Memorial Day Weekend, 1970
It's a rainy Friday morning. My well-used 1965 Triumph Bonneville is parked on a quiet side street in Narberth, Pennsylvania; I'm fiddling with the recalcitrant Lucas ignition system, trying to get the damn thing started. My buddies, both mounted on disgustingly reliable Honda Dreams, roll their eyes every time I heave on the kickstarter and get nothing but a backfire for my troubles. Eventually I dry the points, the bike lights up, and we head out of the Philadelphia suburbs toward the seaside resort of Wildwood, New Jersey, for what we all hope will be a weekend of utter debauchery. Outside of my $14.95 Pep Boys helmet, I own no dedicated riding gear and my denim jacket does little to ward off the rain, so I'm soaked to the skin and near frozen before we clear the city limits. When we stop for a hot cup of coffee, I discover the Boy Scout knapsack I've lashed to the sissy bar has come adrift. The rear tire has worn a large gash in its side, so now my spare clothes aren't just soaking wet, they're filthy, with a mix of road grime and chain spray as well.
The weekend soon goes from bad to worse. As I pull away from the cheap rooming house we're staying in, the left rear shock collapses, causing the fender to bottom on the tire. Fortunately, the local Triumph dealer takes pity and sells me a pair of decent used ones for a fin. As I'm installing them in the parking lot of the Wildwood Triumph dealership, I can't help but notice the brand-new TR6 in the showroom window. It's got a Tricor Accessory windshield and leather saddlebags. I'm envious, but my part-time gofer job at a downtown Philly Suzuki dealership only pays $1.50 an hour, so a new bike is simply out of the question.
Things continue to deteriorate. On the homeward leg of the trip the ignition switch disintegrates, and I have to hot-wire the bike to get back on the road. A few miles from home the bike starts handling oddly, but I'm too tired and frustrated to worry about it. The next morning as I head to school, the rear-wheel bearings crumble, leaving me stranded. I ditch school, blowing off an important journalism test. Regrettably, my instructor then gives me an incomplete for the semester, an event that to some degree causes me to eventually bag school altogether and concentrate on fixing motorcycles. To add insult to injury, I've got to shell out $20 for the new wheel bearings. The whole sordid experience leaves a foul taste in my mouth.
June 22, 2005
De ja vu, only this time I'm sitting on a freshly minted '05 Triumph Bonneville America. I'm about to head off to the Honda Hoot, where I'll meet up with Jamie and Andy for some quality riding, some serious chowing down and the chance to meet and greet some of our readers. The round trip is roughly 2500 miles, small beer for a serious touring rider, perhaps, but one that should put the America to the test, and is intended in some weird way to make up for that long past dismal weekend.
Why an America for this trip? Certainly nostalgia plays into it, though if I'd really wanted to return to my youth, I'd have picked something a little less reliable.
More importantly, because I wanted to prove you don't need a dreadnought of a motorcycle to go touring. Some preliminary break-in rides indicate I've made a good choice; the 800cc mill churns out plenty of usable power, the handling is solid and the brakes do their job without drama. The ergonomics work well for me, and lastly, it has a decent-sized 4.4-gallon fuel tank; good for roughly 150 miles between fill-ups, which is as far as I want to ride without a break in any case.
The plan is to run interstates where I have to, jumping over to state or local roads when I can. As I head east into New York, dark clouds start to form. I pull over, put on my rain gear, and by the time I pull up the zipper the rain is coming down in sheets. Five minutes later it stops. It's now so humid I need to strip off the one-piece suit, whereupon it instantly begins raining again. This cycle will repeat itself every 20 minutes for the rest of the day. After a few hours, I stow the ensemble away. I'm so hot that the cooling rain is a relief, and the showers only last a minute or two anyway.
In Scranton, Pennsylvania, I pick up I-81, one of my least favorite roads, but I need to make time, and this is one way to do it. Since I'm not a Cracker Barrel type of guy, the proliferation of chain stores and malls that line vast sections of the road really turns me off, but it does make it easy to gas up, down a quick Gatorade and get back on the road. As the miles pile up the Triumph really starts to hum. The motor's breaking in nicely and the relaxed steering head angle, coupled with the longish wheelbase, make for a stable, comfortable ride. The weak link is the rear shocks, which don't deal well with sharp hits. I'd be cruising the aftermarket for a set that was a bit more compliant were this my bike.
Near Hagerstown, Maryland, I've had enough of dodging thrown recaps while playing bumper tag with Billy Big Rig and his Kenworth, so I decide to take Route 40 west awhile before heading south into West Virginia.
It's a good move; the road is smooth and passes through rolling farmland, with very little traffic. Unfortunately, I'm so enthralled with the roads and the federalist architecture of the small towns I pass through that I manage to veer onto a local farm road. It takes me a while to realize I've got absolutely no clue where I am. The roads are getting narrower, the skies darker, and I'm becoming just a wee bit concerned. Finally, the single-lane farm road I'm on spits me out in front of a small church rising out of a farmer's field. It's a real Children of the Corn moment. I figure the hot tip is to backtrack the way I came until I can get my bearings. I eventually find my way to Farmington, Pennsylvania; it's farther west than I'd planned to head, but not as far off course as I feared. It's now 6 p.m. I plot a route that'll take me into Charleston, West Virginia.
You've Got A Friend In West Virginia
Picking up I-79, I head south. Riding in the Mountain State is a delight, at least on a bike. Judging from the odor of burning brake hanging on the downhill side of some of the mountains, I gather that pushing a big rig through the swooping cuts can be a little dicey. The long climbs really put the Triumph's engine to the test. Solo, the power is acceptable, especially when you consider the load the America has to bear, though passing on the uphill side is something best planned in advance. If I were carrying a passenger, I'd want a little more oomph, but that's why they make the R-3, isn't it? Still, it's some of the best riding I've experienced in a long time. The roads and the scenery are exquisite and go a long way toward explaining why they call it "West by God Virginia."
There is easy access to local services, and the people I meet are unfailingly friendly. When I stop in the hamlet of Big Otter for fuel, the attendant at the general store/gas station takes great pride in pointing out the mounted trophy buck his boss's young son took last season. We discuss hunting and fishing for a few minutes, and I feel like I've made a new friend. Later, when I try to purchase a local map in an Elkview store, the owner tells me they're a little on the expensive side, so if I'd rather just read it here and take notes, go right ahead.