Wind River Pass (9,130 feet) and rode to the Chapel on the Rock near Allenspark. It was here, in 1993, during his World Youth Day visit that Pope John Paul II prayed and hiked along the trails of the Saint Malo Retreat. We continued south to the old trading post town of Nederland, where we had a late breakfast at the New Moon Bakery and Cafe. Beyond Nederland, we were seduced by the allure of Golden Gate Canyon Road, and instead of arriving in Idaho Springs, we found ourselves, much later, in Golden. Here, we regained our bearings and headed west along Clear Creek, passing through six rocky tunnels to find our way back to Idaho Springs.

Skipping the interstate and following the scenic route, we rode Evergreen Parkway to Mount Evans Scenic Byway in the Arapaho National Forest. We climbed over Squaw Pass (9,790 feet) and Juniper Pass (11,020 feet) to arrive at our destination, Echo Lake Park campground.

At Echo Lake, not reservable in advance, we were fortunate to get one of the last walkup spots for this evening’s stay, as it was again beginning to drizzle. We quickly got to setting up camp, because the planned highlight of the day was to ride to the summit of Mount Evans (14,258 feet). Climbing 7,000 feet in 28 miles, this is the highest paved highway in North America. We didn’t let the weather dampen our excitement as we eagerly, through rain and drizzle, headed up the frost-heaved road to the summit.

While the views were compromised by weather, the ride up was exhilarating, and we witnessed some “high-altitude” truck testing of heavily camouflaged pick-up trucks from an unnamed vehicle manufacturer. At the summit, we were entertained by numerous mountain goats and a big horn sheep welcoming committee. Here, we decided the many “road damage” signs should refer to “goat damage” as the critters were all busy at the side of the road digging for road salt residue and undermining it in the process. While the wildlife stayed busily working, we and the stealthy truck’s all carefully headed down the rain slicked road from the summit.

That evening, the nearby Echo Lake Lodge provided a fine dinner hosted by our waiter, Lucas, a student from the Czech Republic. Afterward, we took a short sunset walk down to tranquil Echo Lake so Joe could verify the echo, of Echo… Echo… Echo Lake… before returning to camp to enjoy a sip of whiskey, a can of beer and a crackling campfire. Then zip… zip… zip, and into our tents.

Day 3: July 25 - Echo Lake Park to Colorado Springs - 198 miles

The ride up was glorious, and except for the goats, we were alone at the summit. While it was 46 degrees at 7:45 a.m. this morning, it didn’t keep us from enjoying the spectacular western views of the Rocky Mountain peaks and to the east, beyond Denver, the Great Plains. Soon the general public began to arrive, and we rode down the twisties, enjoying thrilling views of the cliffs and peaks as the sun danced between shadow and light above timberline.

Stopping at Summit Lake Park which, at 12,840 feet, anchors the high-altitude end of the Denver Mountain Parks system, we walked out to the cliff’s edge, joined only by Big Horn Sheep. We had stellar views of the naturally formed glacial lakes and the far peaks. At tree-line, the Mt. Goliath Natural Area featured crazily shaped trees “flourishing” in their windswept and desolate environment,

Still early in the day, we packed the bikes and enjoyed “everything omelets,” at the Echo Lake Lodge before heading to Pikes Peak via a short portion of Colorado's only urban byway, Lariat Loop Scenic Byway, which, passes through the towns of Denver's Mountain Area.

Traveling through the Arapaho National Forest at Evergreen, we rode CO 73S, a fun, curving road beside Cub Creek. At Conifer, we followed the North Fork of the South Platte River into Pike National Forest and the town of Deckers. We biked through the meandering canyons of CO 67S into Woodland Park, and there we cruised along US 24E into Manitou Springs.

Manitou Springs, in the shadow of Pikes Peak, is home to eight uniquely flavored, naturally carbonated mineral springs not found anywhere else in Colorado. We opted to dine at Joe’s highly recommended Vienna Station, where Old Colorado City’s only hot dog stand serves up “Best of the Springs” Chicago Style Hot Dogs. Sitting outdoors with Pikes Peak in the background, we watched as it became completely covered in storm clouds. Soon, lightning flashes through the clouds were all we could see of the summit. Camping seemed less attractive at the moment, and we decided to stay nearby in Colorado Springs at the Travelers Uptown Motel. This gave us a chance to clean up and be “more presentable” as we walked around town. The weather in town held off, and we had dinner at Rasta Pasta. Back at the Travelers Uptown, with no musical accompaniment this evening, we were soon in “The Land of Nod.”

Day 4: July 26 - Colorado Springs to Alamosa - 261 miles

Taking advantage of the weather, we then rode north to the very popular Pikes Peak Toll Road Scenic Byway. This 12-mile byway climbs to the top of the world's second most visited mountain summit. Traffic was already backed-up at the entrance, but we, with the help of a nice ranger lady, were through and on our way in just a few minutes.

Pikes Peak toll road is a fun, windy road up through the tree line, taking in spectacular scenery as the road finds its way to the summit. Due to a 50-million-dollar construction project at the summit replacing the present Summit House and upgrading the 125-year-old Cog Tramway, we were not able to officially “summit” but took the free shuttle a few miles to the top. The view here inspired the song “America the Beautiful,” written in 1893 by Katharine Lee Bates after having reached the summit of “America’s Mountain.”

Inside the Summit House, Joe and I were seduced by the world famous “high altitude donuts.” The line for these little delights went all the way out to the entrance. Legend has it, if you purchase these at the summit and bring them to the base of the mountain, they flatten, like bagel chips, from the increased atmospheric pressure. But, we found them too irresistible to test the veracity of that legend.

Remounting our bikes at the Devil’s Playground shuttle stop, we headed toward a portion of the Frontier Pathways Scenic Byway in the San Isabel National Forest, passing landscapes from mountain to desert on our way from Wetmore to Colorado City. Along the way, near Rye, we stumbled upon the famous Bishop Castle. Free, and open to the public, the castle is a monumental statue of stone and iron. Jim Bishop built his dream of medieval fantasy, stone by stone, over the past 50 plus years, and it is a testament to what one determined man can accomplish.

After a tour of the grounds, we headed to Colorado City and Walsenburg where we rode a short portion of Highway of Legends Scenic Byway. We enjoyed dazzling views of the Spanish Peaks in the nearby San Isabel National Forest. We continued onto the Los Camino Antiguos Scenic Byway, through thunderstorms and hail, toward our destination at Alamosa.

As we approached the Great Sand Dunes National Park, it was wet and getting late, so we decided to visit the following morning and go directly to our campground near Alamosa instead. Fortunately, our camp at the KOA was completely dry and very comfy. Our hosts, Joe and Jeanette, were most gracious and delivered firewood and excellent pizza to our site. Made a fire, ate pizza and… Zip Zip Zzzzzzip…

Day 5: July 27 - Alamosa to Durango - 268 miles

We followed the call of the Los Caminos Antiguos as we explored the small towns of the San Luis Valley, Manassa (birthplace of prizefighter Jack Dempsey, the “Manassa Mauler”), Romeo and Antonito before dropping into New Mexico over La Manga Pass (10,230 feet) and Cumbres Pass (10,022 feet) through the Rio Grande National Forest.

At the Box Car Café n Chama, Marissa, served us a delicious lunch under a canopy of shade trees, consisting of authentic tacos, rice, beans and sopapilla. This is where they say it’s “Made in Chama—NOT China!” Refreshed, we continued up through the Rio Grande and San Juan National Forests through Pagosa Springs to Durango.

Seven miles east of Durango, we set up camp at KOA East and went into town to explore. Our visit happened to coincide with “Durango Fiesta Days,” and the town was abuzz during this week-long celebration of the rich history and heritage of the Durango area. The town was founded by the Denver & Rio Grande Railway in 1879 and began passenger and freight service to Silverton in 1882. The historic Durango & Silverton Narrow Gauge Railway has been in continuous operation since that time. Nowadays, it carries sightseers, using vintage steam locomotives and rolling stock through the splendor of the San Juan Mountains.

We each had a delicious steak salad for dinner, at the Lone Spur Cafe. Back at camp, we relaxed by the fire and relived the days adventures, before zipping to sleep.

Day 6: July 28 - Durango to Crawford State Park - 186 miles

Stopping in Silverton, there was a lot of excitement as the narrow-gauge Durango and Silverton railway's #476 steam engine from Durango had just arrived. Silverton, being smaller than we expected, probably calms down pretty fast once it departs. After admiring the train, it took us a while to figure out how to get out of town. We tried a few promising leads, but eventually figured out there was only one paved road into and out of town.

Backtracking to the skyway, we continued north over Red Mountain Pass (11,018 feet) toward Ouray. This steep stretch of byway has several gorgeous overlooks, twists and hairpin turns bordered by waterfalls, huge cliffs and mountain slopes littered with mine tailings. Descending this beautiful path, we discovered Ouray was much larger and more bustling than we had imagined. It might be called Colorado’s version of “Moab” as the streets were filled with people, dirt bikes, road bikes and 4-wheelers of all sizes. Feeling hungry, we worked our way through the crowds to find two seats at Maggie’s Kitchen on Main Street where we chowed down on two huge, green chili and cheese burgers.

Departing Ouray, the mountains and cliffs gave way to ranch land, farms and horse country. The ride to Delta was much flatter and more developed than we had expected or had experienced during our trip. But once we reached Hotchkiss and were on the West Elk Loop Scenic Byway, the thrills returned. The short ride from there to our destination at Iron Brook campground in Crawford State Park consisted of dazzling scenery, mountain ranges and alpine wildflowers. The farms and cattle ranches reminded us of those who once lived and those who now live here.

It was dry, hot and sunny as we arrived at the state park. Our campsite overlooked Crawford Reservoir, and Joe took a refreshing dip. In the nearby small village of Crawford, where English singer Joe Cocker had established his ranch and restaurant, we ate at Diamond Joe's Cafe and Saloon.

In camp that evening, we enjoyed a beautiful sunset beyond the reservoir and refreshments by the campfire. We talked about how quickly the week had zipped by and how fortunate we were to live in Colorado and able to ride these wonderful byways. As the sun and campfire dimmed, we crawled into our tents and were saddened that the “Zipper Tour” was coming to an end.

Day 7: July 29 - Crawford State Park to Snowmass Village - 198 miles

The historic district of Crested Butte contains many colorful Victorian buildings which preserve the aura of the past. In the summer, the surrounding meadows produce so many wildflowers, the Colorado legislature named it the “Wildflower Capital of Colorado.” In the downtown historic center, we lunched at the Brick Oven Pizzeria and Pub. On the menu, they offered an “authentic” Philly Cheesesteak. With my City of Brotherly Love roots, I knew I shouldn’t test the authenticity. But surprisingly, their presentation and product brought back memories of Pat’s, Geno’s and Lee’s from the old neighborhoods.

After lunch, we checked the weather and heard from locals that the dirt road over Kebler Pass (10,007 feet) was open and in good condition. Since we were both riding on street tires, we were worried how the heavy bikes would behave in the ruts, dirt and gravel. But, since the alternate route was hours out of the way, we decided to venture forth, on County Road 12, and find out.

The West Elk Loop Scenic Byway, CR 12, out of Crested Butte is a gentle meandering ride through Gunnison National Forest. We rode half of this 205-mile loop from Gunnison to Carbondale by way of Crested Butte. While there were some loose sections with lots of dust and a large flock of sheep in the road, overall it was easily managed by us both. After 34 miles though, we were glad to be back on pavement at Paonia Reservoir. We turned north and climbed over McClure Pass (8,755 feet) to the end of the West Elk Loop Scenic Byway at the base of Mount Sopris in the town of Carbondale. Less than 30 miles from where we began, we didn’t want our adventure to end, so took our time traveling the familiar back roads, the “long way around,” to our starting point in Snowmass Village.

Home again

What a ride it was! Seven days and six nights of adventure, 1,500 miles ridden, 14 mountain passes, 13 scenic byways and many points of interest. We experienced some of the most diverse and beautiful scenery available in the United States. Each evening and every dawn we recognized how fortunate we are to live and ride in America’s most beautiful playground.

Thus was born Daytona Orange. It was how Muth rebelled against the status quo and one of the reasons his designs are so iconic. There is nothing subtle about the motorcycles he designed, not one of them, and they were all designed with passion and purpose.

Hans Muth with an R 65 LS. Note the white snowflake wheels - not silver - that Muth specified in the original design.

It is easy to heap credit on Muth for preventing BMW Motorrad from becoming just another failed experiment on two wheels, albeit a 40-plus-year one, but it is difficult to imagine the success of BMW motorcycles in the ‘70s and ‘80s without his participation. In addition to the R 90 S, Muth also designed the first GS and positioned BMW at the front of the adventure motorcycle craze, a genre that has perhaps done more to keep motorcycling alive in this century than any other specific style of bike.

In addition to the R 90 S and the first R 80 GS, Muth also designed a number of other motorcycles for BMW, including the R 65 LS, and the first Katana for Suzuki, a motorcycle largely credited for triggering the Japanese sportbike craze, the repercussions of which we still see in bikes like the FZ, GSX-R, CBR and even the S 1000 RR.

Hans Muth on Chasing the Horizon, Part 1

I met Hans Muth at a gathering in Pennsylvania hosted by Todd Trumbore to celebrate the 40th anniversary of the R 80 GS and R 65 LS. The weekend was filled with conversation and knowledge, as a number of experts spoke at length under a large covered pavilion next to Trumbore’s private collection of amazing motorcycles. It was a gathering not unlike the anniversary celebration of the R 90 S the same group held not long ago. Airhead riders are among the most dedicated BMW fans around, and their enthusiasm for this generation of BMW motorcycles is legendary, almost to the point of caricature. It’s easy to pick on them sometimes, but they probably know more about their motorcycles than any of the rest of us who ride modern, liquid-cooled, fuel-injected, road-gobbling monsters.

Hans Muth on Chasing the Horizon, Part 2

“You can sit in a car,” Muth said. “But the motorcycle, you are part of it. It’s physical.” This idea is part of his man-machine philosophy; the more stable the motorcycle is, the less the rider has to fight the bike, the more fun he has. It’s part and parcel of why his motorcycles have fairings on them.

A "post design" prototype built by fans of Muth's designs shows off his original concept for the "Gentleman's Scrambler," complete with red engine.

He wanted to make bold statements with the motorcycles he designs, whether that comes from putting a big fairing on it or coming up with a new color. “A designer has to take responsibility and fulfill demands, not only for aesthetics, but also for [production], safety and modularity, which is where we came up with the RT.”

It was 1975 when Muth joined BMW Motorrad officially, leaving his productive career designing four-wheeled vehicles behind him for a time. During his five years there, he continued fighting for modularity, because it helped drive production costs down, meaning younger people who wanted to ride could afford to get into the sport. The key to that was using the same engine across models, and that extended onward up to the iconic K1, which had BMW’s 1,000cc water-cooled flat engine.

The genesis of the adventure bike started, of course, with the R 80 GS. Muth got the idea while driving a Range Rover, and his head told him, “We need a motorcycle like a Range Rover.” The idea became reality in the monoshock-supported GS, or “Gentleman’s Scrambler” as he refers to it. He wanted a bike that weighed less and was easy to work with, and convincing his Motorrad compatriots to develop it was as easy as pointing out the same benefits in BMW’s cars. It took him 20 minutes to sketch the basics on a piece of paper, and the bike went into 3D modeling, what they called a “design reference model.” “They saw it, they liked it, they raised a thumb, and that was it,” he said.

Detail of the red engine on the GS800.

Neither Muth nor anybody else at BMW had any idea the GS would become the future of BMW, the best-selling bike in the company’s history and the progenitor of an entire genre of motorcycles. Perhaps if they had, they’d have made it just a little prettier.

Stripping away everything from the motorcycle left behind the engine—that “beating boxer heart” as he calls it—the GS prototype’s engine was red. That didn’t make it to the production model, but it was the beginning of the LS, a smaller, lighter bike based on the same design concepts. It is on the R 65 LS where it is perhaps the easiest to see Muth’s attention to detail and how his mind works. First, the red. Red attracts the eye. Red is sexy. Red inflames the passions. When everything is red, though, it’s a bit much, plus BMW was not going to make a red frame, it was just not convenient for production in the late ‘70s or early ‘80s.

A row of R 65 LS motorcycles.

Look closely at the R 65 LS, and you’ll notice the tank has a black stripe on the bottom of it. That little bit of black paint on either side of the tank creates the smooth, graceful line defining the purpose of the LS—sport touring. It’s an easy bike to zoom around the countryside on, not a care in the world but carving the next curve.

“We are losing our sensitivity,” Muth said, and explained why he still to this day designs initially on paper. The purity of the sketch is paramount: the hand shapes, the eye judges, the passion develops. The process grows from there, passing through the full-size clay model and culminating in the production machine rolling off the factory line.

Silver snowflake wheels.

When it comes to modern motorcycles, Muth feels they are spoiling riders. It’s the consumption culture, he complained, that has turned us into people who are only ever interested in the next thing. With so many choices, he laments, comparing the current crop of available bikes to an unstructured restaurant with a massive menu, the rider has no choice but to always wonder what he might be missing. “The automotive industry—125 years of professional car manufacturing—what they have done is tell us what we want,” he said. What he wants riders to do is the equivalent of going into a small, local Italian restaurant. You know what will be on the menu, and you know you’ll like it. You won’t feel compelled to continue looking at the next page of the menu and can then concentrate on enjoying the motorcycle you’re riding rather than wondering about what you might be missing.

While cognizant of his role in the success of BMW Motorrad, Muth is not at all arrogant about it. Any conversation with him shows both his pride and his humility, an odd combination in anybody. What drives Muth is a concept he calls “PUT IT HERE.” As a result, and as important to BMW’s motorcycle history as Muth is, it is his philosophy that truly paints his picture.

A row of early GS motorcycles with Todd Trumbore's pavilion in the background.

“It is not playing around with shapes. It is working with convincing solutions—moderate, attractive, functional and modular—to keep the basics in place. Solutions don’t come from the top, neither from companies nor government. They come down from the folks who are on the ground. They have the sensitivity. The have the demanding and the doing.”

Hans Muth has written a book reviewing his 60 years of design work. It’s already out, but only available in German. It will be available in English some time in 2020 and covers not only his motorcycles, but his industrial, car and even helicopter designs as well. It contains his artwork and photos of many of the machines he designed, as well as his commentary on many of the designs.

Muth regales the gathered mass with the story of the R 65 LS.

As his Father’s Day present to me that year, my 25-year-old son, Eric, had suggested we ride my then current bike, a 2000 BMW K 1200 LT, on a tour of Kansas City’s motorcycle dealerships starting with his choice, our local Ducati shop. I knew, of course, that this whole process was to look for a bike for him. Having sold his Honda CBR600RR a few years earlier, he’d been jones-ing for a replacement for some time. But, without his own ride at that moment, Eric sat pillion on my BMW “motorhome” as we visited each brand of dealership throughout the metro, identifying several possible rides that might suit his fancy.

When we finally arrived at Engle Motors, our local BMW/Triumph dealer and last stop that Saturday, all it took was one look at the silver-on-black rocket ship that BMW had just introduced and I was hooked. In the blink of an eye (and certainly without consideration of any home-front consequences), I signed on the dotted line, and soon after Eric was riding the K 1200 R home on my behalf, most likely wishing it was his and thinking this was not the outcome he had hoped for that weekend. The thought of this thoroughly selfish decision on my part still makes me wince a bit, hindsight being 20/20. A few months after bringing the K 1200 R home, the K 1200 LT was quickly sold.

Over the following years, Eric bought and subsequently sold his own Kawasaki ZX14 after moving with his wife to Washington State. Seven more grandchildren were added, bringing the total to eight, and for a recent 2-up long distance ride to Montana, I unexpectedly came into possession of a used ’03 Harley Davidson Ultra Classic Anniversary Edition from a friend who simply wanted to off-load an extra motorcycle he had lying around his garage.

All the while, though, I continued to put mile-after-mile on my little K 1200 R speedster with trips to the Northwest corner of Arkansas, to Barber Motorsport Museum in Birmingham, to Southern Virginia to see my daughter Heidi, around a loop back home over 320 miles of the Blue Ridge Parkway, the Tail of the Dragon and the Cherohala Skyway and to many, many more destinations—some 49,000+ miles, all told—through the spring of 2019.

What a great bike the K 1200 R has been for all those years, fast and nimble with a fairly low cost of ownership, at least by BMW standards. But, as time marches on and bodies age, mine was slowly losing the ability to stay comfortable on the K much longer than an hour at a time. Yet, I could straddle the Harley for the full 200 miles its fuel tank would accommodate.

In early 2018, I quietly started laying plans to hand the reins of the K 1200 R over to Eric later that year. And what more natural way of doing so than by a long-distance trip from Kansas City to his home in Lynden, Washington with Eric riding the K and me on the Harley.

Unfortunately, God had other plans for us both that year, and the trip was postponed until 2019, which happened to more appropriately align with Eric’s 40th birthday. What a great birthday present!

We finally locked in the dates of July 18th to July 28th, 2019, started assembling necessary gear and planning reasonable destinations for each night of the ride.

By the 1st of July, all our plans were formalized, and we were in the middle of the final countdown. Eric was to arrive late Wednesday evening, July 17th, via non-stop flight from Seattle with his helmet and the seat bag I had previously shipped him, pre-packed and ready to saddle up on the 18th. All other gear had been shipped to my house awaiting his arrival.

Once again, though, God had one more curve ball to hurl our way. Eric was suddenly advised he might be sent out on an urgent, month-long assignment just before the start of our ride and spent the better part of his weekend prior to our trip working through the mix-up and getting final approval for his vacation one last time.

July 17th finally arrived, and Eric landed in Kansas City that night and immediately began putting into motion his preparations for our next day departure. On the other hand, I had been packing and prepping for the last week, hoping to get us both off as scheduled.

Setting out mid-afternoon on the 18th, we headed north from Kansas City to and across South Dakota, into Wyoming, up through Montana, Northern Idaho and across Washington State, arriving at Eric’s home on July 23rd. Along the way we visited the Corn Palace, The Badlands, Wall Drug, Mt. Rushmore and Deadwood, rode Spearfish Canyon and the Beartooth Pass into Yellowstone National Park while big horn sheep and bison crossed our paths. We stayed with my older brother David and his family in Livingston, Montana, circumnavigated Coeur d’Alene Lake in Idaho and rode State Highway 20 over the Cascades of Washington State. We ate pizza and elk, eggs and pastrami, cake and more pizza. Though we planned and packed to camp out each night, we instead enjoyed the luxury of hot showers and clean sheets. All-in-all, a darn good run covering just over 2,200 miles in 5 1/2 days.

When I awoke that Wednesday morning, July 24th, after a lovely evening with my son and his family, I was gripped by a level of anxiety I hadn’t expected. How could I just turn around and head home without spending some quality time with my 5-year-old grandson, Brayden, whom I hadn’t seen in over a year? They grow so darn fast! In a last minute decision, my return home to Kansas City would have to be delayed by a day. So, while Alicia went to work, Eric, Brayden and I painted Bellingham red, stopping for lunch at Sonic, spending an hour at the trampoline park and finally dropping by the local BMW shop in Ferndale, Washington, to ogle some newer hardware.

After a great home-cooked dinner and an added night’s rest at their home, I left Eric and his little family with their newly acquired 2006 BMW K 1200 R Thursday morning, July 25th, around 8:00 a.m. and headed back toward Kansas City. My original plan was to follow a more southerly route through Utah, Colorado and Kansas, but due to the extra day with family, I was forced to retrace our original route, the shortest possible distance home, only switching up State Hwy 20 for US Hwy 2 across central Washington State to further speed my return.

Having to account for one lost day of riding earlier in the week, I needed to make up 400 miles in my bid to arrive home at anything approaching a reasonable hour on Sunday. I pushed through from Livingston, Montana, all the way to Sioux Falls, South Dakota, putting me right at 800 miles for that day. This allowed me a leisurely 374 mile ride home on Sunday, which had me pulling up to the garage at 2:15 p.m., as planned; total round trip: 4,300 miles and change.

I must admit, since my return home my heart has occasionally been wrapped in melancholy. Melancholy for the fact our momentous ride, “Eric & Dad’s Big Adventure” as it grew to be called, was over. Melancholy for the distance between my son, his family and my life in Kansas City. And melancholy, certainly, for leaving such a good friend as my BMW K 1200 R behind, though I have every confidence that those reins are in capable and caring hands.

Keep the rubber side down, my boy, and Happy 40th Birthday!

Leaving Tonopah, Nevada, and just past the bowling alley in the shade of a mountain is a landmark - the familiar weathered outbuildings of Bobbie’s Buckeye Bar. The painted silhouettes of women whispering behind half-drawn window shades, have quietly faded into the siding on the windowless ends of the defunct brothel’s bunkhouses.

Tonopah quickly disappears behind me as I straight-line across Ralston Valley past Tonopah Speedway and dilapidated World War II era hangars which mark the northern perimeter of the Nevada Test and Training Range.

The distance between gas stations here is 172 miles, just about the number of miles that make my amber reserve light come on. The one-gallon RotoPax gas canister I bought specifically for this stretch is locked to my tail rack beneath my soft bag.

Mountains and gently rolling valleys, the basin and range country surround me, beautiful and desolate, a palette of earth tones and smoky sky. Human presence is minimal. A small, scattered herd of wild horses graze peacefully on a side hill above Five Mile Ranch. The white ranch house with red trim must be a hundred years old, its porch cluttered with boxes and things. Several pickup trucks are parked between corrals, but no one’s around. I roll along, across long basins, through passes between rugged burnt orange and brown ridges. Several miles up the road, past the turnoff for the ghost town of Tybo, I stop at a rest area to drink some water, eat an apple and take a picture of my motorcycle.

Tall cottonwoods clustered with dense green leaves shade the house at Black Rock Station. A spring feeds marshlands that fans out across the alluvium, surrounded by stark desert. A car is parked on the southbound side of the highway. Next to it, a couple watches a small herd of wild horses, all ivory black, four adults and three colts turn and walk across the arid landscape to the shelter of the Pancake Range. Once past the shade of the cottonwoods, Railroad Valley, is long, yellow, dry and flat, walled in by distant brown mountains.

The smoky skies are gone in Ely. I check in to the basic but comfortable Motel 6 with an expansive view of the Schell Creek Range, then walk two blocks to the Fiesta Mexican Restaurant for dinner. I was happy to be riding again and didn’t know how it was going to go on a long trip. Recovery from knee surgery was not as fast I would have liked. In mid-July the Ferguson Fire started burning west across the Sierra, spreading a thick, choking pall of smoke upon the Owens Valley and creating endless overcast skies. The summer riding season was slowly evaporating. To make up for days of lost riding, I decided to go to the Beartooth Beemer Bash in Red Lodge, Montana. It was a destination, a reason to ride.

After a cup of Motel 6 coffee, I packed up and rode north across the Steptoe Valley, one hundred and forty miles to Wells. Vast sagebrush-grasslands and north-south trending mountain ranges parallel the highway. Closer to Wells, metal buildings and manufactured homes have popped up quickly across large swaths of grasslands, prime pronghorn antelope habitat. Smoke has covered the sky, drifting east from the Mendocino Complex and Carr fires, burning in Northern California. In Wells, I stop at Bella’s for breakfast, arriving at 9:30 after the morning rush of travelers.

From Shoshone, Idaho, I take the Peaks to Craters Scenic Byway, a narrow, two lane road sandwiched between the southernmost edge of three mountain ranges - Sawtooth, Lost River and Lemhi - and an uninterrupted vista of umber-colored volcanic flow, topped with sagebrush and grasses. Outside of Arco where I’ll spend the night camping at the KOA, I stop to look at the dry Big Lost River and the remains of a stone cabin.

The first warm light of morning drifts across the mountains and filters through the meadow grass in the field beyond my tent. I boil water for coffee and oatmeal on my camp stove, while packing, then ride into town and top off my tires with air. I chat with a rider returning from Sturgis, then ride east across the flat lands of Idaho National Laboratory into the sun, a deep orange ball hovering above the highway in a dense smoke-filled orange sky. Listening to music and Google Maps on my Sena while glancing at my handlebar-mounted Garmin, I bypass downtown Idaho Falls and sweep into the rolling hills and wheat fields of Swan Valley. From the Snake River where fly fisherman cast from their dories, my route turns up the Teton Scenic Byway, and steeply climbs and curves into the tall pines of the Targhee National Forest, across Pine Creek Pass into Victor, then up and over Teton Pass and down to Jackson, Wyoming. Moose-Wilson Road is open so I take it into Grand Teton. It is mostly paved now, though often closes this time of year when bears come down to eat berries.

A faint smoky haze permeates every part of the park, accentuating the distance between foreground forests and the high peaks of the Tetons, in a painterly way. Past the traffic circles, the road ebbs and flows through the forest, along the Snake River to Jackson Lake, then on into Yellowstone.

South of Old Faithful, a man in his late 20s carrying a faded orange Camp Trails Skyline backpack and sporting a well-worn baseball cap is walking in the middle of the road, with both hands raised and middle fingers extended, yelling at the cars. I see his mouth moving but can’t hear what he is saying. The car in front of me slows down and the guy starts moving my way. “Oh no,” I’m thinking, but squeak by him. Five minutes later, a park ranger zips by in a SUV, lights on and sirens blaring.

I spend a cozy night in West Yellowstone in a vintage motel along the edge of the national park. My plan was to have breakfast in Cooke City, ninety miles away. In the morning, I followed the lovely Madison River back into Yellowstone. A few cars and a group of Harley Davidson riders lined up behind me, but I stuck to the 45 MPH speed limit. When a doe darted from the bush, I hit the brakes and paused for a few seconds - then the fawn ran out. Everybody backed off after that.

At Tower Junction, dozens of tourists swarmed a small group of buffalo, abandoning their vehicles in the road, blocking both lanes of thru traffic. “How lucky,” I thought, “that the Beartooth is this way,” and went in the opposite direction. It was a fun ride, up and down a curvy grade, past the Grand Canyon of the Yellowstone, and along a wide river. None of it looked familiar. A sign for Cody, Wyoming prompted me to stop and check my maps. I was paralleling the Yellowstone River, not the Lamar. I wondered where all the buffalo were. I had turned south instead of east at Tower Junction - a 60-mile round-trip detour, but really, just another beautiful ride.

It was 2:30 PM when I stopped for lunch at the Log Cabin Inn in Silver Gate. From there, the Beartooth Highway climbs 3300-feet to alpine meadows via a series of long straightaways and hairpin curves - a complete high-altitude experience: steep drop-offs, rocky walled cliffs, glacial lakes, patches of snow, distant crags, mountain tops, big sky and thin clean air. It’s as close as you can get to mountaineering from the back of a motorcycle. Over the pass, the curves tighten and the drop-offs are sheer on the descent into Red Lodge. The elevation drops 5,000 feet to the canyon bottom where the road straightens out to Red Lodge. It is in this beautiful river canyon that the Beartooth Beemers were celebrating their 20th anniversary.

The rally is held at the Lion’s Club Youth Camp, a collection of cabins with a dining hall along on a forest meadow surrounded by the Beartooth Mountains and Custer Gallatin National Forest. I spent four nights camped near a creek beneath tall pines. The first day, a moose cow and her calf ambled by along the creek. The setting is beautiful and the area riding is well-known. Volunteers from the Lion’s Club are in the kitchen each morning by 4 or 5 AM, making coffee and starting breakfast. They cook all day long.

The days were warm and sunny with only one famous Montana deluge the day before the rally ended. Snow closed Beartooth Pass Sunday morning. I had planned to ride over the pass, but decided to loop north to the interstate. People asked me where I was going next, and when I told them Jackson, Montana, one woman said, “You better take a big man with you.” Not sure what she meant and she slipped out of the room before I could ask.

The two-lane road from Red Lodge to Absarokee meandered through gently rolling hills - lots of big ranches. At one point, two white tail deer leapt through tall grass along the highway beside me. I picked up the interstate to Bozeman, then down to Ennis and across Virginia City. New multiple fires had started all over western Montana and Eastern Idaho. I passed several firefighter base camps.

From Dillon, I rode east to Jackson, one of Montana’s great little towns. Jackson is known for its hot springs; it is said Lewis and Clark once boiled elk meat in its waters for their dinner. I checked into the Bunkhouse Hotel (built in 1910) and with the exception of updated “down the hall” plumbing and bright red walls, it was pretty close to original. Five Texans, fly fishermen claimed the second floor, which was one great room with five queen beds and a bar on one end. Next to the Bunkhouse, one could get a home-cooked meal at Rose’s Cantina.

On the way in, I passed a USFS Scenic Byway through the Pioneer Mountains. A forest service ranger was posting fire status updates on a board outside the hotel, so I asked her how long it would take to ride the byway. She said two hours, so I left all my gear in my room and headed back down the highway and has a beautiful afternoon ride through the Pioneer Mountains. I saw two herds of pronghorn antelope grazing in sagebrush near Polaris. Between Wise River and Wisdom, along the Big Hole River, I didn’t see another vehicle. I stopped in Wisdom to fill up with gas and discovered there was no credit card slot in the pump. I turned around to go inside, but the store had closed two hours ago. My gas canister finally paid off. A local later told me there was one pump at that station with a credit card slide.

I was to start home the next morning via the Sacajawea Scenic Byway through Idaho, but serious Red Flag warnings were in effect - high winds of 45-55 MPH along that route, which is quite exposed. Instead, I rode into Dillon, filled up with gas, then rode back out to Bannack State Park. My last visit there in 2011 was before a flash flood ripped through the park. Restoration was almost finished, so I spent an hour exploring the town. A storm was coming in with high winds, so I started back to Jackson. It was pouring rain by the time I got back and rained all night. Had an early dinner at Rose’s then retired to my room to read. As the night progressed, the three vacant downstairs bedrooms filled with guests and I could hear them talking outside my door. One guest had been caught in a forest fire hiking the Continental Divide Trail and was evacuated. Another was riding the Trans-America Trail, and thought he was going to have to bed down in fields 10 miles outside of town because of wind.

Next morning, I started out towards Salmon, but two miles out of town got stuck behind a cattle drive of at least a thousand head of black Angus. I asked the woman driving the sweep vehicle if they were going all the way to Wisdom, and she said, “Oh no,” and named a road not too far ahead. “Do you know that road?” she asked. “No, don’t know that road, but thanks.” I stayed back, about 150 feet behind the line of cowboys and dogs. There was no way I was going try to ride through a mass of cattle and be mistaken for a cowboy on a horse. Trampled cow manure turned to airborne mist in the light rain, coating everything that followed. My tires and undercarriage were golden greenish-yellow. When one or two energetic cows broke away from the herd and headed towards me, I held still - the border collies were on it. Six or eight dogs would surround the cow and work it right back to the herd.

A little over an hour later, rolling along at cow speed, the cows, dogs, cowboys and horses turned off the highway. I went on to Salmon, where I met the Sacajawea Historic Byway, an out-there 122-mile stretch of straight road through a long valley between the Lemhi and Beaverhead mountains. I passed two more cattle roundups, and a group of Jeeps heading out to the Lemhis. The road terminated at Mud Lake on Highway 33, and from there I started back home, following the same beautiful route I always take when I go this way, through the Great Basin back home to California.

It remained that way until 2010 when a good friend of mine decided to join the Army and wasn’t sure what to do with his 2010 Honda Shadow 750. After buying it, he rode it around the country and satisfied all of his motorcycling dreams. He mentioned that if he could find someone interested, he’d let that someone use the bike to keep it running. Just like that, the hook was set, and he removed one of the most significant barriers to anyone considering committing to riding. A month later I was a licensed rider, courtesy of the Virginia Rider Training program. I can’t praise these types of programs enough for giving me the entry skills and knowledge to start my motorcycle career safely. A month into riding around on his bike, I was hooked, and even though I worked less than a half mile from my apartment, I rode there every day. I knew I had to have my own bike.

Cruising Skyline Drive in Virginia

My First Motorcycle...not a BMW

I had cut my teeth on that Honda Shadow 750, a big, slow and comfortable easy-going cruiser. Even if I tried to ride aggressively, it wouldn’t let me. Naturally, when I set out to buy my own bike, I ended up with a sport bike. Wait, what? Hear me out: It’s not that I didn’t want a cruiser, but the Shadow was underpowered. So, who makes the baddest cruisers? Harley-Davidson. After checking just one price tag, I aimed a little lower. Perhaps a Harley-Davidson Sportster? Something used with low mileage was much closer to my price range, but still too much to commit to without getting some experience in the seat. When some friends planned a rafting trip 300 miles away, I rented one for my first real motorcycle road trip. Six-hundred miles, a gas station emergency eye rinse station visit, and one painfully vibrated rump later, I decided the Harley-Davidson premium simply wasn’t worth it.

It was at this point that I made my toughest motorcycle decision: I was going to buy a crotch rocket. Yep, I was going to become one of those people. The cost of a super low mileage, used sport bike was just too reasonable, and the more I researched, the more excited I got. I quickly identified Yamaha R6s as my best option, and after carefully waiting for the right (trustworthy) bike and seller to come along, I was the ecstatic owner of a 2008 Yamaha R6 with just under 2,000 miles.

I love my Yamaha. I always will, it is my baby. Though I may have cut my teeth on a Honda Shadow, I truly learned how to be a proper motorcycle rider on my Yamaha. The streets of any city, especially Washington, D.C., will force you to do that and quickly. While my buddy's bike made me fall in love with motorcycles. The R6 made me fall in love with riding.

My first track day at Summit Point, West Virginia

My First BMW...Rental

I've done a couple of day rides on my Yamaha over the years, and they were borderline torture by the end of the day. I knew the R6 would never satisfy my long ride cravings. I now primarily use it for the thing it was designed to do: track days.

I was fortunate to have a good friend living in Austin, Texas, who had taken an interest in motorcycles after playing around on dirt bikes as a civilian contractor while in the Middle East. In 2015, he bought a 2009 BMW 650 GS, and it wasn’t long after that we agreed we needed to experience a real tour. I wasn’t going to ride my Yamaha out there or on any lengthy trip in general, so I found a local Austin guy that rented motorcycles out of his garage. Having experienced Harleys enough already, and wanting to appear as a team, I rented a factory-lowered 2011 F 650 GS. This was also one of the extremely rare occasions where I checked a bag for a flight—18 days of gear packed in a giant duffle, including smaller bags, which I then transferred to the makeshift cases and strapped on the back. Nine states and more than 4,000 miles later, I had found my second love.

Somewhere in Nevada

My Second BMW...Rental

This trip further inflated my love of BMW adventure bikes and confirmed that my 5’9” size was more comfortable with a lowered one.

The North end of California Route 1

My Third BMW

...Is not a rental. This past fall I was finally able to get serious about buying a BMW. The most common question I’ve gotten is "Are you keeping your Yamaha?” The answer is an undeniable yes, I never even considered selling it. I chose to wait rather than sell. The R6 is my first love! I did the same level of research as my first bike purchase and concluded I could afford a typical used F 650 GS with low miles. I quickly learned, however, that these aren’t growing on trees around me like sport bikes. I expanded my search to the entire United States. Why not fly somewhere, buy a bike, and immediately take it on an adventure home? Before I had the chance to go down that road, a pristine 2012 F 650 GS with 3,000 miles popped up at a local dealer. One week later, it was mine, and shortly after, I joined the MOA.

Finally, one to call my own!

Having earned a contract with a pharmaceutical company in Toronto, Ontario (teaching a Business Writing class), it was another opportunity to commute to work on two wheels. Toronto resident, former FM drummer, producer (boomKA! Studios), composer, and arranger Martin Deller agreed to ride with me on my way out of town. Martin rides an R 1150 R Rockster, so ostensibly he and I ride the same kind of street bike. I’ve ridden with him before and found him to be an excellent motorcyclist, technically competent and well-skilled at tandem riding.

On the day after my training class, we met in the morning and made our way out of the city. We passed to the south of Lake Simcoe, ultimately placing us just south of Kinmount. Heading away from Crystal Lake, the fun only seemed to begin.

Fire Access Road is 13 thrilling miles of up and down, twisty dirt, gravel and puddles. I discovered it only four months earlier when my erstwhile riding buddy, Paul “Saddlebag” Cunningham and I were rambling around Canada on another one of my business trips. When we rode it in May, we thought that we were quite the adventurous ones. Marty and I rode it with fervor and had a great time.

Once again, Fire Access Road was conquered! From this point, we went north in Ontario and then east toward Bancroft. We ventured down unpaved roads suggested by Microsoft Streets & Trips; I like the idea of choosing the “Road Less Traveled.” It really does make all the difference, and for our purposes, that difference really increased the value of the journey.

Trout Lake Road was adventuresome and challenging. There were steep gradients, rocks, and spectacular puddles, which made for some fun (and wet) crossings. In fact, some of the puddles were so deep, I ended up getting water splashes up to my face shield! Although this road was a skill-sharpener, it was entirely manageable.

Leaving Trout Lake Road, it didn’t take long to notice that the grass was tall, the rocks in our riding path were big, and the downward grade was becoming steeper and steeper. We rode further into danger, yet there seemed to be a few good reasons to keep going. We held on to the hope that it would be better up ahead, and also that by this point, we were too far down to go back. We had taken some serious jumps with our motorcycles to get there; even if we could turn around (an unlikely option based on the uneven and jagged terrain), we probably wouldn’t be able to get the bikes back up the way we came.

I conjured images of a tow truck driver telling me that it would be impossible to get equipment into the area, and that I would have to abandon the motorcycle there. With no mobile phone service, fear gripped me. I couldn’t even call for help. More dire thoughts came: If we have to leave the bikes here, how long would it take to find to the nearest human, and what are the odds of encountering some not-so-peaceful, peckish wildlife?

We found ourselves at the bottom of the hill and now had to assess the navigability of the upward path that lay ahead of us. Marty and I walked to the top and determined we could do it. As though going into battle, I led the charge. Engine racing, clutch held and feathered, I applied power to the rear wheel, occasionally tapping the foot brake to keep my position. It took a few minutes to make the climb, and during this time, a burning smell filled the air. Keeping my legs out like struts worked fine until the protruding rocks pinned my right foot under the saddle bag. Any power applied to the throttle would have snapped my foot against that rock. Grabbing the front brake and rolling off the throttle meant I would lose some ground. I chose to keep the foot.

Marty had his own challenges going up that hill. At a few points, I had to pull his front forks or push his motorcycle from behind. There was even a time I had to tell him to stop so I could remove the soccer ball-sized rock from under the frame of his machine. When we finally made it to flatter ground at the top, we took a break. Some people think that riding a motorcycle can be effortless because the engine does all the work. My heart pounded palpably from this hilly adventure. I could feel it most strongly in my helmet, and I could sense all my veins throbbing.

Much to our relief, the road past that initial gully area was somewhat more drivable. As we progressed, we discovered the puddles here, unlike the ones on Fire Access Road, had a thick layer of mud, adding the additional risk of instability and crashing. Despite these ordeals, we did well until, just toward the end of Ashby Road, we arrived at an area where we needed to make a right turn. From the hard-packed dirt we were on, we were positioned toward soft, recently graded dirt. Marty and I both looked at each other and uttered two words (no, they weren’t “Happy Birthday”). The road offered a quality similar to beach sand, best described as mushy. We probably could travel on it, but it would be treacherous and slow going, with many opportunities to drop the bikes.

We made a reconnaissance walk to verify that what lay in front of us was, in fact, the road we still wanted and also to ascertain if we would be able to ride out. Sure enough, it was the right road. Cooperating with the inevitable, I started first and took off. Although spongy, the dirt seemed to be packed enough to move the Rockster along. It occurred to me as I was riding on this dirt that the tracks I rode in were made by vehicles. If vehicles can drive on a road like this, my motorcycle probably can also. Traveling further, the tire prints of large machinery became more and more apparent. Clearly some big vehicles had been driving on this road, probably to and from a logging operation.

The first few rain drops started to fall. Possibly the most reassuring sight I saw was an oncoming truck, believe it or not. Seeing it meant that there was another human nearby, and that vehicles could drive on this road and actually get somewhere! Only a few miles later (and after allowing one more oncoming truck to pass), we exited Ashby Road. At the moment we arrived on a paved road, we dismounted and celebrated our survival. We made it through 14.6 miles of transformational riding in just two hours!

As the rain began to come down with force, we celebrated our timing. The downpour was a double-edged sword. While we were both incredibly thankful that the precipitation abated until we were out of the woods (and mud), the torrent did us the injustice of washing our motorcycles clean of the hard-earned dirt and mud.

In the end, we walked out with the greatest prize of all - the chance to tell the tale. We didn’t need the mud and caked-on dirt; having survived the ride was enough of a reward. Another trophy worth mentioning is that neither of us dropped our motorcycles. On roads like these, I almost expect that a bike will be dropped. Not ours. Not that day.

It’s been a long time since I thought about that first big ride on the Long Island Expressway. A lot has happened since then, and I’ve certainly grown in mileage and experience. As a result, I rarely take stock of how thankful I am to be able to get out of bed every morning and give life another shot - and then tell the tale. Maybe one day I’ll get it right, but for now, the fun and prizes lie in the trying.

Advantage 1, Clearest View of the Vanishing Point

Jim Ford describes mini lanes by saying, “Visualize your side of a two-lane road as being divided into three longitudinal mini-lanes—like bowling lanes. Your left mini-lane is located just to the right of the center of the entire road. The middle mini-lane is located in the center, along the crown, of your side of the road, and the right mini-lane is located to the right, parallel to the road’s right shoulder. As an example, assume Jim is riding in the left-mini lane. I’m in my preferred right-mini and we’re riding on a flat, single-lane road about 12-feet wide approaching a crest of a hill a quarter-mile away. We’re both focused on the disappearing yellow centerline upon which a dead skunk lies just under the horizon. Though we each see a different vanishing point, how different are they?

If we were both to take photographs from our positions the moment Jim sees the skunk and then compare the images, the skunk wouldn’t be in my image because I’m a fraction of an inch further from the skunk than Jim and my sight distance doesn’t yet extend to that level of the horizon. Even so, I will still have virtually the same stopping opportunity (distance) once I see the hazard.

With this experiment it should be clear that no position within our 12-foot lane on a straight road provides a clearer view of the vanishing point, only a vanishing point with an imperceptible difference.

Lane shifting simply changes one’s perspective of objects ahead. While a rider in the left mini-lane can more easily see how many vehicles are ahead of him, a rider in the right mini-lane can more easily see the profile of approaching traffic.

Lane-shifting to gain perspective is an element in delayed-apex cornering, but the move’s key objective is to increase line of sight, which is different from a vanishing point.

In fairness to this example of vanishing points, they are used by autonomous-vehicle sensors for trajectory determination, while object recognition or avoidance is performed by systems using cameras, radar or lidar. It is this combination of sensory input, which Jim correctly identifies in his writings, that each rider must employ. Tree lines, power lines, slope, and guard-rail orientations are all elements surrounding a vanishing point and provide vital clues to the road ahead.

Advantage 2, Assert Yourself to Oncoming Traffic

But when riding a motorcycle, I have a different view of assertion. Let’s face it, some drivers view motorcyclists in a dim light. If you wear a Pickelhaube helmet and snug the centerline, you may receive the attention you don’t want.

Matadors wave muletas in front of the colorblind bull not to get his attention, but to provoke a response. Most importantly, distracting the oncoming motorist, who most likely already has me in sight, only increases my risk as that driver will not be focused on his own set of driving tasks.

As for Jim’s headlight flashing recommendation, the California Driver Handbook lists unnecessary flashing as aggressive driving. The practice can also be confusing to some drivers. How many times have you seen good-intentioned motorists at intersections flashing their headlights to signal an opposing driver to make a left turn in front of them?

On the front end of my motorcycle I have five lights. They are multicolored and very bright, and in most states it is legal to use the high-beam during daylight hours. Add some good reflective gear, ride the right mini-land and I believe you lessen risk.

Another reason I never ride the left mini-lane is to avoid multi-tasking drivers. Cell phones, in-dash displays and perhaps even driver-reliance systems on autonomous vehicles all create opportunities for centerline drift. At highway speeds the closing distance between you and an oncoming teenage-texter is incredibly short and potentially deadly. Two vehicles approaching each other at 60 mph do so at 176 feet per second. Personally, I’m not prepared to take evasive action at this rate.

Advantage 3, Equidistant from Wildcard Threats

Your options with this wildcard include stopping, swerving right or left or collision. As mentioned earlier, I’m a bit nervous about oncoming traffic, especially with deer in the area. To ease my nerves, I prefer to keep oncoming traffic as far away as possible under any circumstances. I will be riding in the right mini-lane and will take my chances with a swerve onto the shoulder. I will admit that when riding a lonely Great Basin two-lane road with a setting sun, I’m on the centerline, but my speed is reduced.

Advantage 4, Give Yourself Something active to do

In my mid-40s and under the spell of a quixotic impulse, I bought a new red 1991 BMW K 75S. But I was unprepared to ride. I couldn’t test ride the Beemer or ride it home, because I didn’t have a motorcycle license. Besides, I hadn’t put my leg over any motorcycle for a quarter of a century, back when I had swapped a Yamaha Trail 80 for a used VW bug. I was nervous about whether I could even handle my new motorcycle, and simply getting a 500-pound bike on or off the center stand was a challenge.

Living in rural upstate New York, I couldn’t look to others for help as I had no friends who were active motorcyclists. On my first ride down a nearby rural road, despite going slowly, I crashed within my first two miles, and my lack of motorcycling skills was unmistakably confirmed. The K 75 and I suffered cracks, scrapes and bruises, although fortunately, no major damage. But the wounds to my confidence and psyche were much deeper and longer lasting.

My fantasies about traversing New England that summer were replaced with anxieties about developing elementary motorcycling skills. It was late winter, and there were no nearby motorcycle training opportunities. I had to ride and learn alone.

Some weeks after my crash, I mustered up enough courage to resume short forays onto empty country roads and get comfortable with the mechanics of riding, including accelerating, shifting, braking, going around turns, stopping and starting smoothly. The K 75 is top heavy and I strained to lift it after dropping it while making a U-turn. That sort of mistake is best done without witnesses, if you are even able to pick up the bike.

Skilled riders have to watch their pace to remain within the speed limit on many roads, while I was trying my best to avoid being mistaken for a stationary object! My rides were so cautious that getting up to the speed limit was beyond my ability. The idea of traveling briskly and leaning the bike through turns was something I hoped to master in the distant future.

Most proficient riders, I believe, do not seek the company of a frightened trainee like me. I imagined that chaperoning a newbie would remove the joy of a brisk ride, requiring other riders to stop and wait frequently. I didn’t want to be a burden or to endure the embarrassment of being an incompetent rider. On my own, I slowly gained elementary skills, and my anxieties gradually subsided. I began to sense the joys of riding, though my trepidation still outweighed the pleasure by about 10 to 1. My ambition was to reverse those proportions.

Traveling on familiar roads evolved into longer rides on unfamiliar routes throughout the Berkshire Mountains. Although I still harbored fears, I glimpsed the exhilarating experience that accompanies motorcycling. There was the sensation of being alone, embracing the countryside which provided a moving landscape of experiences: the changing air temperatures from valleys to mountain passes, the aromas of the forests and farm land, and the accompanying rumble of the engine, the comforting encasement of my new black leather gear and air swooshing around my helmet. What had been so overwhelming to me as a novice was slowly morphing into a sense of confidence and a surprising feeling of freedom about where to go and what to do with only a map, a credit card, and a few gallons of gas.

Within my first year, I ventured beyond my local training roads and expanded my solo rides throughout New England to the coast of Maine and later, a trip down the Blue Ridge Parkway. While I noted my growing eagerness to ride often and for greater distances, my non-motorcycling friends thought me insane. As my skills and confidence improved, I began to think that I might not be such a burdensome riding companion.

This speculation coincided with an unanticipated career move to Los Angeles. By coincidence, my wife and I found housing near the famous motorcycling café, the Rock Store, nestled among the twisty canyon roads of the Santa Monica Mountains. I had suddenly traded the rural tranquility of solo riding in New England for the high energy, canyon carving sport bike circus of Southern California. It was an entirely new moto world to me.

Riding alone became nearly impossible. My daily commute to work involved lane-splitting on gridlocked freeways, a stark contrast to the tranquility of riding alone; instead, it’s like a quarterback sneaking through a horde of gargantuan lineman intent on crushing him. Even on weekend rides, the canyons were alive with hundreds of motorcyclists, from novices like me to those who had honed their skills on race tracks. Riding alone for me now meant compulsively watching my mirrors for the next pod of racer boys, exhibiting a level of skill that I had never seen as they whizzed past me.

Fortunately, I quickly found a group of middle-age motorcyclists who were willing to shepherd me into this different style of riding and for the next 18 years, my weekend ventures were with this group. With them, I improved my skills, enjoyed companionship, discovered relatively less traveled roads, and shared the joys of motorcycling. Particularly memorable was the thrill of being part of a small group scooting up and down canyon roads at a brisk pace, using the same braking points and lines through corners while spacing ourselves safely apart, but moving as if linked tightly together in a choreographed performance.

Over thousands of miles, I was a regular within one of those swift pods routinely passing others and nimbly getting around and through traffic. But even with the benefits of a group, I still coveted my humbling early solo excursions and occasionally preferred to travel alone. Over the ensuing years, I travelled solo throughout the West Coast, Southwest, and Rocky Mountain states.

There are benefits to riding alone. Trip planning need not be negotiated with others. In fact, planning may take little more than heading out of town on one of my favorite roads, without knowing exactly what my route or destination will be for the day. I may choose a familiar route or spontaneously turn onto an unfamiliar but intriguing county road, without the need to consult a map. How adventurous do I want to be, how long do I want to ride, and where will I find a motel and decent place to eat at the end of the day?

Riding alone means all decisions are my own, for better or worse. When and where to take a bathroom break, have a coffee or snack, take some photos, or get gasoline. The pace of travel fluctuates with my mood and energy, and my assessment of riding conditions. Other considerations include the likelihood of icy roads, the risk of wildlife unexpectedly strafing the pavement, the implications of a darkening sky, or whether the recent rains may have flooded the roads that dip down through the arroyos. When fatigue sets in, I make the call about whether to end the day’s ride at the next motel or campsite. None of these decisions are particularly difficult, and making them alone, rather than through a roadside committee, makes the trip less complicated and comes with the quiet satisfaction that the ride is entirely my own.

I admit that there are moments of fear while riding alone. Since I prefer secondary roads and sparsely inhabited regions that often are without cell phone service, I recognize that isolation has its risks. Mechanical failures, collisions with animals, a dropped bike, a skirmish with gravel, or running wide on a decreasing radius turn, all can become more threatening.

I look beyond the risks to the quiet pleasures of solitude. There is a paradox of being in nature while riding a motorcycle. I’m gliding through a verdant meadow, a stone walled canyon, an evergreen forest, or arid plain, environments that exhibit hardly a trace of human tinkering, beyond the pavement. It is awe-inspiring to be alone in a place where the landscape has been relatively unchanged for tens of thousands of years. It is the wilderness that draws people to hike the Pacific Coast Trail or canoe down an isolated river alone. But I am very aware of the incongruence of being astride an ingeniously designed ultra-modern motorcycle controlled by electronic wizardry that didn’t exist two decades ago. Whether hiking or riding, I am immersed in nature while moving through it, being relatively isolated, and largely self-reliant—no man-made intrusions, with the exception of my conversations with myself, hour after hour.

As the writer Edward Abbey (Desert Solitaire, 1968) said, “I am twenty miles or more from the nearest fellow human, but instead of loneliness I feel loveliness. Loveliness and a quiet exultation.”

In the end, I’ve come full circle and sometimes ride alone.

Last summer, as I approached my 50th birthday, I fielded questions from family and friends on how I wanted to celebrate this milestone in my life. The truth was I didn't want to admit I was turning 50, but I also couldn’t allow the occasion to pass without doing something significant. Instead of a party, I decided on taking a bucket list motorcycle journey and writing about the experience. The question was, to where? And, what could I write that hadn't already been written before? There already exists volumes of accounts of peoples' travels around the world, cross-continent adventures, solo trips and rides to exotic places. I wouldn’t be able to add any value to those bodies of work. Then inspiration hit. I would create a travel directory of roadside motels for motorcyclists.

Motels have long secured their place in American pop-culture lore in part because of the mid-century design that made them famous. Knowing this and seizing on the mile marker of my age, the story became clear; I would travel around the country to document the stories of 50 different roadside motels. I fell in love with the storyline and allusion to the mid-century mark.

Now, please forgive the irony that this is about motorcycles and motels which are the by-products of car travel. But they have always shared a cheesy romanticism between the two. The mere mention of both conjures up images of iconic 1960s motels and James Dean. By bringing the two together, we realize a long-time courtship. So, to honor this marriage, I humbly submit the word "motelorcycle" as a new term in the lexicon of motorcycle travel.

With that, I started The Motelorcycle Chronicles. But, before I began, I needed to test the idea to see if it would work. Living in a northern climate and with winter approaching, my riding days were becoming numbered. I booked two one-night stays; I timed the first one to wake up at The June Motel in Picton, Ontario, on September 24, my birthday. The second stay was scheduled for two weeks later at the Cadillac Motel in Niagara Falls. Both moteliers were very accommodating with their time and filled me with great stories.

April Brown and her business partner purchased The June Motel two years ago. Leaving cushy communications jobs in Toronto, they wanted to buy an old motel, renovate it and open something retro-chic styled in a Floridian theme. What they bought was a run-down, 16-room 1960s property on the outskirts of town called the Sportsmen Motel. The place catered to the weekend sport fisherman and hunting market with musty rooms smelling of fish, the only artwork a laminate sign on the wall reading “Do Not Gut Fish in Rooms.” Neither had any idea what they were getting into.

That was then and through trial and tribulation (and a bunch of funny stories in between) they realized their dream. Today, The June Motel is a fine example of what passion, dedication and beautiful design can bring.

Ray and Lisa are moteliers operating The Cadillac Motel in Niagara Falls. Neither ever planned on being in the hospitality industry, but they too fell into it. The couple has been managing the renovated, 23-room 1950s property for close to two years now. However, it is their connection to motorcycles that is interesting. Lisa’s father was a member of the Ontario Provincial Police Golden Helmet precision motorcycle team. Now, Lisa and Ray are looking to take up riding again and plan on getting their licenses this year. They love everything about bikes and, as moteliers, they love hosting motorcycle groups. They make sure their rider guests are comfortable and offer things like a private BBQ area when groups arrive, rags to wipe down your bike and they do their best to make sure you get a room where you can park in front of your door. Not to mention the rooms at The Cadillac Motel are funky and fun, too.

Upon returning home, I planned to spend the next ten months laying out the trip, researching motels and mapping out the journey. When taking on a project of this scope, you can question your own sanity. So, one cool November morning, I went for a ride. With no particular destination in mind, I set the GPS to give me a round trip three-hour route on some new country roads and took off.

After an hour on the road, I approached a crossroads and something caught my eye. I had never been there before, nor did I really know where I was. But, at one of the four corners, in a small fenced field beside one house, were five grazing head of cattle, the fuselage of an aircraft staged to look like a crash, and painstakingly mounted on the side of a shed were the skeletal remains of a vintage neon sign with the letters M O T E L perfectly spaced. The symbolism struck so hard I almost lost control of my bike.

I pulled over to the soft shoulder and dismounted. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. It was five weeks to the day I turned 50 and one month to the day that my Dad passed away. Dad introduced me to motorcycles and even loaned me the money to buy my first bike. On family vacations growing up, he always preferred to stay at independent properties to meet the locals, as he relished engaging in conversations with them. He also loved cows. No one ever understood why, he just did. And one of his prized possessions was a painting of cows in a pasture.

If the symbolism of the cattle and motel sign weren’t enough, there was the airplane fuselage that amplified the scene. In August, Dad’s only brother also passed away. I didn’t know him well, but I remember my uncle as a war hero. He was a Lancaster bomber pilot during the Second World War and was shot down.

Here I am, mesmerized, trying to absorb what I’m seeing. My bike, the cattle and the aircraft with the M O T E L sign. The scene is surreal, unscripted and staged like a movie set. Though I didn’t hear Twilight Zone music, before me in full view and built to scale was the metaphor of this journey, telling me to do this.

In the months that followed I’ve been planning my trip. I’ve researched these iconic roadside motels and added many of them to my website (www. motelorcycle.com). The result is a listing of more than 70 really cool places to sleep.

For example, if you want your motel to have a music connection, you can sleep at the Harmony Motel in the Mojave Desert, made famous when it was used for the cover shot on U2’s The Joshua Tree. If you're interested in the doo-wop architecture made famous in the 1950s and '60s, there is the Caribbean Motel in Wildwood, New Jersey, and Waikiki Lodge in Myrtle Beach, South Carolina. Both are listed on the National Historic Registry.

If you are an American pop culture and Route 66 enthusiast, there is the Big Texan Motel in Amarillo, Texas; the Blue Swallow Motel, Roadrunner Lodge and Motel Safari in Tucumcari, New Mexico; and two of the remaining locations where you can sleep in a teepee at a Wigwam Motel. Finally, if you are looking for the surreal and perhaps an out of body experience, the list includes The Clown Motel in Tonopah, Nevada, decorated with more than 600 clowns, and the Little A 'Le' Inn in Rachel, Nevada, a true Area 51 treasure!

On June 28 and for the following 50 days, I’ll begin my 10,000-mile journey to document 50 of America's remaining roadside motels. During the trip, I promise to post regular updates that you can follow on Facebook and on the website. I will also be sharing the story of my trip along with more images in upcoming issues of BMW Owners News.

If you are anywhere near Amarillo, Texas, on Saturday, July 13, I would like to invite you to join me for a meetup at the Starlight Ranch. Bobby Lee, the owner of the Big Texan Motel and the Starlight Ranch, has generously offered to host us, with free admission to The Starlight Ranch and their live bands on Friday and Saturday nights during the summer.

I look forward to meeting you, sharing travel stories and watching some live music under the stars.

Check in with the Motelorcycle website before you plan your next overnight ride. When you reserve your room, remember to tell them you are a motelorcyclist with the wedding party and you will be there to celebrate the marriage of motels and motorcycles!

Wishing you restful sleep and safe riding.

When I received an invitation from MAX BMW to try some ice riding, I immediately came up with a long list of other things I thought I needed to do that frigid Saturday. But as I thought more about it, I realized my laundry and work projects would always be there, while the chance to just show up and ride on ice might not. I was in!

My husband Michael and I were up before dawn loading our truck with riding gear, every warm layer that we could find to wear under or over it, and thermos bottles full of hot coffee. Having never ridden in very cold and snowy weather before, we had no idea what to expect in the temperature management department. Another thing neither of us had ever done was riding on ice with studded tires. We had heard the traction is incredible, even better than sticky rubber on asphalt, and we were eager to find out.

As we arrived at Lake Algonquin near Wells, New York, we drove onto the lake and headed toward the collection of vans and bikes in the distance. As we approached, pick-up trucks with plows were clearing a track on the lake, and our excitement quickly grew when we saw the two bikes waiting for us. Because we were a little late, we had the opportunity to gauge our layering needs based on what others were wearing. Before long, with a few layers of thermals, a wool sweater, down vest, balaclava, and wool socks, along with our normal riding gear, we felt like the snow-suited Randy from “The Christmas Story,” and we were finally ready to ride.

MAX BMW brought a fleet of brand new 310 GSs complete with studded tires for the invited riders, while Max and Ben Stratton, along with their regular group of friends, had their own bikes ready to go. While some of them actually race motorcycles on ice, today was just a fun run. This was my first ride on a 310 GS and once aboard, I found it solid with plenty of power. With the ice studs, it sat taller than I expected, but overall it fit me well.

We had the track all morning and alternated our sessions with a local car club. Like a paved track, of which I admit to having limited experience, the layout was clearly marked with curves of varying radii, a few short straights, and someone flagging our laps. An overcast sky provided good visibility and the temperature of around 12-15 degrees actually felt warmer than expected.

What’s it like to ride on ice? Surprisingly easy, despite our anxieties over cold, hard “get-offs” and traction issues. The ice screws driven into our tires were perfect for the conditions and expertly installed, so it felt like we had 100 percent traction. Dirt style turns were favored by most riders with the inside leg held out to help manage traction through weight distribution, along with the fun of skimming their feet across the ice, although I never got my own feet to the surface. I shifted my weight a bit to feel the difference in traction, and while a few times the back wheel started to slide, it still felt controlled as I knew the screws would soon be gripping the ice again. The most fun I had was in learning where to power out of each turn and onto the straights while going fast enough for my eyes to tear up. I can’t imagine that thrill felt by the racers who lapped me multiple times. The fastest bike out there that day was an R nineT/HP2 custom build.

Our sessions ended just before our hands became too cold to feel the controls and then began again just before we grew tired of watching the cars drift through the turns. Well, no one actually got tired of that, but we were there to ride!

Our morning of ice riding passed quickly, just as snow began to fall during our final laps. As we were heading home, we were still psyched to have been able to play on two wheels in the middle of the winter. Thanks to MAX BMW for providing these opportunities for riders year round, and in this case, to put the metal to the ice!

"No problem," I said. I had played all of those roles before, a lifetime ago. I was happy to play them again. "I might write an article about the experience if that's OK."

"That’s fine," Tom said. "We want people to know more about what we are trying to do. But anonymity is important. You can show names and photos of volunteers, but keep the identities of participants private, OK?"

Writing an article with such omissions would be challenging, I thought, but not impossible. And, I understood the need, as well as I could anyway. "No problem, I will use assumed names for participants and make sure photos do not identify them. Anything else?"

"Yes," he said. "And this is important." He explained the final prerequisites. I asked some more questions, and we came to an agreement. Soon I would be off to Colorado.

Adventure Riding in the Rockies is an experience without equal. The views are so stunning that it is difficult to focus on any one element of beauty. I had ridden there many times before and found the only thing more intense than the views was the weather. Comprising part of the Continental Divide, the Rockies roiled with daily bouts of rain, heat and snow. There were only a few months out of the year where trails were navigable by motorcycle; preparation for all climates and altitudes was nothing short of a necessity. There are two basic schools of thought for adventure riding in such an environment: Wear waterproof gear, which is perfect for cold and rain but miserable in the heat, or go with ventilated gear, with exceptional airflow to dissipate heat, and extra waterproof layering when the need arose (and it would). I chose the former, along with my usual survival tools (I was assured that all necessities other than riding gear would be provided for, but a good adventure rider never leaves without a medical kit and satellite communicator).

I landed in Denver and set to collecting my gear from baggage claim, then found a knot of riders waiting for pickup at a prearranged location. All of the men were strangers to one another, but had exchanged the usual pleasantries and were casually chatting as I approached. Jerry—a tall, close-cropped man I guessed to be around 50—acted as group spokesman. He introduced the others, and we shook hands. "So you’re the instructor, eh? The hardcore BMW adventure guy? I’m a street rider myself, never done a lick of dirt. You’re gonna have a helluva time training me!" Jerry’s words were 10 decibels louder—and came with more frequency—than his counterparts. He answered every question with a story, each laced with just enough self-deprecation to keep it light and fun. I liked him instantly. "Don’t worry about this being your first time off-road," I said. "It’s my first time, too. We’ll learn together." The group stared back, their look of shock indicating that my joke was delivered a little too well. I smiled and gave a wave of dismissal. "So what do you all ride at home?"

Of the eight riders in our group, only one had any real time in the dirt. The rest were a mix of Harley riders, scooter jockeys, and one hardcore dude who had ridden his new 24.5 hp Royal Enfield Himalayan all the way from New England. Most would be riding an Adventure bike for the first time; none had ever been on a GS. "No problem guys," I assured them. "Give me three hours to train you and I'll have you rocking those bikes all over Colorado." I hoped I was right.

Tom Larson, founder of MRP.

We were collected by volunteers and brought to a large personal residence in the Denver foothills. Don and Kathy, the homeowners and long-time volunteers, offered warm greetings and settled us in. "There are rooms across the hall, rooms downstairs," Don said with practiced precision. "Everyone gets a bed, any bed without luggage on it is yours." We found the bunks and cleaned up, returning to find a mountain of snacks and refreshments. "Eat, relax, enjoy some quiet time. You have a big week ahead!"

I grabbed a beer and went to the outside deck, where the group had assembled. I sat down next to Justin, a bearded, tattoo-laden, ox of a man with a "doesn't play well with others" sign affixed to his demeanor. "So you’re the BMW adventure guy," he said, repeating words spoken by the others, but in a far more foreboding tone.

"Yup, that’s me I guess," I replied with a shrug. "But I like all bikes. If it has two wheels, it’s fine by me. You went from Harley’s to a KLR, right?" Justin eyed me, his thoughts as clear as the ink on his arms. It had been my experience that some saw BMW owners as elitists, respecting only the machines with a roundel affixed. I aimed to squash that notion, one conversation at a time. "The KLR’s are epic, I’ve put alot of time on them. But they're sure different than anything Harley makes. What made you switch?"

Justin softened, then went on to reason out his purchase. "I loved my Harleys. Put in a lot of time on them. But I kept seeing dirt roads shooting off from the asphalt, and I wondered where they went. So, I switched it up. Lost a lot of Harley friends when I went to the Kawasaki, but who needs em’ anyway?"

The conversation remained light through dinner. Without being told, the group set to cleaning up the table and washing dishes, a discipline I wished my kids would emulate. We moved to the living room, where chairs had been arranged in a lazy circle. The group went to sit, and I followed suit, taking a chair next to Tom and the other volunteers. Tom straightened in his chair, and the group fell silent. "You all know why you are here," he said, his words soft but formal. "You have applied, been interviewed, and were accepted into this program because, out of hundreds of applicants, you were the ones who we determined would receive the most benefit from what we do." He held up a laminated sheet of paper. "Now it's time to introduce yourself to the group. This is a guide to follow, so you remember what your introduction should include. I'll pass this around so you can use as a guide in telling us about yourself." Tom put on reading glasses and recited each question on the page, answering them with his own details. The group listened and nodded silently. "So that's me, now we'll each take turns introducing ourselves."

He passed the page to Jerry, who took it and cleared his throat with comical excess. But there was something in his manner that did not fit. His boisterous demeanor was faltering, replaced with a facade of nonchalance. "Well, I’m Jerry as you know," he said loudly. "Let’s see... I live in South Carolina. I’m a pilot, I’m divorced, I’ve got two kids." He read on, reciting the next question listed before answering. "What is my military history...I flew Harriers for the Marines and went to Iraq and Afghanistan. Saw some pretty crazy stuff there. Let’s see..." He lingered on the next question. "Why am I here...I’m here because…because—" Jerry went silent. For a long moment, he stared at the page, his eyes unfixed as if scanning a moment in history. He looked up, his jaw quivering. He was crying. "I'm here because I need help," he said in words torn by anguish and pain. "I need help, and I am hoping I can find it here. Because I don't know where else to turn."

The group listened and nodded silently. After several moments of quiet reflection, Jerry passed the page on. The introductions continued in a similar tone, each member reciting his personal details and reasons for attending. Some cried, most did not. Everyone demonstrated a vulnerability rarely seen in hard men, among strangers.

The page passed to me. I recited the questions and answered obligingly. "Military history...I am not a military man, though I have family members that are. I was asked to come here so that I could lend my expertise in preparing you for adventure riding. But when I agreed to volunteer, it was with the understanding that I would be willing to share my own struggles with this group. That is hard for me. I have struggles, some of them too big for me to deal with on my own. And this whole program is designed to help people deal with their personal challenges. But I am intimidated by this group, if I'm being honest. You have seen things in war that I have been spared, and I worry that my struggles are silly by comparison. But I will try to share if you will indulge me."

The group listened and nodded silently.

This was the start of my experience with the Motorcycle Relief Project, a nonprofit dedicated to helping military veterans and first responders find the tools—and the courage—to contend with post-traumatic stress disorder and depression. Applicants are offered a chance to ride an adventure motorcycle for several days with a group of fellow veterans, all without cost to them (other than getting themselves to and from the event site). Each applicant is interviewed and chosen based on perceived need and willingness to better themselves through daily therapy sessions. And, each event comes complete with a volunteer team, including an off-road riding instructor to help new dirt riders learn to tackle unfamiliar terrain. That was me.

The mood was somber as our first exchange concluded. We chatted a little, but it wasn’t long before we were all in our bunks and resting. I sat in bed, thinking about the words that had been shared. Help for PTSD and depression was not hard to find, I was surprised to learn. Nearly every member of our gathering were active participants in their own local support groups. "The problem isn't availability," another participant had explained. "The problem is fear. We’re all out of the military and have regular jobs. Some of our work is sensitive. If our employers found out we suffered from PTSD or depression, we might lose our jobs. We don't want to risk it, so we don't share our problems." I thought about Jerry and his career as an airline pilot. Would having PTSD cause him to lose his flight credentials? Should it? The questions were too big for me to answer.

I awoke from a restless sleep and prepared for the day. We ate breakfast and were shuttled to the MRP facility, where our bikes were waiting. The air was filled with excitement as riders found their machines, each immaculately cleaned and labeled with a name. We engaged in a thorough ride briefing and headed for the mountains. As expected, the weather changed wildly from hot and sunny to cold and wet and back again. We kept a comfortable pace, riding asphalt roads through the backcountry. It was absolutely beautiful.

We finished the day at a large, secluded mountain cabin, with plenty of beds and a stunning view of Pikes Peak. The group went to work unloading and stowing food and other supplies, then claimed beds and relaxed before convening for food prep. We enjoyed a lavish, casual meal at a large dinner table, cleaned up and retired to the living room, where a fireplace burned near an informal circle of chairs. We sat and got comfortable as Tom cleared his throat and focused our attention. "Each night, we will sit in this circle and have a series of discussions. Each of these discussions will be based on a theme. Tonight's theme is "resistance." We will talk about the internal force inside of us that tries to dissuade us from doing what we want, or need, or would generally be good for us. "We were each given copies of the book "The War of Art" by Steven Pressfield, and asked to read certain passages. After each passage, the group was encouraged to talk about what the excerpt meant to them. The group engaged wholly, offering introspective feedback and encouraging one another. Tom added final thoughts at the conclusion of our session. "Resistance comes in many forms. Sometimes it’s logical, sometimes, emotional. We tell ourselves we are weak, or undeserving, or otherwise unable to better ourselves. This week will be about a lot of things, we will take many steps; You have taken the hardest step by being here; now we will focus on getting past our own resistance for the betterment of ourselves and each other."

Another restless night. What the heck had I signed up for?

The mood was surprisingly light as we spent the next morning preparing for our ride. We hopped on the bikes and cruised, traversing mountain highways and passing through old boom towns. We stopped at a large pea gravel parking lot, where I would be teaching some off-road riding skills. Quickly I scouted the terrain, grabbed a collection of small cones, and put together a training course. Then I walked the group through a long-rehearsed speech about what we were going to do, what they would learn, and the terrain they could expect to traverse with their shiny new off-road skills. "In three hours, you will have enough off-road riding knowledge to tackle the dirt roads we will find ourselves on. If we come across anything that we have not trained for, we will sort it out on the trails, OK? Let's get to it!"

The training went on at a fast pace, with only a few tip-overs and loads of enthusiasm. Soon riders were skidding and sliding and having a blast with their new skills. We finished up, enjoyed a quick lunch and headed out on a series of mountain trails. I scanned the group as we rode, occasionally signaling a rider to imitate my form. With a few tweaks and adjustments, everyone was riding safely and having fun. "This is the most fun I’ve had in years!" Jerry proclaimed in his booming voice. The others agreed with enthusiasm. I smiled, thinking of the many, many times I had enjoyed hearing those words over the years. Adventure riding was a truly wonderful way to build confidence and bring people together.

That afternoon we completed our ride and headed to the lodge, repeating our routine of food prep, casual conversation and bonding. We cleaned up and found our places in the lazy circle of chairs, where Tom led the next in our series of sessions. This continued through the week; we rode, we bonded, we shared. We talked about mindfulness, the process of becoming objectively aware of our own thoughts and feelings. We discussed PTSD, what it is and how it affects us. We spoke of Moral Injury; how we struggle—especially in war, or through the pain and suffering we witness, inflict or that is inflicted upon us—to reconcile these against our own sense of right and wrong. Throughout the talks, we revealed ourselves and supported one another.

For me, the process was as difficult as it was healing. I had not volunteered for the Motorcycle Relief Project with the intention of digging into my own personal struggles. But through the strength and courage of other participants, I found my voice. And, I forged solid bonds with the men in that group, the sort of special connections that are all too rare. "This is why we do this," Tom told me at the conclusion of our ride. "What you saw here is what we experience during every gathering. People want to heal, to better themselves. Each group is unique, but they each also share a sense of growth and achievement that you witnessed here this week."

"There are people out there who need this," I said in reply, "need what this program offers. I will do my part to make sure people know."

The Motorcycle Relief Project is a nonprofit organization dedicated to helping Veterans and First Responders who suffer from depression or Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD). If you are in need, know someone who is, or would like to contribute to the cause, you can find out more by visiting motorelief.org.

"No problem," I said. I had played all of those roles before, a lifetime ago. I was happy to play them again. "I might write an article about the experience if that's OK."

“That’s fine,” Tom said. “We want people to know more about what we are trying to do. But anonymity is important. You can show names and photos of volunteers, but keep the identities of participants private, OK?”

Writing an article with such omissions would be challenging, I thought, but not impossible. And, I understood the need, as well as I could anyway. “No problem, I will use assumed names for participants and make sure photos do not identify them. Anything else?”

“Yes,” he said. “And this is important.” He explained the final prerequisites. I asked some more questions, and we came to an agreement. Soon I would be off to Colorado.

Adventure Riding in the Rockies is an experience without equal. The views are so stunning that it is difficult to focus on any one element of beauty. I had ridden there many times before and found the only thing more intense than the views was the weather. Comprising part of the Continental Divide, the Rockies roiled with daily bouts of rain, heat and snow. There were only a few months out of the year where trails were navigable by motorcycle; preparation for all climates and altitudes was nothing short of a necessity. There are two basic schools of thought for adventure riding in such an environment: Wear waterproof gear, which is perfect for cold and rain but miserable in the heat, or go with ventilated gear, with exceptional airflow to dissipate heat, and extra waterproof layering when the need arose (and it would). I chose the former, along with my usual survival tools (I was assured that all necessities other than riding gear would be provided for, but a good adventure rider never leaves without a medical kit and satellite communicator).

I landed in Denver and set to collecting my gear from baggage claim, then found a knot of riders waiting for pickup at a prearranged location. All of the men were strangers to one another, but had exchanged the usual pleasantries and were casually chatting as I approached. Jerry—a tall, close-cropped man I guessed to be around 50—acted as group spokesman. He introduced the others, and we shook hands. "So you’re the instructor, eh? The hardcore BMW adventure guy? I’m a street rider myself, never done a lick of dirt. You’re gonna have a helluva time training me!”

Jerry’s words were 10 decibels louder—and came with more frequency—than his counterparts. He answered every question with a story, each laced with just enough self-deprecation to keep it light and fun. I liked him instantly. “Don’t worry about this being your first time off-road,” I said. “It’s my first time, too. We’ll learn together.” The group stared back, their look of shock indicating that my joke was delivered a little too well. I smiled and gave a wave of dismissal. “So what do you all ride at home?”

Of the eight riders in our group, only one had any real time in the dirt. The rest were a mix of Harley riders, scooter jockeys, and one hardcore dude who had ridden his new 24.5 hp Royal Enfield Himalayan all the way from New England. Most would be riding an Adventure bike for the first time; none had ever been on a GS. "No problem guys," I assured them. "Give me three hours to train you and I'll have you rocking those bikes all over Colorado." I hoped I was right.

We were collected by volunteers and brought to a large personal residence in the Denver foothills. Don and Kathy, the homeowners and long-time volunteers, offered warm greetings and settled us in. "There are rooms across the hall, rooms downstairs," Don said with practiced precision. “Everyone gets a bed, any bed without luggage on it is yours.” We found the bunks and cleaned up, returning to find a mountain of snacks and refreshments. “Eat, relax, enjoy some quiet time. You have a big week ahead!”

I grabbed a beer and went to the outside deck, where the group had assembled. I sat down next to Justin, a bearded, tattoo-laden, ox of a man with a "doesn't play well with others" sign affixed to his demeanor. "So you’re the BMW adventure guy,” he said, repeating words spoken by the others, but in a far more foreboding tone.

“Yup, that’s me I guess,” I replied with a shrug. “But I like all bikes. If it has two wheels, it’s fine by me. You went from Harley’s to a KLR, right?” Justin eyed me, his thoughts as clear as the ink on his arms. It had been my experience that some saw BMW owners as elitists, respecting only the machines with a roundel affixed. I aimed to squash that notion, one conversation at a time. “The KLR’s are epic, I’ve put alot of time on them. But they're sure different than anything Harley makes. What made you switch?"

Justin softened, then went on to reason out his purchase. “I loved my Harleys. Put in a lot of time on them. But I kept seeing dirt roads shooting off from the asphalt, and I wondered where they went. So, I switched it up. Lost a lot of Harley friends when I went to the Kawasaki, but who needs em’ anyway?”

The conversation remained light through dinner. Without being told, the group set to cleaning up the table and washing dishes, a discipline I wished my kids would emulate. We moved to the living room, where chairs had been arranged in a lazy circle. The group went to sit, and I followed suit, taking a chair next to Tom and the other volunteers. Tom straightened in his chair, and the group fell silent. "You all know why you are here," he said, his words soft but formal. "You have applied, been interviewed, and were accepted into this program because, out of hundreds of applicants, you were the ones who we determined would receive the most benefit from what we do." He held up a laminated sheet of paper. "Now it's time to introduce yourself to the group. This is a guide to follow, so you remember what your introduction should include. I'll pass this around so you can use as a guide in telling us about yourself." Tom put on reading glasses and recited each question on the page, answering them with his own details. The group listened and nodded silently. "So that's me, now we'll each take turns introducing ourselves."

He passed the page to Jerry, who took it and cleared his throat with comical excess. But there was something in his manner that did not fit. His boisterous demeanor was faltering, replaced with a facade of nonchalance. “Well, I’m Jerry as you know,” he said loudly. “Let’s see... I live in South Carolina. I’m a pilot, I’m divorced, I’ve got two kids.” He read on, reciting the next question listed before answering. “What is my military history...I flew Harriers for the Marines and went to Iraq and Afghanistan. Saw some pretty crazy stuff there. Let’s see...” He lingered on the next question. “Why am I here...I’m here because…because—“ Jerry went silent. For a long moment, he stared at the page, his eyes unfixed as if scanning a moment in history. He looked up, his jaw quivering. He was crying. "I'm here because I need help," he said in words torn by anguish and pain. "I need help, and I am hoping I can find it here. Because I don't know where else to turn."

The group listened and nodded silently. After several moments of quiet reflection, Jerry passed the page on. The introductions continued in a similar tone, each member reciting his personal details and reasons for attending. Some cried, most did not. Everyone demonstrated a vulnerability rarely seen in hard men, among strangers.

The page passed to me. I recited the questions and answered obligingly. “Military history...I am not a military man, though I have family members that are. I was asked to come here so that I could lend my expertise in preparing you for adventure riding. But when I agreed to volunteer, it was with the understanding that I would be willing to share my own struggles with this group. That is hard for me. I have struggles, some of them too big for me to deal with on my own. And this whole program is designed to help people deal with their personal challenges. But I am intimidated by this group, if I'm being honest. You have seen things in war that I have been spared, and I worry that my struggles are silly by comparison. But I will try to share if you will indulge me."

The group listened and nodded silently.

This was the start of my experience with the Motorcycle Relief Project, a nonprofit dedicated to helping military veterans and first responders find the tools—and the courage—to contend with post-traumatic stress disorder and depression. Applicants are offered a chance to ride an adventure motorcycle for several days with a group of fellow veterans, all without cost to them (other than getting themselves to and from the event site). Each applicant is interviewed and chosen based on perceived need and willingness to better themselves through daily therapy sessions. And, each event comes complete with a volunteer team, including an off-road riding instructor to help new dirt riders learn to tackle unfamiliar terrain. That was me.

The mood was somber as our first exchange concluded. We chatted a little, but it wasn’t long before we were all in our bunks and resting. I sat in bed, thinking about the words that had been shared. Help for PTSD and depression was not hard to find, I was surprised to learn. Nearly every member of our gathering were active participants in their own local support groups. "The problem isn't availability," another participant had explained. “The problem is fear. We’re all out of the military and have regular jobs. Some of our work is sensitive. If our employers found out we suffered from PTSD or depression, we might lose our jobs. We don't want to risk it, so we don't share our problems." I thought about Jerry and his career as an airline pilot. Would having PTSD cause him to lose his flight credentials? Should it? The questions were too big for me to answer.

I awoke from a restless sleep and prepared for the day. We ate breakfast and were shuttled to the MRP facility, where our bikes were waiting. The air was filled with excitement as riders found their machines, each immaculately cleaned and labeled with a name. We engaged in a thorough ride briefing and headed for the mountains. As expected, the weather changed wildly from hot and sunny to cold and wet and back again. We kept a comfortable pace, riding asphalt roads through the backcountry. It was absolutely beautiful.

We finished the day at a large, secluded mountain cabin, with plenty of beds and a stunning view of Pikes Peak. The group went to work unloading and stowing food and other supplies, then claimed beds and relaxed before convening for food prep. We enjoyed a lavish, casual meal at a large dinner table, cleaned up and retired to the living room, where a fireplace burned near an informal circle of chairs. We sat and got comfortable as Tom cleared his throat and focused our attention. "Each night, we will sit in this circle and have a series of discussions. Each of these discussions will be based on a theme. Tonight's theme is “resistance.” We will talk about the internal force inside of us that tries to dissuade us from doing what we want, or need, or would generally be good for us. "We were each given copies of the book "The War of Art" by Steven Pressfield, and asked to read certain passages. After each passage, the group was encouraged to talk about what the excerpt meant to them. The group engaged wholly, offering introspective feedback and encouraging one another. Tom added final thoughts at the conclusion of our session. “Resistance comes in many forms. Sometimes it’s logical, sometimes, emotional. We tell ourselves we are weak, or undeserving, or otherwise unable to better ourselves. This week will be about a lot of things, we will take many steps; You have taken the hardest step by being here; now we will focus on getting past our own resistance for the betterment of ourselves and each other.”

Another restless night. What the heck had I signed up for?

The mood was surprisingly light as we spent the next morning preparing for our ride. We hopped on the bikes and cruised, traversing mountain highways and passing through old boom towns. We stopped at a large pea gravel parking lot, where I would be teaching some off-road riding skills. Quickly I scouted the terrain, grabbed a collection of small cones, and put together a training course. Then I walked the group through a long-rehearsed speech about what we were going to do, what they would learn, and the terrain they could expect to traverse with their shiny new off-road skills. "In three hours, you will have enough off-road riding knowledge to tackle the dirt roads we will find ourselves on. If we come across anything that we have not trained for, we will sort it out on the trails, OK? Let's get to it!"

The training went on at a fast pace, with only a few tip-overs and loads of enthusiasm. Soon riders were skidding and sliding and having a blast with their new skills. We finished up, enjoyed a quick lunch and headed out on a series of mountain trails. I scanned the group as we rode, occasionally signaling a rider to imitate my form. With a few tweaks and adjustments, everyone was riding safely and having fun. “This is the most fun I’ve had in years!” Jerry proclaimed in his booming voice. The others agreed with enthusiasm. I smiled, thinking of the many, many times I had enjoyed hearing those words over the years. Adventure riding was a truly wonderful way to build confidence and bring people together.

That afternoon we completed our ride and headed to the lodge, repeating our routine of food prep, casual conversation and bonding. We cleaned up and found our places in the lazy circle of chairs, where Tom led the next in our series of sessions. This continued through the week; we rode, we bonded, we shared. We talked about mindfulness, the process of becoming objectively aware of our own thoughts and feelings. We discussed PTSD, what it is and how it affects us. We spoke of Moral Injury; how we struggle—especially in war, or through the pain and suffering we witness, inflict or that is inflicted upon us—to reconcile these against our own sense of right and wrong. Throughout the talks, we revealed ourselves and supported one another.

For me, the process was as difficult as it was healing. I had not volunteered for the Motorcycle Relief Project with the intention of digging into my own personal struggles. But through the strength and courage of other participants, I found my voice. And, I forged solid bonds with the men in that group, the sort of special connections that are all too rare. "This is why we do this," Tom told me at the conclusion of our ride. "What you saw here is what we experience during every gathering. People want to heal, to better themselves. Each group is unique, but they each also share a sense of growth and achievement that you witnessed here this week."

“There are people out there who need this,” I said in reply, “need what this program offers. I will do my part to make sure people know.”

The Motorcycle Relief Project is a nonprofit organization dedicated to helping Veterans and First Responders who suffer from depression or Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD). If you are in need, know someone who is, or would like to contribute to the cause, you can find out more by visiting motorelief.org.

Wheeling up to the U.S. border at Tecate was more of a “Triple Whopper with fries” drive-thru experience than the usual cacophony of queues and chaos surrounding the more southern Fronteras. The two-year familiarity of my old, comforting Latin American life was about to leave me for a convenient and First World one. A U.S. Immigration official greeted us formally at the barrier into the States. Plenty of instructional “Pleases” and “Thank you’s” but few of the warm pleasantries to which I’d become accustomed. Upon enquiring where we might find the Mexican Aduana to relinquish our temporary motorcycle permits, the U.S. officer looked at me square on and in a reassuring tone remarked, “Don’t worry ma’am, you’re safe now.”

Having experienced months of color and contrast, unharmed and far from intimidated through the length and breadth of Mexico—right from the southernmost tip of Argentina in fact—it was curious to fathom the context behind such a statement.

Still, we went onto savor a short but sweet taste of California. And wonderfully, the hospitality of a family whose social circle comprised a couple of medicinal marijuana drug dealers, a female windsurfing Olympic gold medalist, and a well-traveled Frenchman. It exploded the ordinary order of things and showed me the endless possibilities through an eclectic mix of people who had been there all along. We departed, grateful to our Californian hosts who had warmly facilitated our assimilation back into First World living.

Ahead of us lay yellowish-brown, open country, studded with cacti. Arizona was the first place I’d been to in a while that turned out to look exactly as I’d pictured it. As we rode along a ribbon of rocky desert, slanting sunlight gleamed off an endless pile of white, fluffy clouds extending as far as the eye could see. I was charmed by the ingredients of the ride.

Without hesitation, I became immersed in the local offerings, including plopping ourselves in the stony Sonoran Desert not far from Gold Nugget Road, just outside of Quartzsite. A magnet for rock hounds and a mecca for the RV boondocking capital of the world. Leaving the snowbirds to it, we parked our bikes and bottoms a respectful distance away to watch the sun commence its colorful descent in glorious seclusion. It was a gem of La Paz County, all right.

An interesting opening presented itself en route. One that took us to a vast, mile-wide hole in the middle of the northern Arizona desert. Meteor Crater is worth an impromptu visit, particularly if you can find the free off-road trails leading right up to the huge cavity. A couple of tumbledown shacks—rustic throughout—added to the casual backcountry exploration.

Beckoning us like a bear to honey, our two-wheel jaunt on a circuitous loop of the southwest naturally compelled us to the vista-fantastic state that is Colorado. Amid forests of aspen drenched in leaves the color of sulfur, we soon ascended into Highway 550’s chillier climes. My first glimpse of a snowscape in a while; the cold burrowed through me like a worm as we shivered our way toward Silverton.

Taken unawares, I’d not been so ill-prepared in a long time, having carelessly left the cold-weather riding gear back in Arizona. A hard white chill gripped me, it ate at my bones. My breath made a spool-shaped flicker of steam on the visor below a deceptive sun, which shone anemically through a thin gruel of cloud cover. Light snow began to fall, meandering flakes that seemed little more than the air itself but soon coalescing into hard grey pellets.

The best I could do was pull over, shuddering uncontrollably while blowing into cupped hands and heating them on Pearl’s engine, courtesy of my F 650 GS. The vast wilderness swathed in tree-clad mountains, scenic byways and high snow-capped peaks along the Million Dollar Highway was a sight to behold. I wasn’t about to let something as trivial as the icy temperatures stop me from enjoying myself. A rare day of unpopulated beauty. Just look where you are, Lisa!

Climbing above 11,000 feet the following day, somewhat more acclimatized, we re-entered the glittering scene of tall pines laced in thick snow, sparkling in the sun. Monarch Pass in the Rocky Mountains was a bag of early festive fun I hadn’t expected in October. Whichever way I looked, mountain peaks wore fluffy white sashes around their middles, and evergreens cloaked themselves in a heavy coat of snow. Life slows down in colder climes and more often than not, that’s exactly what the soul needs. A winter wonderland that can take your breath away. It did mine.

Highway 70 took us at full tilt for 360 miles from Denver to Moab, the start of our ride back. It seemed sacrilege not to take advantage of Utah’s sweet spots. Hiking up to the red rock wonders of Delicate Arch in Eastern Utah, just one of 2,000 natural sandstone arches, my heart was pounding at the top of the climb among the shadowy, giant world of rock.

Arches National Park sits a mere four miles north of Moab, giving us ample opportunity to get our fill of balanced rocks, fins, and pinnacles set in a striking environment. The colors were brilliant, mostly of radiant reds, russet and ochre against unblemished blue skies. In some areas, faulting had exposed millions of years of geological history. It was extraordinary.

Once my heart returned to a normal resting rate, I stared into it all in meditative tranquillity. Oh, look! A rock squirrel, disturbed by a handful of folks near its habitat, scurried silently into the middle distance. With the grace of its kind, another cupped its body to brake on the air, dropped onto the bark of a tree, and vanished.

More mesmerizing landscapes carved from sedimentary sandstone took us to Canyonlands in Southeastern Utah, where interesting landforms and textures piqued my interest. The park preserves a spectrum of color within countless canyons, mesas, and buttes, broken up by the Colorado River and its confluence of tributaries. I sat in a vast basin bordered by sheer cliffs, where one of the jaw-on-the-floor vantage points can be viewed at Dead Horse Point. It felt as though I was riding through the pages of National Geographic, another piece of a dream come true.

Indian petroglyphs, natural stone arches and the spectacular vistas of Canyonlands opened up at virtually every corner, especially when teetering on the edge of a cliff at 2,000 feet. Better known as the Shafer Trail, we took in some of the 18 miles of dirt; it’s one of those roads that will humble the biggest of egos.

Although the afternoon was calm, I shielded myself from the winds stirred up by the canyon’s vastness. The sun was on its way down. It threw a hammered, golden light onto the cliff faces, which tumbled into a sea of purple darkness. I danced ecstatically at the top of the trail, emitting surprised little groans. I caught hold of the camera and swung it up toward a vivid pink gash of cloud. At that hour, the area was empty. The late afternoon light, brilliant but without warmth, washed our faces. “Amazing,” I mouthed unhurriedly.

Straddling the border of Northeastern Arizona and Southeastern Utah, sits yet another incredible cluster of the Colorado Plateau's towering sandstone buttes, mesas, and spires: Monument Valley Navajo Tribal Park—perfect for those hungry to devour more red-sand desert. The natural architecture is impossibly pleasing, steeply sloped, and despite its iconic beauty inspiring the location for countless movies, it remains a preservation site for the Navajo way of life, part of an Indian Reservation. Like most of our visual encounters in the southern national parks, few places elsewhere have made such an impact. The changing sunset sky gave way to a night that was blacker than black, lit exquisitely by Jupiter looking down on Venus as I shared the view.

An overnight pit stop in Joshua Tree National Park concluded the loop of the southern states, which saw us ensconced in an ecological melting pot. Lined by a jumble of stacked boulders and walls of imposing granite, the convergence of two great deserts, the Mojave and Colorado, blend together in a barbed landscape adorned in flora and fauna. Such marvels of the desert simply keep going about their business, adapting to the relentless sun, little water and temperatures from below freezing to well above 100°F. As a non-desert dweller, I pondered how the park’s hardy residents conserve enough moisture and beat the heat. However they seek sustenance to ensure their survival, my soul gets nourished in such faraway places.

Sometimes I wonder if it’s a biological need or a DNA flaw that compels us to seek the excitement that comes in a place unfamiliar. I never know if a place will pull, prickle, tickle or tease, challenge or enlighten me. But I must say, the southwestern states are doing quite a job already, all of it binding me to the boundless joy and warmth in this life.

British born, Lisa Morris and Jason Spafford are self-confessed thrill-seekers. Lisa helps to keep the wheels rolling by telling their tales in publications worldwide. As well, field-testing outdoor/motorcycle product complements the brand ambassadorships and paid partnerships. As an advocate for female riders, she consults with manufacturers of women's motorcycle gear, too. Not the most natural off-road rider, Lisa is living proof that if you get your ticket, you can jump in the saddle and go. Near or far, Jason loves all things adventure travel, ultimately amid the wild places left in the world. Harboring an infatuation for chasing light in big open spaces comes the pursuit of photography, a lifelong addiction. Jason's globally published portfolio is layered in adventure, landscape, wildlife, commercial and underwater photography. He's also a skilled drone pilot and a videographer. If nothing else, traveling has made the pair wonder if there's enough lifetime left. Join them: TwoWheeledNomad.com, Facebook/Instagram @TwoWheeledNomad and JasonSpaffordPhotography.com.

It was always a treat to spend some time alone with dad. I remember putting our helmets on and then watching dad push the plungers on each Bing carburetor to let a little gas in, then kickstart the engine.

When I was little, he would put me on the seat in front of him, and as I got older, I got to ride on back, and Dad let me make the hand signals. With no panniers on the bike, if we brought lunch, I'd have to hold it on the seat between my legs. Sometimes we would even get to go “into town,” which meant a 15-mile ride to the small town of Clinton to check on our house there. It was only by chance that my dad had the BMW in the first place.

William Bowen, an uncle on my mom’s side, was stationed in Kassel, Germany, in the late 1950s while serving with the U.S. Army. Uncle Bill had ridden and raced motorcycles before his days in the army, and in the spring of 1958, he bought the 1954 R 51/3 from a German man who spoke very little English. Uncle Bill spoke very little German, so after finding someone to translate their negotiations, a deal was made. Supposedly, both of them thought they made a good deal after they agreed upon a price of $175. When Uncle Bill bought the bike, it had a Steib sidecar attached to it, but Bill didn’t purchase the sidecar. Uncle Bill loved the way the BMW ran, and with his fellow soldiers, he spent much of his free time over the next 16 months touring Germany.

Uncle Bill took good care of the bike while in Germany, and when he was scheduled to return home, he knew he wanted to bring the BMW back with him. It cost $150 to crate the bike, another $150 to ship it to New York, and then another $125 to ship it to Portland, Maine. Once the bike reached U.S. shores, Uncle Bill didn’t have any way to pick it up in Portland, so my grandfather borrowed a company truck and brought the BMW home to Benton, Maine.

Uncle Bill rode the R 51/3 around Maine until 1961, when he started school in Portland. As a student, he found that he didn’t have time to ride it and needing money for school, he sold it to his sister and her husband (my parents) for $200. I was born a couple years later, and this bike has been in my family all of my life.

This brings me back to my history with the R 51/3. My dad regularly rode the bike for the next 20 years, and he and my mom liked to ride it around Maine taking short rides to the coast, Rangeley, or just exploring back roads. Dad also used the bike for commuting to work, and it was last registered in 1979, about which time he purchased a Honda 750 for pleasure riding and subsequently put away the BMW. The black BMW sat in the corner of our shed for many years, and though dad thought he might restore it someday, years passed and with his work and family commitments, the BMW sat and gathered dust.

In 2004, I asked dad if I could restore it, and I brought it to my home in China, Maine, and rolled it into the basement. Shortly after, a freak winter storm blew down my airplane hangar and destroyed my airplane, and the BMW restoration was put on hold once again. In 2011, once the hangar and plane were rebuilt, the restoration of the R 51/3 finally began, 32 years after it was last ridden.

To begin the restoration, I stripped every part from the bike down to the frame and started to figure out what I’d gotten myself into. When I started searching the internet for parts and information on this model, I discovered a group of BMW enthusiasts. Through that group, I was referred to Chris and Barbara, who live and work just a few hours from me in Barrington, New Hampshire. While my ultimate goal was to ride the bike again, with a busy job and not enough free time, I am doing what restoration work I can and am taking advantage of Chris and Barbara's expertise to help complete the job. Every time I talk with or visit them, I learn more about these beautiful bikes, and I gain confidence in the work I'm doing.

Once the restoration was completed, I often reflect on my time working on the bike. I also think about the 54 years that this beautiful BMW has been part of my family, and appreciate the workmanship of the BMW brand.

I’ll never forget the day when my dad, Uncle Bill and I got together to tickle the Bing carburetors and then kickstarted the bike as we had so many years earlier. Listening to that distinctive BMW sound brought back the same amount of excitement we last felt 50 years ago.

"Seth, we have much to talk about..." Seth arrived at our first meeting and set his motorcycle helmet on the table. My public relations person rolled his eyes. “What do you ride?” I asked, thus beginning a 30-minute conversation about motorcycles in which a trip was planned. Business conversation followed.

Seth Rosenblatt is a well-known technology journalist. He is a reporter and editor for The Parallax, a consumer-oriented security and privacy news site. My PR firm directed me to meet with Seth because my company, a cyber security firm, recently did some work that Seth would find interesting. Delighted that my new contact was an avid motorcyclist, I effortlessly accepted his invite to ride to BlackHat and DEFCON, the world’s largest cyber security conferences, with him and Paul Vixie. Paul Vixie is a well-known technologist and is largely credited with the development of the software that became the modern domain name system. The fact that you and I can type www dot anything and get anywhere is in part due to Vixie’s work.

The previous year I rode my 2014 R 1200 GS with one of my colleagues from our offices near Washington, D.C. to the same conferences, which are held in Las Vegas each August. This year I couldn’t afford the time to ride across the country, so I arranged with a colleague who had a new K 1600 B in Los Angeles to borrow the machine for a bit. I was already curious about this machine, which seemed to pander to a motorcycle audience atypical for BMW. I heard so many great things about the K 1600 engine, but had not experienced anything BMW beyond Boxer-engined models.

My plan was to pick up the bike in Torrance, just south of LA, ride the Pacific Coast Highway (PCH) to Santa Barbara, and visit a friend for a couple days. I would continue on the PCH to San Jose to meet with one of my company’s advisors, also a motorcycle enthusiast. Following that, I would meet up with Seth and Paul to start our journey through the Sierras and across the desert to Las Vegas. All of this would be done on a sweet 2018 K 1600 B.

Hacking 101

The term “bagger” is commonly used to define a cruiser motorcycle with bags. More specifically, it is typically aligned with Harley-Davidsons with hard bags, sometimes paint matched and permanently affixed to the machine. Having thrown my leg over a traditional bagger or two, I was perplexed as to how a German motorcycle manufacturer would approach this classification. Baggers are big machines, they rumble and roar, they ride in a straight line well, but are less nimble than a European machine. BMW made one of these? Why? Who is it for?

The Pick Up

I came equipped to ride and work. I had a backpack, helmet bag and an Ortlieb dry bag with all of my motorcycle gear. Opening one of the side cases on the Bagger, I realized I was in for an engineering exercise. Small and side-loading, these were not made for the trip I was on. Further, the grab rails were too sleek to confidently secure any hooks from the bungee net I brought along, and there didn’t appear to be any other place to fasten them. Sleek indeed. I spent about 20 minutes refactoring my gear and left behind the helmet bag and backpack, empty. Surprisingly, I was able to fit everything I brought into the cases. Barely.

As I first threw my leg over and uprighted the bike, I tried to put myself in the head of a traditional bagger owner. I closed my eyes and imagined what those are like. Loud, snarly, shaky and low-slung. This didn’t feel at all that way. I thumbed the starter and it sounded like I hit the ignition on a flying saucer. The six-cylinder 1600cc engine is smooth and unassuming. Timidly, I rolled on the throttle and rode this spaceship right into the worst traffic in the continental U.S.

As expected, the bike is a marvel of engineering. Unquestionably German, the fit and feel of the ride was precise. I initially struggled with the menus on the console, at one point turning on the seat heaters inadvertently—not something you want to do in LA in August! I had an ongoing issue with finding neutral throughout the trip, having to do the obligatory up-then-down motion to get it to click in. As I headed for Santa Barbara, I thought about traditional bagger riders on this bike and how they would be feeling. Shifting through the gears and finally getting on it a bit on the PCH, it changed from a flying saucer into the Batcycle. It roared and pulled hard out of the corners, surprisingly nimble for a 750-pound machine. It is a great machine, but not a bagger. I think the traditional bagger rider would find this machine to be too refined, too smooth, too German. I made a mental note as I pulled into Santa Barbara to call somebody who owns a dealership to find out who is buying this bike.

I spoke with Brian Carey, VP of North American Product Management for BMW Motorrad. Brian said he feels, “The bagger’s primary appeal is around style and design, which is a new angle for BMW. Riders buy the [K 1600] GT for function and amenities; they buy the Bagger for the design, an appreciation for an emotional connection with style.”

Big Sur and the PCH

Kurtis (L), Yip (C) and Joel.

The PCH is an amazing and ever-changing landscape. Immediately upon launching from Santa Barbara and heading north on Rt. 1, ocean views and epic sweeping curves threw themselves at me faster than I could consume. Time flew by as I mentally engaged on the turns into the straights only to shift focus to the view and then back again. The bike showcased its guts on these curves, snarling and popping as I rolled on the throttle out of each curve. The spaceship would morph into a dragon from moment to moment, gifting me cliff face and tide views that rival museum paintings.

I arrived in San Jose to meet Joel and Yip. Yip is a successful Valley patent attorney and befriended Joel after filing a few of his patents. Yip piloted a Triumph Street Triple R and Joel sported a beautiful Ducati 899 Panigale. As we ate sushi and got caught up on business, I wondered how I was going to keep up with these guys the next morning.

Riders take notice of the Bagger in the parking lot at Alice's.

Alice’s in the Valley

After breakfast I returned to the bike to find it surrounded by local riders. They wanted to know all about it. One gentleman, a Honda Gold Wing owner, explained to me how to use the reverse gear. (I did not read the manual.) The general consensus was that it was a sweet looking bike and many of the riders were unaware of its existence until that morning. "Cheers!" I yelled as I rolled off the lot to head past the famous Sand Hill road and onto the 405 to head to Copperopolis to meet Paul and Seth.

Kurtis' coworker checks out the Bagger.

Copperopolis and Paul Vixie

While many of California Sierra foothill towns were settled around gold mining, Copperopolis was settled on copper. It sits about 110 miles slightly northeast of Oakland, just on the edge of New Melones Lake and the Stanislaus National Forest, tucked along the western slopes of the Sierra mountains. Getting there was an adventure, as the 205 was perpetually backed up; I leveraged my newfound lane splitting skills to make my coffee with Seth and Paul just in time. I knew I was in the right place when I saw the vintage airhead parked in front of the coffee shop. It looked to be an early ‘80s R 100, but I couldn’t make the class of the bike. I walked into the shop, about to meet an internet luminary.

Anyone who has been in tech should know who Paul Vixie is; he pioneered the software and systems that allow us to browse the internet and send email. Having spent my career building and securing internet infrastructures, I was humbled to meet Paul. Unsurprisingly, our introductory conversations were entirely about motorcycles. I learned that Paul is an avid BMW rider, and the R 100 parked in front of the coffee shop was a 1983 police model which, after budget cuts, was relegated to the sales floor. Paul picked it up for a song new in 1983. The police modifications, which included improved suspension and carburetion, left the R 100 without the trailing class designation. It was simply an R 100, and unique. As we became acclimated to one another’s moto history, we received a call from Seth. He wasn’t going to make it, the magic smoke was pouring out of his bike on the side of the 205.

Lane Splitting

I am from Illinois and currently live in D.C. I have virtually no lane splitting experience. Further, I ride smaller, skinnier bikes. The Bagger is huge. When I picked up the bike, I noticed the mirrors were wider than the bags, so I decided if the mirrors fit, I am good. It took a while sitting in the hot California sun on the interstate for me to garner the courage to lane split, but once I did it was magical. It helps that because it is common practice in California, the drivers tend to give you room. I needed it. That said, the bike easily cruised between the cars, and I gained confidence as it became a fun part of my trip. I found the lane splitting experience to be challenging and engaging, especially since the K 1600 B is low-slung and superbly stable at low speeds, making it ideal for the task.

The Sierra Ride
Paul took the lead and the vintage airhead began carving a path for my flying-saucer-meets-stealth-bomber through the Sierra Nevada mountain passes. We started on Rt. 4, heading slightly northeast and climbed the mountain. The roads and views were epic yet fleeting for me, as I was still trying to get my arms around navigating with this machine. As we climbed nearer to Ebbetts Pass (8,736 ft.), the roads narrowed to a single lane. Much of it was vast stone on one side and a sheer drop on the other. I was reminded how much of a role the rider plays in how a bike handles as I observed Paul carving these roads with sheer confidence. I lagged behind, still timid on the K but gaining confidence in the maneuverability of the machine. The bulky impression of the bike had me worried on a number of blind corners. Paul masterfully navigated each hairpin, demonstrating the magic of a man who had become one with a bike he has been riding for 40 years. As we made our way from Rt. 4 to 89, heading east toward Nevada, my confidence in the K came to life. Every time I dove into the corners and rolled on the throttle on exit, the bagger would pull hard and let out a snarl. The electric adjustable shield was in the low position and I could feel the mountain air, and the BMWs, old and new, dove into the eastern valleys through the haze of the smoke from the Carr forest fires.

Yucca brevifolia, commonly known as a Joshua tree.

Fires

We experienced the gamut of air quality on the ride. At the time we were riding through the Sierras, firefighters were fighting three major fires, the largest of which, Carr, destroyed 1,079 residences, 22 commercial structures, and 503 outbuildings, and severely damaged 190 residences, 26 commercial structures and 63 outbuildings. The fire caused the deaths of eight people, including three firefighters. All in all, 2018 was rough for California. There were 6,188 fires that burned an area of 1,489,473 acres and caused $2.8 billion in damages. Our ride through the Sierras went from crystal clear to whiteout conditions from ash that looked like a snowstorm, tainted with the smell of burning pine. It was a sobering experience and a reminder of how delicate and simultaneously dangerous the environment can be. My respect and hats off to the brave firefighters who went to battle.

Benton

Vegas, Baby!

Passing the Harley baggers as I rolled into Las Vegas, I was reminded to make a few calls. I called Bob Henig, owner of Bob’s BMW in Jessup, Maryland. "Bob, tell me who is buying this amazing machine that looks like something Batman would ride." Bob reported that they had seen a decent number of Harley trade-ins, but a nearly equal number of trade-ins of GTs, GTLs, and even someone upgrading from the C 650 BMW scooter. This bike is more approachable to buyers with a shorter inseam, and it offers a unique style. Brian Carey of BMW Motorrad told me many Bagger buyers were adding one to their stable rather than trading in another bike. I am a fan of this strategy.

The console read 113 degrees outdoors as we entered Vegas. I waved goodbye to Paul at an intersection and headed to meet some of my colleagues. We had seven days of customer meetings, hacker events and media interviews ahead of us. The bike remained parked during most of the conference week, but I found myself eagerly waking early and taking it for a ride before the sunrise to enjoy the bike and the Vegas lights.

BlackHat and DEFCON

The second accident

Sandbagged at Joshua Tree

Arriving in Joshua Tree, I faced an immediate challenge. There was sand everywhere. Even in town, the paved roads were coated with inches of soft, fine-grained sand. As I pulled up to my AirBnb the K came to an abrupt stop in the drive, the front wheel submerged in golden grains of Mohave dust. Recognizing that more momentum would be required to traverse the trap, I surgically used the reverse gear to back out of the mess and parked on the road. This was going to be a recurring challenge.

Each morning, I woke before sunrise, hopped on the K 1600 B and rode to a trailhead. The first day as I followed the GPS, it was pitch black. As I neared the trailhead I could feel the ground beneath the tires shift from pavement to mushy sand. I was riding a 750-pound cruiser in the dark in who knows how many inches of soft sand. I have done a fair amount of off-road riding on both small dirt bikes and large adventure bikes, and sand is challenging for those machines. I applied the same principles of throttle and eyes-forward focus. The eye focus did very little because I couldn’t see in the dark, but the K handled it with grace. In no time I was parked at the trailhead.

The hikes were epic. The desert is a freakishly quiet place, especially early in the morning. Amazing sunrises and temperatures cool enough to make the hikes enjoyable were the rewards for my brave off-roading each day. These early approaches were necessary, as the temps reached 110 degrees by 11 a.m. daily.

Each morning was a rinse-and-repeat of the first; I would ride from the town of Joshua Tree and venture deep into the dark desert, eventually hitting the pillow-like sand, then carry on with confidence and throttle control to the trailhead. I had hacked the K. I am confident that the engineers who built this machine had no intention of a rider burrowing through the desert at 4:30 a.m. to park in the middle of nowhere, strip off armored gear and hike for hours. Of course, neither did my colleague who had lent me the machine. I am sure this article will be eye opening for both.

The Return

As I rolled back into Los Angeles to return the bike, I knew I had probably taken this bike for granted. As much as I appreciated it during the ride, I barely took advantage of what it had to offer. For instance, I never once adjusted the wind deflector vents or used the Sirius satellite radio. I never used the hill start feature, which if you pull the brake lever hard and release, it will hold the bike on a hill, only releasing when the throttle is engaged. Regardless, I was grateful to have had the opportunity to ride such a fine machine, even if it is a tad out of my genre preferences. I parked her in her garage and grabbed a rideshare to the beach to await my redeye flight back to D.C.

The K 1600 B, a machine primarily intended to have a strong aesthetic appeal, was comprehensive on the road. It was a strong performer on the interstate, seaside and mountain passes. The machine performed in the desert and even in deep sand, all while looking great. Regardless of whether or not this machine appeals to you, BMW Motorrad has built something remarkable. Ride safe and often!