The world's largest motorcycle rental and touring company has set its sights on the sweet scenic potential of Central America. EagleRider has opened its first location in San Jose, Costa Rica, at the world-famous White House Hotel, Restaurant, Casino & Spa.

Its private location in the hills and a magnificent view overlooking three volcanoes and the entire San Jose metropolitan area make the White House Hotel an ideal destination for globe-trotting types who want a little adventure with their high-end accommodations and dining. With a new fleet of Harley-Davidson Road Kings and the first "Ride the Volcano" tour in development, the White House compound can accommodate groups looking to enjoy the lush scenery and winding roads of the Costa Rican mountains. All White House Harley-Davidson tours are accompanied by a Ford Excursion, trailer, spare motorcycle and tour guide for safety and convenience.
EAGLERIDER.com

The Hamster Parade down Main Street in Sturgis, South Dakota, stops all activity. For a moment, T-shirt vendors relax, conversations cease and scantily clad ladies turn their attention from the sidewalk to the titillating sight of 100 custom American motorcycles-each piloted by a yellow-shirted member of the mythical Hamsters Motorcycle Club.

Rumors abound. They are all millionaires ... they all own helicopters (for Mount Rushmore flybys) ... they use $100 bills to scrape the bugs from their leathers they collectively own 67 percent of Lawrence County, South Dakota.

But it's not all true. Some only lease the helicopters

Joking aside, the Hamsters Motorcycle Club was born as a tongue-in-cheek karmic reaction to the stereotypical hard-core biker image of the '70s. The group wanted to show that a collective of custom motorcycles could indeed pass through society without leaving a legacy of bar fights, intimidation and general social misfittedness. They exist to tweak, chop and create rolling works of art, and they love to ride them.

To Be A Hamster:
1)You must ride your American motorcycle to Sturgis.
2) It cannot be stock.

So what might seem like some sort of tunnel-visioned, chopper-tweaking, dollar-dripping secret society from the outside is really just a group of enthusiasts-like everybody else at Sturgis. They've refined a tradition and in the process become icons of the motorcycle world. Well-known industry types, such as Bruce Rossmeyer of Daytona Harley-Davidson, and world-renowned custom builders, such as Arlen Ness and Dave Perowitz, may populate the Hamsters, but the bulk of its members are nonindustry-but-fully-dedicated fans of the motorcycle arts. They live to debunk the belief that these machines are more for the eye than about the journey. They ride their radical bikes to Sturgis every year, sometimes covering 2500 miles each way to the hallowed hills of South Dakota. These machines, some worth more than the down payment on a Lear jet, converge on Sturgis peppered with bugs, road grime and smiling owners. Every year the route evolves, the machines change and the stories (and lies) get bigger and better.

For 2007, the ride started at the impressive Arlen Ness dealership in Dublin, California. It's always a grand sight to see dozens of motorcycles rolling in group formation, but there's clearly something special about this one when it rumbles into small towns such as Arco, Idaho, to fill up the fuel tanks. The mob clicks off consecutive 250- to 350-mile days at a surprisingly aggressive pace, so your machine had better be well constructed, no matter how pretty the paint. Each afternoon, the club rolls into a designated host hotel-much to the surprise of nonenthusiast guests. But true to their mission, the riders are more than happy to talk about their bikes, the places they have been and the work they do, as curious bystanders look on. The enthusiasm is contagious-especially to the hundreds of kids along the route in awe of the chrome, the paint and the rumble of the pack.

Yes, there are private parties. Yes, the Hamsters have bought so many condos along one road in neighboring Spearfish that the city agreed to change the name to Hamster Hill. Yes, there is a loose hierarchy to the club. But some myths were simply obliterated. For one, custom motorcycles can be ridden long distances, and no matter their individual backgrounds, Hamsters really do live to ride (and really love that yellow tidal wave along Main Street). And they, like you, can't look at a stock motorcycle without mentally compiling a list of changes they'd like to make for next year.

Two Classic, Best-Selling Bikes From The Oldest And Most Storied Marques In Motorcycling Haven't Lost Their Luster.

The Harley-Davidson Sportster versus the Triumph Bonneville-which is the better bike? Back in the day, that was a question best answered with an impromptu stoplight drag race or a spur-of-the-moment TT chase (that's tavern-to-tavern for you youngsters). It was winner take all and loser takes off.

Nowadays, it's a different story. The last time either bike, at least in stock trim, was considered a serious contender in any kind of performance contest was around 1970; the rest of the world has obviously sped up in the intervening 37 years. Today, the 883 Sportster is considered an entry-level bike, and the Bonneville perhaps a modern rendition of an old tug that appeals primarily to ripe farts like me who wish all bikes still came with kickstarters.

Frankly, I think both views are a little shortsighted. Yes, they're both great bikes to learn on; they're both light and maneuverable and have gentle powerbands, surefooted handling and reassuring brakes. They're also relatively inexpensive to buy, maintain and insure-all of which makes them extremely attractive to newbies.

By the same token, neither should be considered a technological throwback or in any way unsuitable for the experienced rider. True, they're somewhat unsophisticated compared to the latest and greatest, but that doesn't make them bad bikes. In fact, if you appreciate the aforementioned traditional motor-cycle values and don't mind riding at a relaxed pace, they're very good motorcycles indeed.

Granted, neither the Sportster nor the Bonneville would be my first choice on a cross-country trip (or my second or third for that matter). But both are more than adequate for a short weekend tour and really shine on back-road rides and as day-to-day transportation.

I'd also point out that both enjoy a certain cachet; when it's time to drop names, remember that the former president of the Hell's Angels, Ralph "Sonny" Barger, preferred Sportsters and that Marlon "Johnny" Brando, former president of the Black Rebels MC, rode a Triumph Thunderbird twin (a precursor to the Bonneville).

In a roundabout way, this brings us back to the question of which is the better bike. That's a tough call, especially since I like them both. So rather than wade through the flooded basement of half-baked opinion, let's allow the spec sheet to do the talking, and you can make up your own minds.

In the engine category, things are about equal, with a slight performance edge going to the Bonneville. The HD's engine makes lots of torque at the bottom, but its two-valve head hurts high-rpm breathing, and the venerable V-twin design that gives it so much character really doesn't like to spin, which hurts horsepower. The Triumph's four valves per cylinder and overhead cam layout let it breathe deeper at high rpm, so it makes the bulk of its power further up the scale. And, yes, the higher compression ratio and willingness to rev means it'll make more horsepower. The Triumph engine is also smoother due to its balance shaft, but in that regard the rubber-mounted Sportster engine is by no means as horrible as it used to be. The Sportster gets a few points for EFI, while the Trumpet has to make do with an increasingly dated twin-carb setup.

One of the great truths about motorcycles is that almost nothing is decided on paper. With a longer wheelbase, more generous rake and trail measurements and a 108-pound weight disadvantage, you might think the Sportster would be left in the Bonneville's dust at every bend in the lane. Far from it. Although the Bonneville does enjoy certain advantages when ridden briskly down racer roads, they're not nearly as pronounced as the spec sheet makes them appear. True, the Triumph turns easier and is more nimble than the Sportster, but many Bonneville pilots complain of poor front-end feedback when the bikes are pushed hard, and, yeah, I'm one of them. Part of the problem is the bowling-ball hard, stock front tire, and another is the willowy front end. Upgrading the suspension and tires can rectify the situation easily enough, but in stock form, I think the HD has a slightly more planted feel and provides a little better feedback. Both bikes will wallow when pushed hard, but that's what keeps aftermarket suspension manufacturers' kids fed. On that same topic, ground clearance shouldn't be much of an issue no matter which bike you're on. By the time either one is dragging the hard parts, you're moving at a pretty good clip. If that's a problem for you, I'd suggest either buying something sportier or purchasing an aftermarket peg relocation kit.

When it's time to whoa, the Sportster loses a little ground, literally, by virtue of its heavier weight and less powerful brakes. So while I wouldn't call it a poor stopper, the Bonneville works just a bit better when you're hard on the binders. Both bikes suffer from slightly wooden-feeling front brakes, though to its advantage, the Bonneville does come with an adjustable front lever.

As to the rest of the stuff in this section, while neither transmission is noteworthy in any respect, both work fine, so consider the shifting a wash. However, it's worth pointing out that when it comes to the rolling elements, the Sportster's cast wheels, tubeless tires and belt final drive give it a clear cut, if slight, maintenance advantage over the Triumph, particularly in an emergency situation. Granted, the Bonneville's spoke rims and chain need only minimal attention, but all rims need truing on occasion, and all chains-no matter how good-always require periodic lubrication and adjustment. My other gripe is that in the event of a flat rear tire, you'll need to remove the Bonneville's wheel (which entails pulling both mufflers) and break down the tire to patch or replace the tube. Should the same unfortunate circumstance occur on the Sportster, you can temporarily plug its tubeless tire, inflate it and be on your way while your buddy on his Bonnie is trying to figure out where he left the tire irons. It's certainly food for thought if you do lots of solo riding a long way from home.

Although there's no box for them in the spec sheet, I should also mention that the ergonomics and comfort levels are about the same no matter which bike you're on, although there's no mistaking what you're riding for anything else. Both have comfortably bent, medium-height handlebars and an upright seating position, and both are very comfortable until the first gas stop, which occurs at around 150 miles for the Bonnie and some time before that on the Sportster (due to a smaller tank). As an aside, a popular Bonneville modification is to replace the OEM handlebars with the slightly flatter Sportster version, which purportedly improves the riding position.

If price is your only consideration, the Sportster is the clear winner in the last category, plus it comes with a clock and electronic speedometer. But there's obviously more to buying a bike than just price. In every performance category, the Bonneville holds a slight edge. It's a little quicker, a little better handling and a little better at stopping-a little are the key words here. The differences are slight and, frankly, barely noticeable unless you hop off one bike and directly onto the other. So whether the Triumph is worth an extra $524 in color, or $304 in basic black, is something you'll have to decide for yourself.

Which bike do I prefer? I think it's pretty obvious.

POWERTRAIN
	H-D XL 883 SPORTSTER	TRIUMPH BONNEVILLE
Engine Type	Air-cooled V-twin parallel twin	Air- and oil-cooled
Displacement	883cc	865cc
Compression Ratio	8.9:1	9.2:1
Torque	55.0 lbs.-ft. @ 3,500 rpm	52.0 lbs.-ft. @ 6,000 rpm
Horsepower	N/A	66 @ 7,200 rpm
Vibration Damping	Rubber-mounted engine	Balance shaft
Fuel Delivery	Electronic fuel injection	Dual carbs

MISCELLANEOUS
	SPORTSTER	BONNEVILLE
Price	Color $6975	Standard - $7,499
	Black $6,695	Black - $6,999
Standard	Electronic	Mechanical
Equipment	speedometer	speedometer,
	with clock,	warning lights
	warning lights

FRAME & RUNNING GEAR
	SPORTSTER	BONNEVILLE
Wheel Base	60.0 inches	59.1 inches
Wet Weight	583.0 lbs.	499 lbs.
Seat Height	29.3 inches	30.5 inches
Rake and Trail	29.6f,,/4.60 inches	28f,,/4.25 inches
Forks	Telescopic -	Telescopic -
	no adjustment	no adjustment
Rear Shocks	Preload adjustable	Preload adjustable
Front Brake	Single dual piston	Single dual piston
	caliper, 292mm rotor	caliper, 310mm rotor
Rear	Single piston caliper/	Dual piston caliper/
	292mm rotor	255mm rotor
Wheels	13-spoke mags	Wire spokes
Tire Size	Front 100/90-19	Front 100/90-19
	rear 150/80-16	Rear 130/80-17
Transmission	5-speed	5-speed
Final Drive	Belt	X-ring chain

Variations On The Theme

Triumph's Bonnevilles can't claim the Sportster's production run of 50-plus years, but you could argue they're damn close-the original T120 twin-carb 650 debuted in 1956 and ceased its run in 1983 with the original company's demise. The current generation Bonneville didn't come on line in its reconstituted form until 2001, but the Hickley factory has unrolled various tweaks on the platform since. There are five flavors of Bonneville in 2008:

Bonneville
The standard Bonneville bumped displacement up to 865cc last year, but the heart of it all is still the air-cooled parallel twin mill, with dual carbs, spoked wheels and a 4.4-gallon fuel tank. Other old-school bits include a 5-speed gearbox manipulating the chain drive, a 19-inch front wheel and twin shocks in the rear. The neutral riding position is the result of a tallish 30.5-inch seat height coupled with mid-mount controls and wide, slightly pulled-back handlebars. A one-piece bench saddle handles your bum.

Bonneville T100
The T100 used to be distinguished by a bigger engine, but now all Bonnies carry the same 865cc mill, so this higher-end version is a bit more posh, with bits like a tachometer, tank knee pads and other cosmetic additions. All other specs mirror those of the standard Bonneville, with the same tires, fuel tank and running gear.

Speedmaster
The Speedmaster continues the cruiserization of the Bonneville with a satin black finish on the 270-degree 865cc parallel twin, as well as a harder-edged riding position thanks to a gunslinger seat and forward-set footpegs. Upper fork shrouds pump up the style, while high risers mount the flat, drag handlebars on the slab-style top yoke. The Speedmaster gets a pair of cast wheels, with the 18-inch front supporting a 110/80 tire and the 15-inch rear wearing a 170/80. It's the sole Bonnie-based bike with twin front disc brakes.

America
The America was designed specifically for the cruiser market, with tweaks like a lower seat (2 inches less than the standard), straight-slash-cut pipes, tank-mounted instruments and forward controls. It stretches the standard Bonneville wheelbase out to 65.2 inches, increases rake to 33 degrees and adds a beefier rear brake (285mm). It also gets stubbier wheels and tires: an 18-incher up front and a 15-inch rear (as opposed to the standard's 19-inch and 17-inch hoops).

In its 50 years of existence, the longest-selling (and most affordable) Harley has donned literally dozens of guises for the Motor Company. The original 53-cubic-inch overhead valve XL Sportster begat the more muscular XLCH and the racing XLR and later spawned even more variations on the theme. For 2008, the 883 comes in three flavors, so you're pretty much assured of getting what you want.

Scrambler
Despite the retro off-road livery and semi-knobby tires, the Scrambler's more comfortable in urbane settings. This bike uses the 270-degree version of the 865cc, parallel twin-cylinder engine (the one in the Speedmaster) and riffs on the Steve McQueen-era '60s with cues like a 32.5-inch-tall seat, small headlight and single, round-faced speedometer. A single disc front brake, 4.4-gallon fuel tank and a narrow, flat bar round out the basic setup. The pair of high-level exhaust pipes is the dead giveaway.-AC

Variations On The Theme


In its 50 years of existence, the longest-selling (and most affordable) Harley has donned literally dozens of guises for the Motor Company. The original 53-cubic-inch overhead valve XL Sportster begat the more muscular XLCH and the racing XLR and later spawned even more variations on the theme. For 2008, the 883 comes in three flavors, so you're pretty much assured of getting what you want.

XL 883 Sportster 883

The so-called "beginner" Harley-Davidson is probably the most recognizable. From the 3.3-gallon "peanut" fuel tank to the staggered dual exhaust, the XL 883 is chock-full of traditional cues. For 2008, the list includes a rubber-mounted Evolution 883cc engine (powdercoated silver and polished); 13-spoke cast wheels wearing 19-inch front and 16-inch rear tires; low-rise handlebar; solo seat; mid-mount foot controls; and, a Smart Security System option.

XL 883L Sportster 883 Low

The 883 Low is probably the least intimidating option, thanks to a reduced-reach (read: narrow) solo seat jammed just 25.3 inches off the pavement. It gets the same rubber-mounted, powdercoated Evolution engine but tweaks the suspension both front and rear to drop the travel a full 2 inches lower than the standard 883 Sportster and spreads out touring-style handlebars for an easier reach.

Running gear is much the same as its siblings, with a 19-inch front and 16-inch rear tire, mid-mount foot controls, and a 3.3-gallon fuel tank, but the Sportster Low swaps in the low-profile rear shocks and front forks and an easier-to-reach sidestand.

XL 883C Sportster 883 Custom

If you want real attitude, the Sportster 883 Custom's 21-inch laced front wheel, 4.5-gallon fuel tank, two-up seat and forward controls might be more up your alley. The rear gets slammed via a set of low-profile shocks riding over a cast rear wheel, but otherwise it's the standard XL 883 formula: rubber-mounted Evolution mill; staggered dual exhaust; and, optional Smart Security System.

The center of activity at 8 a.m. on a Sunday morning in Jasper, Arkansas, is the Ozark Caf. Coffee cups rattle in the caf's bacon-fried air while Billy Bell and his dad, Gene, hold court at a big checkered-cloth-covered table. The family resemblance is clear as the two sit with a group of weather-beaten locals swilling coffee and swapping the news of the day.

This has been going on at the Ozark since the place opened in 1909. The red walls of the caf are adorned with black and white photographs that chronicle local history, the images giving life to the words of locals who have made permanent impressions on the caf's red naugahyde and chrome chairs.

The men at the table range in age from early 30s to retirement-ready, and they live in this corner of the Ozarks because they love it. Both Gene and Billy have made sacrifices to stay in this part of the world, and their affection for the community is apparent when they talk about it.

One of the men at the table, John Hudson, is a bit of a local legend. John built his home around the cabin in which his father-a well-known doctor in the middle of the century-was born, thus transforming the abode into a living museum filled with memorabilia from his dad's career.

After breakfast, Billy and Gene take me on a quick walking tour of Jasper, which includes a visit to the smallest jail in the county.

"The cells here are known as the worst in the state," Gene says proudly. "You don't want to end up in the slammer in my town."

We go inside to check out the building, and Gene asks the deputy manning the front desk if he can show me one of the dank little cells.

"No tours today. We had a helluva Saturday night," the deputy says dryly, "and the house is full."

Serendipity granted me this ride with Billy and Gene. I was in the area with a couple of friends to join the Wudi Ride, an annual off-road motorcycle ride held in Arkansas each winter. Billy is not only an off-road rider, but a street rider, too, and when I said I was planning to ride the area on Sunday, he and Gene agreed to serve as guides and show me the sights.

Jasper is on one of the great motor-cycle roads in the Ozarks, Highway 7, which runs from Harrison, just south of the Missouri border, to Hot Springs in central Arkansas and down past El Dorado on the state's southern border with Louisiana. Highway 7 was Arkansas' first state-designated Scenic Byway, and the road curls through the Ouachita Mountains and north through the Ozark National Forest.

We head east out of Jasper on Highway 74, riding over to Highway 123, a twisty stretch of pavement winding from Mount Judea to Lurton. Billy tells me that riders come from as far as Australia just to ride this technical stretch of road. On the other hand, a Gold Wing rider I met at Turner Bend told me to "avoid 123 at all costs." To each his own!

We loop back north along Highway 7 and come to the Ozark "Grand Canyon," a deep, verdant valley much smaller than its Arizona counterpart but impressive nonetheless.

Gene and Billy have to return to Jasper that afternoon, and I decide to join them and take up John Hudson's invitation to see his home and collection of artifacts.

The place is outside of town, a beautiful farm set along an Arkansas bluff. John shows us how his immaculate, white, ranch-style house was fabricated around the one-room cabin built in 1826 that his father had grown up in. The original logs are preserved, as is the original porch, which is filled with old photographs of his father, along with collections of old medical equipment. John did most of the work on the house himself, from digging out the basement to laying down the floors. He also talks nonstop about his father's accomplishments, often with tears in his eyes.

After our little tour, it is time for Gene and Billy to get home and for me to get back on the road. One of those roads, Highway 74, takes me west to Ponca. Billy had suggested I watch the fields for elk and-sure enough-I spot a few cows and a calf along the way. Newton County released 112 elk from Colorado and Nebraska in the early 1980s, and that program has paid off with a healthy local population. In fact, Newton County now calls itself the "elk capital of Arkansas," and the town of Jasper hosts the annual Buffalo River Elk Festival to celebrate the herd.

I head north on Highway 23 through Forum and Rock House and come out in the town of Eureka Springs. Legend has it that the springs had magical healing powers, and Indian tribes consider the area sacred ground. When Dr. Alvah Jackson "discovered" the springs in 1856, he reputedly cured his infant son of an eye ailment with water from the spring. The doc then founded Dr. Jackson's Cave Hospital.

The town sprang up around Dr. Jackson's enterprise in 1879, and the legend of the spring's powers drew moneyed Victorian-era travelers from around the world. Elaborate hotels, spas and restaurants were built overnight, and the flood of tourists and entrepreneurs made Eureka Springs the fourth-largest city in Arkansas by 1881.

Today, the town's architecture is a big part of its charm. In fact, the entire downtown area is on the National Register of Historic Places. Legends of mystical powers persist, with mystics claiming that Eureka Springs is an Earth "vortex," a place where spirit and body are aligned.

Mystical or not, this interesting little town is a popular place for weddings, Wiccan gatherings and motorcycle rallies.

I am due to meet friends on the highway in a few hours, and any mystical powers of Eureka Springs have to be absorbed as I pass through. In my brief tour of the town, I don't experience any noteworthy spiri-tual revelations, but I do get a speeding ticket later in the day. Perhaps my neurological path is accelerated. Or maybe I'm just not paying attention...

The final leg of the day's ride takes me west of Eureka Springs on Highway 62, which snakes into the low mountains of Boone County. A scenic drive on 187, south and west along Beaver Lake, looks like another tempting option for someone with time and two wheels.

My ride in the Ozarks ends a few hours later, as I turn north to head back to the frozen pavement of my native Minnesota. I'll soon be back home, telling stories to my friends and family about the trip. Travel tends to do that-offer up stories-and my favorite trips are those that send you home with great tales to spin.

When I think back on this ride, my favorite memory is of the Ozark Caf, a place where daily legends are as deeply ingrained in local culture as the stripes of Ozark Mountain pavement tumbling across the Ouachita Mountains.

Trip TipsArkansas Guide to Motorcycling Maps, suggested routes and destination listswww.arkansas.com/outdoors/motorcycling/

Harrison Motorcycling Guidewww.harrisonarkansas.org/motorcycling.htm

Turner Bend Store (motorcycle information)www.turnerbend.com/motorcycling.html

Pig Trail Scenic Bywaywww.byways.org/explore/byways/2156/

Mount Nebo State Parkwww.arkansasstateparks.com/parkfinder/parks.aspx?id=5

When to go:March-November

2007 Harley-Davidson Road King Custom
Caretaker: Kay
Odometer: 7,558
Miles RIDDEN: 889
Modifications: Heli Horizon bars, Kryakyn ISO-Grips, ISO-Throttle Boss, Boss Blades

Well, the Beast has been tamed (somewhat): The stock handlebar is gone, replaced by the new Horizon bars from Heli Modified, Inc., whose first foray into the cruiser market is a hit. The Horizons are adjustable for height, fore-aft position and angle. The environmentally friendlier trivalent chrome finish is beautiful, and the design of the bars meshes with the bike. Key was the fact that I now had the bars exactly where I wanted them, with wrists in a neutral position. I reeled off 180 miles after installation and could easily have ridden many more. The additional control transforms the Harley from a boulevardier to a highway hellhound.

I also threw on a set of Kryakyn ISO-Grips with the ISO-Throttle Boss, plus some Boss Blades levers. The grips are fantastic cushiony bubbles of down under my size-medium hands, and the Throttle Boss (a wrist rest) is very useful on longer highway jaunts. The Boss Blades look great but didn't provide much functional benefit; then again, with the thicker grips, it was a bigger stretch to the levers. All in all, though, the ergonomic tweaks make the Harley much more rideable.

2007 Victory Kingpin Tour
Caretaker: Zimmerman
Odometer: 744Miles Ridden: 594Modifications: N/A

Things haven't been going well in Victory- ville, though it's in no way the fault of the bike. In short, the weather's been miserable and unpleasant family business also conspired to burn up more time than I had to spend. Fortunately, that's all behind me now.

I did manage to rack up a meager 594 miles, which at least gave me more insight into the King's character. First of all, this bad boy's fast, and our Sunday morning ride includes some pretty quick guys on swift motorcycles. One of them mentioned that it took a good twist of his sportbike throttle to keep up with the Victory, especially out of the gate. Of course, in the corners it's a different story: It's slow to turn, a result of the long wheelbase, and it tends to move around at high speed, although I suspect the majority of that is caused by the trunk and windshield. It's not that the Victory handles badly, it just handles differently than I'd expected it to.

Still, the Kingpin is as reliable as the Energizer Bunny, and the brakes work well-really well, in fact, as I found out the other day accelerating down a freeway on-ramp only to find some twit parked in the middle. Needless to say, I was extremely pleased with the Victory's grace under pressure; with both wheels locked and sliding, the bike remained much more composed than its rider. In any event, the warm weather's finally here, so if you don't mind, I think I'll cut this short and go for a ride.

2007 HONDA VTX1300C
Caretaker: Cherney
Odometer: 2,414
Miles RIDDEN: 1,060
Modifications: Cycle Solutions gel seat pad, K&N filter

Things have gotten off to a slow start for my big middleweight as well-the much-heralded Peacemakers pipe National Cycle promised months ago is still AWOL, so about all I've been able to do is fit the VTX1300C with a gel pad from Cycle Solutions for a more forgiving (albeit temporary) buffer against the sharper L.A. potholes the VTX occasionally wallows into. The pad damps nicely-my tailbone's happier, anyway, but it's a pricey accessory ($260). Though it doesn't really need one (the stocker's clean as a whistle), K&N has insisted on supplying me with new air and oil filters, both of which were mounted up lickety-split.

I'll save the rejetting for when the pipe shows up, though. On the plus side, the VTX is starting up with much less protest now that the weather's warmed, and I've taken to using the 1300 as a daily commuter. As far as that goes, it's up to the task. Even with its heavy steering, it sneaks through all but the gnarliest of L.A.'s infamous bottlenecks with surprising agility (just under full-size SUV mirrors). I've gone ahead and contacted Race Tech Suspension for a rear damper upgrade, so hopefully there'll be many more ride improvements to report in the next installment.

There's red dust embedded in the lugs of my boots. The wind blasts coming out of the canyons are fierce and cool. Half an inch of bug carcasses caked onto its windshield, the Road King hums contentedly over a red clay roadway.

I'm on an annual pilgrimage to one of my favorite roads-Utah's Highway 12, through the southwestern part of the state. Trying to visually digest the surreal rockscapes of the Colorado Plateau looming around every corner is difficult enough without a family of carpenter bees blocking my view in the plexi, but after all these years, the thrill of this ride still ain't gone.

If you've spent any time in the Southwest, you know how distracting the bizarrely sculpted terrain can be. No matter how many times I ride it, Route 12 always manages to feel like a sweet rediscovery that consistently makes it to the top of my Kick-Ass Roads list.

For a real combo platter of epic roads, though, I like to backtrack a few miles west and include Route 9 through Zion National Park too. That makes for a 200-mile, mind-boggling mix of merciless twisties and lonely straights, all served amid an otherworldly backdrop. There's nothing like rolling between towering sandstone chimneys to humble you into stunned silence.

The town of Springdale, outside Zion's west entrance, is my preferred jumping-off point. It's just a three-hour ride northeast of Sin City, which is why I arrange to pick up a bike from EagleRider's bustling Las Vegas branch for my sprint up to the red rocks this time. I'm served up a late-model Harley Road King, professional service and a list of destination tips from the crew. Lickety split and I'm on the I-15 North.

Once in Springdale, I hunker down for a primo fajita dinner on the patio at the Bit and Spur Grill, based on a hot tip from a longtime Cruiser reader. (Thanks, Stan.) The waitresses crack wise, and the tortilla chips crunch sublimely. Springdale may be a tourist town, but it's stocked with all the right supplies.

Route 9 east into lower Zion Canyon eventually shovels me up a switchbacked climb between massive sandstone cliffs-I've done it before, but it feels like a revelation watching the early-morning sun creep across the Great Arch rock formation this time around. It's easy to see why this canyon has awed everyone from the Mormon settlers who named it to the 2.5 million folks who flock here every year. The road straightens out through mile-long Zion-Mt. Carmel (elevation 5700 feet) and ends at the Mt. Carmel junction with Highway 89. Sprinting north on 89 through ranch country is a dicey proposition, though; each of the small towns I pass has a sheriff's cruiser lurking just outside the town limit, where the speed limit plummets from 65 to 35 mph. I tiptoe through Orderville in first gear.

Thirty-five miles later it's the turnoff for Highway 12, and traffic has thinned considerably. But don't be fooled; the fun's just beginning. Some roads can instill a true spiritual rush in riders-the Pacific Coast Highway, Route 66, the Kancamagus Highway-we all have our faves. For me, it's Highway 12, stretching 125 miles across one of the most rugged, lonely bits of the Colorado Plateau.

The two-laner crawls through dramatic terrain, ranging from 4000 to 11,000 feet in elevation. There's a reason Highway 12 has been tagged a National Scenic Byway and All-American Road by the wonks at the Federal Highway Administration. (All-American Roads are said to be "destinations unto themselves.") Even better, its entire length has been paved only since 1985, so that Wild West vibe remains pretty much intact.

The higher elevations of the Paunsaugunt Plateau are home to the red rocks of tiny Bryce Canyon, only 56 square miles in size. My first taste of the psychedelic scenery comes at Red Canyon, where it's said bad boy Butch Cassidy spent some time on the lam. But muscling a Big Twin down the road between wildly twisted hoodoos-those tall kebab-like rock spires-is what really rates a 9 on the Dr. Seuss Scale of Surreality.

By the time I hit the famous Ruby's Inn on Highway 63 a few minutes later, I'm wondering how Butch ever made it without an insulated liner. The 7800-foot elevation is prime for the Ponderosa pine surrounding me, but my fingers are feeling the cold. Ruby's provides me with a cuppa hot java, though I'm not inclined to linger; the place is tour-bus heaven-a mass of gas stations, hotels and restaurants situated just before the main entrance to Bryce. I duck onto the spur road to Fairyland Canyon between Ruby's and the main entrance to sidestep crowds and avoid admission fees; here, the hoodoo-filled view is still enough to squeeze a gasp out of even the most hardened Hell's Angel.

I'm happy to remember the road ducks down 1000 feet into the town of Tropic as I head east and things warm up a bit. At this point, I'm in the midst of some insanely impressive scenery-the stretch between here and Boulder is laced with slot canyons and views of fantastic oceans of sandstone. But I need to refuel, and the small town of Escalante makes for a perfect stop midway through the byway. Over burgers and Cokes at the Golden Loop diner on Main Street, I trade notes with Randy, a fellow adventurer from Seattle who was exploring his way across the Southwest. He advises me to pull out the electric vest, as the road only gets higher and colder from here.

Route 12 begins its wind through vast expanses of slickrock just outside Escalante, and I survey the scene at Boynton Overlook to get an idea of the area's remoteness. This region was one of the last in the United States to be mapped, and it's understandable why once I hit the Hogsback, a ridgeline with steep 2000-foot dropoffs on either side. It's a huge rush to peer down into the Escalante Canyons on one side and endless sand washes on the other. By the time I pass Boulder, I'm feeling the chill through my vest (as Randy had warned). The road crosses the eastern flank of Boulder Mountain at 9000 feet, and while that makes for awesome views of Capitol Reef National Park and the Henry Mountains, it also means it's 20 degrees cooler than Escalante.

The byway ends at the junction of Highways 12 and 24, near the town of Torrey, and that's where I call it a day. The sun hasn't set yet, but I can't wait for tomorrow. I happen to know that backtracking this route is just as fun.

By the time you read these words, the cotton will be high, the fish will be jumping and riding season will be in full swing. Personally, we're raring to go. You? Yeah, thought so.

We thought it'd be appropriate to tap into the editorial pool for this summer issue and come up with our top rides in America. We've chosen one for every corner of the country, and each choice is essentially a local's take on that area.

For example, in the Northeast, Connecticut-based Technical Editor Mark Zimmerman reminisces about a tour through New England that starts right outside his own backyard: the classic Route 7 corridor in Connecticut.

The Southeast has more than its share of storied motorcycle trails, so it helps to go to the source. We managed to snag an exclusive excerpt from Georgia-grown rider Scott Cochran's new book, Motorcycle Journeys through the American South, out now from Whitehorse Press (www.whitehorse press.com). His ride winds through the Georgia mountains on a road so twisty, he's dubbed it "The Viper."

Up in the mysterious Northwest, longtime contributor Tad Hetu gets downright Zen on his jaunt through Washington's Olympic Peninsula, challenging the conventional belief that motion is what makes the ride.

There's also no shortage of epic rides in the Southwest, and I chose to go back for a reunion with one of my all-time favorite roads: Utah's soul-stirring Highway 12. Like Tad, I felt the forces of nature around me dictated the tone of the trip. "Lord of the Rings," anyone?

So pick your corner of the country and read up before you saddle up. They're all worth atrip. See you on the road.

-Andrew Cherney

If I only had one afternoon to share with riders from out of town, I'd treat them to a ride along the Route 7 corridor between New York and Connecticut. Naturally, we'd have to do some tire kicking at Marcus Dairy (just off Route 84 in Danbury) first, though I'd caution them to tread lightly when ordering breakfast, especially if they're watching their cholesterol-care for some eggs with that grease? From there, we'd head north on the local roads I've been exploring for 30 years. These secondary routes wind among farms, small lakes and homesteads that were already old before the redcoats were chased out of New England.

After some back-road bending, we'd take a breather in the village of Gaylordsville, mainly so I could tell them the dark tale of the Pyramid. The huge cinderblock edifice isn't very pretty, and neither is its story. Its builder created it as a monument to a child born out of his incestuous relationship with his daughter.

Just up the road, we might stop at the Bulls Bridge Inn for a drink if it's a cold autumn day and a quick ride through the famous covered bridge before continuing north on Route 7 along the Housatonic River. Or perhaps we'd just carry through until we hit the town of Kent. It's a genteel village, typical of "old money" New England, though in recent years it's become somewhat of a tourist trap, especially on weekends.

But the farther north we go, the better it gets. The road winds along the river past several pristine state parks-with camping permitted-and some of the best fly-fishing territory in the country. This section of Route 7 is a designated scenic road, so be prepared to share it with leaf peepers and antique hunters, not to mention local farm equipment and truck traffic. But if we time our ride right (early morning on the weekends or midday during the workweek is best, especially in the fall, when the leaves are in full color), we should have most of the road to ourselves. If it's warm enough, a picnic at Housatonic Meadows State Park wouldn't be too difficult to arrange. We can get our vittles at the old general store and watch kayaks shoot the rapids while we eat.

The next 15 miles of road through Litchfield County are some of the best I've ever ridden. In the spring and summer, pine scent permeates the air, and in the winter, the naked beauty of the river can take your breath away, as can the chill coming off it. A short detour through another covered bridge at the hamlet of West Cornwall would get us over the water, and then it would be up the road, through Falls Village and Canaan, before heading past Lime Rock Raceway, one of my favorite motorcycle tracks.

The roads heading back are less traveled, and they can also be extremely entertaining. We'd loop back toward New York State, maybe heading south on Route 22 for a short spell, before cutting back along the fast downhill sweepers of Route 4 back in Connecticut. From there, it'd be a quick toot over to Route 45, which would take us past the abandoned, allegedly haunted ruins of Dudleytown, around Lake Waramaug, and through the towns of Washington Depot and Roxbury, Connecticut. All told, this short and sweet ride would cover about 150 miles, making it a decent day trip or providing the perfect starting point for an extended tour of New England.

The Mohawk Trail is as old as, well, I suppose "dirt" would be as apt a simile as any. Like many roads in New England, the trail got its start as a migratory game path originating somewhere west of the Taconic Mountains (in what's now New York state) and meandered eastward through what would eventually become Massachusetts. Native Americans, primarily the Mohawks in the west and the Pocumtucks in the Connecticut River Valley to the east, used the trail in their migrations and had long-established treaties regarding hunting and fishing rights along its length. Unfortunately, the arrival of the white man stirred trouble. Sensing that political unrest between the tribes would further their own ends, the English, located in Pocumtuck territory, and the Dutch, who were making inroads into Mohawk lands in the lower Hudson River Valley, began to manipulate one tribe against the other. Eventually a full-scale war broke out, with the Mohawks ultimately gaining the upper hand. Since no one ever names anything after the losers, the path eventually became known as the "Mohawk Trail."

With the end of the Indian Wars and the American Revolution, the old trail was gradually rerouted and widened to accommodate wagon traffic between the city of Boston and the interior towns, particularly North Adams. Ultimately the "Indian path" as it was then called became a road, although if you're so inclined, portions of the prehistoric track can still be hiked in the Mohawk Trail State Forest.

By the early part of the 20th century people began to appreciate just how beautiful the region encompassing the trail was, so in October of 1914 the Massachusetts State Legislature declared the Mohawk Trail a scenic tourist route.

The modern Mohawk Trail, officially Massachusetts Route 2, runs from Boston, Massachusetts, to Buffalo, New York, which makes it easily accessible from almost any direction. The real Mohawk trail, or at least the one that's most fun to ride, is the section between North Adams and Greenfield, Massachusetts. Obviously everyone is going to find his or her own way to the trail-since I live in western Connecticut, hard by the New York border, and prefer to ride the trail from west to east, what follows is my favorite loop.

If you're coming from the Greater NYC/New Jersey or Pennsylvania area, pick up 684 North and follow it until you hit the Route 22 intersection. About 6 miles up the road you'll come to the Putnam Diner, which is as good a place as any to stop for breakfast, lunch or dinner, and a convenient place to top off the tank. Take a right at the diner and follow Haviland Hollow Road to Route 37 in the town of New Fairfield, Connecticut, and from there take 37 to Route 39 North. Follow 39 to 55 East and about 2 miles later you'll pick up Route 7 North. These roads are all fairly interesting, and bend through wooded farmland and postcard-pretty New England towns. By picking up Route 7 in Gaylordsville, Connecticut, you'll also avoid the proliferation of urban commercial sprawl that's managed to tarnish its lower half.

The ride up 7 is always entertaining; it's a wide, smooth and reasonably twisty road with just enough roadside attractions and moderately priced eateries to make a quick leg-stretching stop worthwhile. The town of Kent, Connecticut, is particularly nice. There are several open-air cafs and an excellent ice cream parlor located on its main drag, as well as a first-rate bookstore (you can browse the outside sale tables on nice days), making it a pleasant spot to take a break.

Over the line in Great Barrington, Massachusetts, Route 7 turns into Main Street, U.S.A., with many sections moderately cluttered with everything from antique galleries to chain restaurants. Bear with it-the congestion doesn't last that long, and the town of Stockbridge, home of the real Alice's Restaurant, and the Pittsfield/Dalton area, site of the only U.S.-hosted International Six Day Trial (or enduro as it's now called), are worth visiting.

Farther up the road you'll come to the town of Adams, Massachusetts. When you do, start looking for the signs to Mount Greylock. The turnoff at Rockwell Road comes up quickly, but if you miss it you can turn around in the tourist information parking lot. At 3491 feet, Greylock is the highest peak in Massachusetts, and yep, you can ride right to the top-but bring a few singles, they charge to park. Camping is available, and the Bascom Lodge, a Civilian Conservation Corp project from the '30s now run by the Appalachian Mountain Club, can provide accommodations for up to 32 people. The lodge also has a small store selling supplies, books and souvenirs.

Coming down Greylock you'll follow the Notch road to Route 2, which is where the fun definitely begins. The real trail begins with the Hairpin turn, a climb up Hoosac Mountain. Halfway through the turn you'll find the Golden Eagle Restaurant. the food at the Eagle ain't fancy, but it's good and the prices are right. But even if you don't stop to eat, at least take a moment to check out the view from the parking lot. you'll be looking over several mountain ranges, four states and the breathtaking Hoosac Valley-to describe it as awesome doesn't do it justice.

On the downhill side of the mountain the trail winds along the Deerfield River, through the Berkshire foothills and across the Mohawk Trail State Forest. The scenery and the road are among the best I've ever found, although be forewarned that traffic, especially during the peak summer months and the fall leaf-peeping season (mid-October/early November), can be heavy, particularly on the weekends

If you followed the road to its conclusion, you'd eventually wind up in Boston. Since this is a one-day trip for me, I generally gas up in the town of Greenfield, Massachusetts, which marks the end of the Mohawk Trail as far as I'm concerned. Now, if you're pressed for time, you can hop on I-91 in Greenfield and head home via the interstates. it won't be pretty, but it'll save a considerable amount of time.

Since I've always got time to ride, my preference is to backtrack down the trail about 12 miles to route 2A..

If you've got any sort of horticultural bent, follow 2A east into the town of Shelburne Falls, a village straight off the set of It's a Wonderful Life. Then follow directions to the Bridge of Flowers. The bridge is an old trolley crossing that was abandoned in 1928. In 1929 the local garden club covered it in flowers and has maintained it ever since. Unique in the world, it's well worth a walk through, even if your interest in gardening starts and ends at the nearest salad bar. If flowers aren't your thing you can check out the local trolley museum or one of the world's largest concentrations of glacial potholes. or if you'd prefer to be a traveler instead of a tourist, just stay in the saddle until you connect with Route 112.

Heading south on 112 presents you with a plateful of optional routes, none of them bad. My favorite is to follow it in a roundabout way toward Route 8, which then points you south into Connecticut. Route 8 is for the most part rural, and very well maintained, and twists through some beautiful forested land. You may be tempted to turn up the wick here, but be careful-the last time I came home this way I plowed through a flock of domestic geese that had decided to see what was on the other side of the road. Hitting one at 75 per will make the ride a lot more interesting than it needs to be.

At the town of Winsted, Connecticut, 8 morphs into a scenic two-lane highway that'll carry you straight to I-84, a major east-west route that'll hustle you toward Hartford, Connecticut, or New York, Pennsylvania and New Jersey. If you'd prefer a more leisurely route, take 44 West into Canaan, Connecticut, and from there you've got access to Route 7 or NY Route 22, which will carry you south in a roundabout way toward the I-84 interchange.

As described here the Mohawk loop runs between 325 and 350 miles, which makes it a perfect one-day wander, and of course an excellent jumping-off point for an extended tour of New England.

By the time I'd reached the pass things were not going particularly well. The deserted road was as slippery as a frog's belly, and a mixture of freezing fog and sleet had reduced visibility to about two and a half feet. In the 10 minutes I'd been sitting there, hoping in vain that a state road crew and sander would pass by, the conditions had deteriorated from bad to worse. I knew I had to get going, but the question was, which way? I was having a tough time deciding, in part because I was becoming increasingly distracted by what appeared to be some sort of large and very unfriendly animal eyeballing me through the underbrush. As I pondered my next move, it dawned on me that if I didn't get my butt in gear and quickly, the first thing to find my rapidly stiffening body would probably be wearing antlers. It cheered me no end when I recalled that moose are vegetarians.

Opened to traffic in 1959, the Kancamagus Highway, officially New Hampshire Rt. 112, and informally known as the "Kanc," traverses the White Mountains from east to west, running directly through the White Mountain National Forest. Its eastern terminus begins in the White Mountain Valley village of Conway, directly in the shadow of Mount Washington; 38 writhing miles later it spits you out in Lincoln, a short ride below the Franconia Notch. In between are numerous elevation changes, intense twisties and plenty of rugged, eye-popping scenery. What you won't find along the route are traffic lights, fast-food joints, gas stations or the ubiquitous plastic souvenir stands that pollute much of what was once scenic America.

For nearly 30 years I'd been planning on riding the Kancamagus, but it was one of those things I kept putting off until "someday," which in my experience is a day that almost never arrives. Fortunately serendipity took matters into her own hands. I needed a weekend ride (badly), and I also wanted to spend some time with my friends, Dan and Judy Kennedy, proprietors of Whitehorse Press/Whitehorse Gear, and their pup Buster. Since the Kennedys live in Center Conway, New Hampshire, about three gearshifts and a hard twist of the throttle away from the Kanc, and had graciously offered to put me up for the night, the plan was pretty simple. I'd burn up to their place on the first weekend in November, spend the evening with them, then hit the Kancamagus on a leisurely return trip.

After a most excellent evening of good food and stimulating conversation in front of a warm fireplace, not to mention my choice of Buster's chew toys, I hit the sack, figuring that if Sunday was anything like Saturday, which had been a typical crisp, clear, New England fall day, it'd be smooth sailing down the Kanc with nothing to do except enjoy the ride and snap a few photos.

Of course this being New England, the land of unpredictable weather, things are always subject to change. The day dawned gray and chilly, though thankfully, not wet. Frankly, if I'd had my druthers I'd have just as soon stayed by the fire discussing the finer points of chasing squirrels with old Buster, but duty called-it was time to return to the big city. As I suited up, Dan checked the Weather Channel one more time. The bubble-headed forecaster promised the day would remain absolutely dry, if a little cool, no rain was forecast until much later that night, and temperatures would rise as I headed south. Despite the slate-gray sky it sounded promising, so off I went. Within 10 minutes, the "no rain" that was forecast started to sprinkle on my windshield. As I turned onto Conway's main drag I also noticed that fog and snow had made much of Mt. Washington disappear. Just about then it dawned on me that the rest of the ride might not be as pleasant as I'd anticipated.

Sincerely believing that fortune favors the bold, I ignored my better judgment and pressed on to the Kancamagus. For all practical purposes the road was devoid of traffic; had it been warm, and maybe 20 years earlier, it would have been full steam ahead and damn the torpedoes. Older, and slower, if only slightly wiser, and very conscious of the fact that I was on a greasy and unfamiliar road, I rode conservatively, content to take in the craggy surroundings and the aptly named Swift River, which parallels the Kanc for much of the way.

As I climbed toward the summit of Loon Mountain (an ironically appropriate name in my case), I began to notice piles of fresh snow, and evidence that the road had been recently sanded and salted. I wasn't as concerned with that as I was with fog and spitting sleet, which was making it increasingly difficult to see, especially since it was freezing to everything it touched and slowly turning me into a Marksicle.

At the Kancamagus Pass (2855 feet above sea level) I pulled over and took a breather-I really had no other choice-and pondered my options. I could play it safe; turn around and head back to Conway. From there I'd pick up the interstate, which would put me on a southeasterly trajectory. The trip home would be boring, and it might be wet, but at least it'd be above the freezing mark. Or I could continue on, hoping that things might get better at the lower elevations. Like they say, God hates a coward-of course he wasn't about to find out how well a motorcycle works as a bobsled was he? So down the hill I went. As I engaged the clutch the sun made a brief appearance, the diffuse light gave everything a surreal quality that I'd have liked to share with someone, but since no one else was foolish enough to be there I couldn't.

Fortunately after a few miles things began to improve. The road became dry and although the weather remained gray, damp and chilly, at least it wasn't sticking to me. When I pulled into the ranger station that marks the western end of the Kancamagus I realized that while I may have passed over the highway, I still hadn't ridden it, certainly not in any meaningful way. Oddly enough that doesn't bother me; so far as I'm concerned it's all the more reason to go back, but I can promise you that this time I won't wait 30 years.

The Kancamagus is a wonderful ride, but it is short, so it's best to include it as part of a larger outing, or perhaps as a day trip while visiting the general area. It can also get crowded; it's a prime jumping-off spot for outdoorsmen of all types, and additionally the main route between some mighty popular vacation spots. It's also a favorite day trip for Laconia attendees who tire of the raucous Weirs Beach scene.

Excellent accommodations, ranging from quaint B&Bs to Victorian-style hotels straight out of a John Irving novel, can be found in Conway, Lincoln and the surrounding areas. If you'd prefer something a little more modern there are plenty of Motel Whatever's about, and being New England, a fair amount of ski lodges as well. Food ranges from five stars to Mickey D's and is priced accordingly. The region gets pretty crowded during the summer, especially in the Lakes Region and around any of the tourist attractions like Mt. Washington and the outlet store areas in the Conways, so expect some traffic delays should you decide you'd rather be a tourist as opposed to a traveler. Lastly, bring plenty of warm clothes-even at the height of the summer the highway and the surrounding mountains can get plenty chilly, especially during the early morning and late evening hours, and in the fall the weather can be unpredictable, and at times, downright inhospitable.

Remember when you got hooked on pizza in high school and couldn't help scarfing it at every meal for weeks? Then you'll also remember that the accompanying buzz faded shortly thereafter; with any guilty pleasure, the too-much-of- a-good-thing syndrome usually kicks in well before you make the Guinness Book of World Records. Most of us can only inhale so many jumbo pepperoni pies before the inevitable bellyache.

So it was with Honda's annual biker bash, the Hoot-after decamping to Knoxville, Tennessee, to attend the event for the sixth year in a row, I felt like I'd exhausted my ride options in the area. That's why, while packing for this year's hoedown, I was tickled to read that Honda had put together a new route for Motorcycle Cruiser's annual ride-in bash. Even better, I had no idea where it was.

The folks at Team Red invariably string together a sweet series of byways for these rides, and our several years at the bucolic Norris Dam had been, by any measure, resounding successes. It's just that by Year Three, we'd OD'd on all that concrete and water. Kudos to Honda, then, for coming up with the Ride to Roan Mountain

Freaky FloraIf you've never been to Roan Mountain, you've missed one of North Carolina's most popular natural attractions-at least that's what the locals told me (what they didn't mention is that the top portion is actually located on the North Carolina-Tennessee state line). But I'd never even heard of the place, so I was just stoked to be hitting a fresh, unexplored destination-even if rhododendrons aren't really my thing.

Yup, rhododendrons. Roan Mountain's claim to fame is that it's host to the largest natural display of these flowers on the planet. Thousands of folks come 'round to witness the vibrant Rhododendron Catawbiense gardens at peak bloom every June'-about the time I stumbled upon them, too.

Roan Mountain is both a town and a state park, and your first stop should be Roan Mountain State Park Visitor Center (just outside the town) to get oriented, stock up on literature and refill your water bottle. And if you like guys in uniform, a naturalist is on hand to dispense more in-depth info, too.

The gardens themselves sprawl across seven miles of meadows studded with moss and heather, some eight miles beyond the park. As you gain elevation on the ride up Highway 143, Roan Mountain State Park recedes in your rear view and is soon replaced by dense hardwood forests. This dream of a road unfurls with seductive sweepers and ripping curves that loop in and out of the ever-rising plateau of the Pisgah-Cherokee National Forest. On a good day, you're rewarded with sweeping vistas of the surrounding peaks. Just down the other side of this rather large hill lies the fabled Blue Ridge Parkway, but to access the famous gardens (and the old Cloudland Hotel), it's best to hang a right at Carvers Gap onto the Forest Service road.

Carvers Gap is a low notch in the ridgeline of Roan Mountain, and the adjacent parking lot also gives you a straight shot at the Appalachian Trail (AT). To the north, the AT crosses a series of grassy balds-nearly treeless areas that offer unobstructed views of the Blue Ridge Mountains. The 10-mile stretch that includes Carvers Gap has been lauded by many an AT through-hiker as one of the most beautiful bits of the entire trail. Just south, the AT climbs to the high point of the ridge-6285-foot Roan High Knob.

When I rolled into the Gap, it was flush with rhododendron in full bloom, the plump blossoms putting on a blazing show of color. Legend has it that Indians came to the top of the Roan to wage a great battle, and so much blood was spilled that the rhododendron turned from white to red. Plunked haphazardly among forests of evergreen, the gardens seem anomalous, but there's no denying their visual pizzazz. And because of its elevation above the clouds, the whole area goes by the nickname "Cloudland."

Miller TimeAnother must-stop in the area is the Miller House. Halfway up the mountain between the visitor center and Carvers Gap, this compound includes a barn, smokehouse and old frame main house built in 1909. The whole homestead is preserved as a reminder of the way folks used to live in these parts-and it's where the Cruiser crew convened for lunch. During the summer months, local musicians and traditional storytellers visit the house to share their talents. There was a fiddler on hand to serenade us with the sweet sounds of Appalachia as we chowed down on catfish and grits-all things considered, not a bad way to spend a hot summer day.

But there's more than just local history and boutonniere fodder here; Roan Mountain State Park encompasses some 2000 acres of southern Appalachian forest, with elevations ranging from 3000 to 3700 feet, so you're virtually assured of cooler temperatures than those of the surrounding areas. Wildflowers and wildlife jam the hollows and ridges of these foothills, and should you want to spend more time tramping the trails or just need a place to flop for the night, the woods hold campgrounds, as well as 30 cabins, each complete with a front porch, kitchen, full bath and wood-burning stove. The best part? No TVs.

There are interstates leading to the park on the Tennessee side, but by coming into the High Country on a main highway, you'll miss the backroads that really define what it means to be in these mountains. Opt for the lesser-traveled, grittier paths, and you'll gain the full experience. From its inexplicable "balds" to its lush forests, Roan Mountain remains one of the most intriguing places in the southern Appalachian highlands. It's a prime riding area I'll wager I won't get sick of anytime soon.

Directions:From Knoxville, TN, and the west, the most direct route is 1-40 to I-81 to I-181 south through Johnson City. Exit Elizabethton/Roan Mountain State Park (Hwy. 67) to Hwy. 19-E south. In Roan Mountain, TN (the town), you'll hit Roan Mountain State Park. The steep drive to the top takes about 20 minutes on Hwy 143.

From Boone, NC, and the east, take Hwy 105 to Newland, NC. Take Hwy 194 North out of Newland toward Roan Mountain, TN. At Elk Park, NC, take Hwy 19E to Roan Mountain and Highway 143 into the park.

Boisterous ferns wagged at my bike's tires while white pines swayed drunkenly in the breeze above. The entire roadside was rife with the five-pointed leaves of sugar maples; I could practically smell the sap. I was playing tag with the fully blown New England foliage when a gap appeared in the trees and the horizon opened up like a curtain snatched off its rod. A turnout on the cusp of this verdant hill marked the point where the asphalt peaked before its serpentine descent to the other side. The sign read Appalachian Gap. The view? Boundless blue sky above and a whole lot of valley below.

I was on a "yee-haw!" route through the northern part of Vermont's Green Mountains, winding through "topography that only God could have created, on roads only an engineer could have built," as one local put it.

The drill had gone like this all morning, on different paths: Enter narrow back road. Twist and turn to the top. Dismount, gulp fresh Northeastern air and ride to bottom. Repeat at next pass.

Notch-hopping, they call it. "They" being the locals, who also mentioned that there is no better way to experience the intricacies of Vermont's rolling, rural backdrop. You couldn't have asked for a better postcard-the rushing streams and working farms dotting these valleys were straight out of a prop studio.

I got some other good advice, too, such as basing this zig-zag loop out of Burlington-Vermont's cultural capital, which is easy to navigate and not without its charms. There are plenty of places to lay your head, and among the throngs of Birkenstock-wearing locals, I had no problem finding eateries that rated several cuts above the usual fast-food fare. As a bonus, the Lake Champlain Islands-a string of islets running south from Canada to just shy of Burlington-are a stone's throw to the east, should I require a change of scenery. New York lies on the west side of the lake.

If I was riding to eat, a quick jaunt east on U.S. 2 would land me in Waterbury, where I could stop for a spot of Chunky Monkey at the Ben & Jerry's factory just north of town. I also had the option of heading north from there to Mt. Mansfield, the state's highest point and reportedly a blast to ride.

But I had some notches to bag, so I headed south. From Waterbury, laconic Route 100 travels through the heart of the Green Mountains all the way to Massachusetts. It's one of the state's most popular leaf-peeping routes, but more importantly, Route 100 serves as a perfectly scenic north-south axis, offering access points to several notch roads.

A few minutes down the road was the Mad River Valley, a lush pasture set smack in the middle of the Green Mountain National Forest, and as such, bounded directly to the west and east by green ranges. Here, I'd find a gold mine of Gap roads.

For such a small slice of land, the area is loaded with history-most of the tiny towns in the valley were established in the late 1700s, not too long after this country first became, well, a country. I set up for my first notch just outside of historic Waitsfield, a pretty burg with a clutch of well-maintained colonial homes, white church spires and a bona fide covered bridge set in a narrow canyon by the Mad River. Route 17 veers west out of town as it leads to the Mad River Glen along Mill Brook, growing steep and curvy with every mile. By the time I pulled off at the cleft between Stark and Baby Stark Mountain-the aforementioned "Ap Gap"- I was sold on the whole notch-hopping concept. For one thing, the view, at 2,400 feet, was sublime.

Dropping down sharply from the Gap-1,000 feet in less than two miles -Route 17 curls through cool woodlands for several miles before the landscape opens up and small villages in open fields take up the horizon. The town names even sound rural -Jurusalem, Bristol-and by the time I turned south on 116, the sweet smell of freshly mown hay had completely filled my helmet.

116 is as agricultural as it gets-corn, cows, tractors and the like-which was a bit too relaxed for my mood at the moment. So when the turnoff to the next notch came, I was ready. Route 125, just east of Middlebury, is referred to as the Middlebury Gap and happens to be a designated scenic road, to boot. Heading west back up the lushly forested hills, I came across the Robert Frost Wayside Area and Trail 10 miles later.

Dilemma. Should I stop?

I like Frost all right, but if I hear "The Road Not Taken" blurted out one more time by some smug yahoo at a motorcycle rally, I'll probably take a sharp object to my veins. It's become like "Born to Be Wild"-stripped of all meaning by its endless use in advertisements and on classic-rock radio stations. Still, my curiosity was piqued, so down went the kickstand. The Robert Frost Interpretive Trail winds through eerily quiet fields and woodlands, and plaques along the way bear quotations from Frost's poems. There was even a picnic area, where I pensively munched on a PowerBar and contemplated my many paths through life.

Not really.

In fact, I scarfed down the PowerBar, peed and jumped back on my bike.

There was a road here, and I was going to travel it. End of story.

Bombing east across the Middlebury Gap brought me to a steep descent, a G-rush and finally to Hancock, a town composed of a tiny cemetery, several 200-year-old buildings and the intersection with Route 100. Texas Falls is short hike off the road, and it's a grand spot to cool your heels or splash around in one of the many swimming holes.

I was in the groove, and that meant continuing south onto 100 and the next approach road. Route 73 came up soon enough at sleepy Rochester, and after a right turn, I found myself climbing west, albeit in a more mellow fashion, up to the Brandon Gap. This relatively untraveled road was a lonely blast through shaded curves and nice elevation changes-a cool, green ride where one can be totally alone with his thoughts. At the end of the grade, I hooked up with Route 7 heading north, where my reverie was abruptly broken. Route 7 is a major truck-choked thoroughfare, and after spending most of the day on roads devoid of vehicles, it took some getting used to. Still, it was a change made more tolerable by the fact that Vermont completely bans roadside advertising-there were no billboards to sully the scenery, at least.

Minutes later, I was in Middlebury, a pleasant low-key college town, where I stopped for a stretch and a cup of coffee. The white steeple of the Congregational Church loomed over the Main Street area, which was stocked with pleasant shops and cafes. Leaning back with my java, I thought, it could be worse.

From here, it was back onto 116, which I took north to its junction with Route 17. After all, the notch-hopping wasn't over just yet. There was still the Lincoln Gap to nail...

Trip Bits

Getting There: From Burlington, head down Rte 2A until it merges with 116. When you hit Rte 17, turn left (east) and head over the Ap Gap. You've cut your first notch.

Rent: Bikes can be had at Wilkins Harley Davidson; www.wilkinsharley.com/miscpage_008.asp

Eat: The few locals I talked to recommended the Den in Waitsfield for dinner or Smokejacks in downtown Burlington.

Sleep: The lap of luxury it ain't, but there's something comforting about the Hyde Away Inn. This bar/restaurant/inn is set right off Route 17-on the way to Ap Gap. So even if you're not staying the night, you can grab a burger and a cold drink out on the patio in between notch hops; www.hydeawayinn.com

Roads: Vermont has harsh winters, but the state does a pretty good job of keeping up with cold-weather damage. Dirt roads are graded after the muddy season.

Reference: Create your own tour with suggestions from Moto-Maps Vermont Back Road Touring Guide; www.moto-maps.com. Or go to www.madrivervalley.com for inside info.

Apparently most Americans recall Route 66 fondly, but I'm not one of them. I was a Route 66 baby. With divorced parents living in Chicago and Santa Fe, then Los Angeles, I spent summers doing shuttling along Route 66. To me it was a series of speed traps, tourist traps, fly traps, greasy spoons, and feeling ready-to-heave-nauseous in the back of a series of family wagons crawling across a mostly boring, flat landscape. When the arrival of interstate highways turned Route 66 into a two-day trip (Santa Fe to Chicago) and disconnected the drive from the little towns that did everything they could to divert you to spend money, I viewed the change as a huge leap forward.

The more remote and much lesser-known—but much more scenic—road that intrigued me was U.S. 395, which ran north-south through eastern California, Oregon, and Washington states, dipping into western Nevada near Reno along the way. Unlike Route 66, which ran to the west, Highway 395 ran through the west—and a pretty remote section of it. I was first introduced to Highway 395 in the early 1950s, when my mother spent six weeks in Reno to establish Nevada residency for a quickie divorce. We took overnight trips down to Yosemite and up into Oregon (which, I later realized, meant the divorce was never actually legal, since my mother left Nevada and didn't actually meet the legal requirements for the residency required to get that divorce).

On those trips I discovered a road that was fun to travel, even from the back seat of a smoke-filled Ford wagon. The scenery on the area we traveled was spectacular, with soaring, rugged mountains, roaring rivers, lakes, and fresh-smelling pine forests. Except perhaps for the area around Reno, I don't recall much traffic or tourist attractions.

I ride 395 between Los Angeles and Reno fairly frequently, but I had never followed the road north beyond the Nevada stretch. Looking at a map, which showed the northern section running through remote areas, it seemed like it was time to do that.

Before I hit the road, I did a little research. I remembered 395 running from San Diego up past San Bernadino (east of Los Angeles). These days that southern section has been overrun by interstate 15 after being realigned a few times. (Cameron Kaiser has a website that traces the history and changes of this southern section of the now defunct southern section of 395.) I spent a day exploring the remnants of this former 395. It's a tangled series of streets from its original southern terminus in downtown San Diego, but once out of town, it is sometimes a nice alternative to the interstate, which it criss-crosses, sometimes above, sometimes below, like my dog when we go for a walk in the hills.

These days U.S. 395 starts north from Hesperia, northeast of LA at I-15. It heads off north across the Mojave desert, past various military airfields—George AFB, Edwards AFB, and the China Lake Naval Weapons Testing Center. If you ride this section, watch the skies for some the exotic military aircraft in the area, because this 100 miles or so desert landscape is pretty dull. But also keep your eyes open for traffic on this section of two-lane, which has a bad history of fatal accidents because you often can't see approaching traffic. Don't give up though, the scenery improves quickly north of where 395 intersects California 14 coming up from the southwest. After passing the Hubcap Capital of the World, Pearsonville, you enter the Owens Valley, the deepest valley in North America and one of the most scenic places in the state. To the west the Sierra Nevada range forms a nearly impassable barrier. Your next chance to cross it comes about 150 miles north at Yosemite. There are more ways to cross the Whites, the range that forms the east wall of the Owens Valley, roads that take you to Death Valley and Nevada.

The Owens Valley is one of California's playgrounds. My mother preferred mountains to beaches, so we came up here many weekends after we moved to Los Angeles. Back then, 395 was all two lanes. Now much of the road south of Yosemite is four lanes. The attractions of the Owens Valley are the same as then: fishing in the lakes and creeks, snow sports, hiking, camping, off-roading, or just looking at the scenery. Coming from the south, you can get a sense of the Valley's history as you come upon the huge Owens Dry Lake. Less than a century ago, it was a real lake, but then Los Angeles tapped the Valley as a source of water, and sucked the lake dry. Recently a program to cut down the dust blowing from the dry lake has forced the Los Angeles Department of Water and Power to use some its precious water to keep the lake bed moist.

The Valley was cut by the Owens River, which is fed by streams running out of the mountains, most from the west. Each creek has a meandering road that follows it up to a trailhead, with campsites, fishing holes, and head-turning along the way. Many of these creeks also gave rise to small towns along 395. If you spend the night in the area, ride up one of these roads after dark, and find a dark place to discover a few hundred thousand more stars than you are probably used to seeing.

The first real town you come to is Lone Pine. In the early to mid 20th century, the area around Lone Pine, particularly the Alabama Hills, which lie between the highway and the Sierra range, was a popular setting for western movies. It's still used occasionally for contemporary, and the Beverly and Jim Rogers Museum of Lone Pine Film History holds a film festival every fall. West of town you can see Mount Whitney, which at 14,494 feet, is the highest peak in the contiguous 48 states. If you want to spend most of the day, there is a trailhead west of town at Whitney Portal and the trail will take you to the top—if it doesn't literally take your breath away.

If you want another opportunity to feel insignificant, ride east out of Big Pine on route 168 to the crest of the Whites and visit the Ancient Bristlecone Pine Forest. There you'll meet the oldest living things on the planet, gnarled little prehistoric pines, some almost 50 centuries old. Even if you don't want to ponder your own impermanence, the winding, plunging road is a sure way to feel very alive.

Bishop is the unofficial capital of the Owens Valley, the biggest town on Highway 395 south of Reno (with the only motorcycle shops). At about 4000 feet altitude, Bishop is accessible from the south by motorcycle almost all year, with just a few days when snow sticks during the winter. But 20 minutes west of town, you can be at 9000 feet, to escape from the high desert's summer heat. Erick Schat's Bakkery is a favorite snacking or lunch spot here. For dinner, Whiskey Creek is a favorite for elegant fare.

For many Southern Californians, Bishop is just a wide, slow place in the road that goes to Mammoth Lakes. Mammoth is a ski and outdoor-sports town about 45 miles north of and over 3000 feet above Bishop. If you have been sweltering in the desert heat, as I was in August, the climb will deliver you to cooler air. You should probably gas up before leaving Bishop, unless you plan on taking the short side trip to Mammoth, since the next gas actually on 395 is over 55 miles away. In fact, between here and Washington, you'll frequently encounter long stretches with no gas, and if you have a bike with less than 150 miles range, you might want to carry a jug of gas.

If you prefer roads that wind, consider taking the back way up the hill to Mammoth. Hang a left at the Rovana sign just before you start up the long hill, then make an immediate right on to the old, winding road through Paradise and along Rock Creek. It returns to 395 before you reach Crowley Lake, former home of some record-size trout, which lies just east of the highway. Shortly after that you may want to take a brief detour left to take a gander at jewel-like Convict Lake, though the lakes of Mammoth Lakes, a couple of miles further up 395, offer some spectacles of their own. Like Bishop, Mammoth has distraction that can occupy you for a day or two if you want to stay. If you have a dual=purpose bike, you could fill an entire week riding in the Owens Valley.

A bit north of Mammoth you'll come to the turnoff for the June Lake Loop, which will add about 10 minutes and a lot of awe to your ride. I strongly recommend this side trip, which offers spectacular vistas and brings you back to 395 just in time to catch your first glimpse of Mono Lake, another natural wonder. ("Mono" means "beautiful" in Piute.) As you reach the lake's south shore at Lee Vining, you also come to Route 120, the turn-off for Yosemite National Park, a great ride even if you don't go into the park. If you do, allow at least a day.

My ride wasn't really about stopping to smell the roses, though. I just wanted to keep moving through the stunning scenery and great scents. And, after the Yosemite turnoff, traffic thinned out further.

Continuing on up 395, around Mono Lake, you climb to another 8100-foot ridge, which offers a great view back to the Mono basin before starting back down past the turn-off for Bodie, a well preserved, photogenic ghost town that's worth a visit if you don't mind a few miles on a gravel road. The last real town before your reach Nevada is Bridgeport, the Mono county seat. I'm told that it was once the seat of a different county—in Nevada—before the original surveying was checked. It is not the only example of confusion caused by surveying along 395. There are chances to turn both east and west around Bridgeport, and after Route 108 (leading to Sonora Pass, another fun road) sucks some more traffic away, the road is nearly deserted as it meanders along the Walker River toward Nevada. You cross into Nevada about 50 miles after Bridgeport. Aptly named Topaz Lake covers the state line next to the highway as you cross.

The scenery doesn't abate until you are past Gardnerville and into the expanding urban sprawl of the Carson City and Reno area. Back in the 1950s, Reno, with its proximity to the mountains and Lake Tahoe and less toasty climate looked more likely to become a gambling Mecca than Las Vegas, but I guess that didn't account for the tenacity of gangsters. Reno is a better destination for motorcyclists most of the year. When I rode through however, it was hosting Hot August Nights, a gathering of cars from the 1950s and `60s. Cruising through the area became a sort of ride-through car show, one which continued as I left Reno and passed dozens of cars headed into the city. I was tempted to stay a day or two, ride the local roads during the day and car-gaze at night (the shows are free).

A few miles north of Reno, 395 returns to California. It is a bit more arid here, though still scenic. As you approach Susanville, you might want to hang a right on Route A3 and cut off about 10 miles of the worst road surface I encountered on my ride—if you have enough fuel for the 100-mile run to Alturas. After that you are really away from everything. There is little traffic, the road is good, with an occasional curve and eye-pleasing surroundings. It was an idyllic hour and half.

People tend to divide California into north and south, but in my view, the real division in California is between west and east—between urban and agricultural, coastal and mountains/desert, Disneyland and Death Valley, and maybe sportbikes and cruisers. The differences in the two sides are both in geography and sensibilities. Most of the bikes you see out here are cruisers, with tourers and adventure bikes showing up as well. That's as it should be, because 395 is best sampled at cruise speeds.

The ride from Reno up into Oregon is about as far from a western California state of mind as you can get in the U.S. The road encourages a relaxed pace, and many of the trappings of modern travel just aren't there. Besides the scarcity of fuel pumps, there were no fast-food chain restaurants, no chain hotels, no big-box stores. The only billboard I recall was the hand-painted, quite faded sign that touted the shortcut before Susanville. Alturas almost seemed like a trip back 40 years with none of the temples of modern plastic roadside culture, but my burger certainly didn't leave me wanting.

About 40 miles north of Alturas, 395 reaches Oregon and the mixed-up little town of New Pine Creek, which consists of a bit more than a couple of stores and 250 residents. My California map says it's in California. My Oregon map says it straddles the state line, which at least in practice, it does. However, the actual location of the state line is a bit confused, the result of haphazard surveying circa 1870. About 20 years ago, California officials reviewed the line and concluded that the line should actually be a bit farther north. But locals still don't seem certain about where it is. Nonetheless local California residents have Oregon mailing addresses (that's where the post office is), which confuses all sorts of bureaucrats, from cops to tax officials and the uncertainty about location prompts all sort of subterfuge to reduce taxes and other fees. It used to be that Oregonians had to sneak their kids into the local school, which is (probably) in California. The Oregon welcome sign is on the north end of the tiny town, but the California sign is right in the middle of town on State Line road, though that probably isn't where the line actually is.

Unless your bike has lots of range, you had better gas up in Lakeview, because unless the little two-nozzle gas pump 84 miles north in Wagontire is available (it wasn't when I went through), you have over 110 miles to Riley, where 395 briefly joins U.S. 20. Although you initially follow the banks of some large, shallow (and sometimes stinky) lakes, the terrain here is sort of high desert, cresting a couple of passes in the 5000-foot range. The land is open and, though not barren, treeless and deserted...like the road. I had been riding with no other cars in sight and realized that I hadn't seen a southbound car for some time. It was 16 miles before a car came along. If you want to leave the world behind, 395 in Oregon is a great place to do it. However, with such a well maintained, non-challenging highway with no traffic, the 55-mph speed limit seems an unnecessary annoyance.

After a brief jog east where 395 briefly joins 20, the road separates and turns north again at Burns (where you can get your fix of familiar fast food or sleep in a national-chain hotel). Now it climbs into pine forests and through the Blue Mountains of the Malheur and Umatilla National Forests. The road was almost as deserted as before, but here it offers beautiful scenery and turns to entice. This lovely section, which goes on for over 200 miles, was worth the trip all by itself. Next time, I think I'll bring fishing and camping gear and stay a while.

When Highway 395 reaches civilization again in Pendleton, Oregon, just south of the Washington state line, its character changes significantly. The terrain suddenly gets dull, and the road gets even duller. It joins I-82 for a while while crossing the Columbia River, but even after it breaks away from interstate superslab around Richland, it remains a heavily traveled limited-access highway with lots of traffic and dull scenery as it runs northeast for about 150 miles to Spokane, Washington, where it at last climbs into greener country again near the Idaho state line. At Spokane, the highwayt turns north again before reaching that state and heads for Canada.

The 120-mile ride from Spokane to the border is another scenic beauty through the forests of northeast Washington. The traffic gets thinner the farther north you get. About three-quarters of the way up, 395 crosses Franklin Roosevelt Lake and then runs along the bank of one of its tributaries the rest of the way to Canada. The end of the highway is sort of an anti-climax, with a quiet pair of border-crossing stations (the Canadian one is closed from midnight to 8:00 a.m.). Looking beyond, the beauty of British Columbia beckoned, and Route 3 westbound on the Canadian side looked tempting, but I was due back in the office, so I reluctantly turned back south.

You could do the good portions of U.S. 395 in three or four days and have a great ride, or you could take three or four weeks with side trips and time to take in some of what I rode past. Either way, it is a ride away from mainstream and far from the crowd.

RESOURCES

US 395:

Gold Country Treasure Hunt

For more descriptions of our favorite motorcycle rides and destinations, visit the Rides and Destinations section of MotorcycleCruiser.com.

Photo Gallery: Motorcycle Tour on US Highway 395 - Motorcycle Cruiser

Read More | Digg It | Add to del.icio.us

]]>http://www.motorcyclecruiser.com/rideanddest/motorcycle_tour_us_highway_395http://www.motorcyclecruiser.com/rideanddest/motorcycle_tour_us_highway_395Sat, 19 Nov 2005 16:11:00 -0800America Or Bust: Connecticut To Tennessee

Memorial Day Weekend, 1970: It's a rainy Friday morning. My well-used motorcycle, a 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

Dj 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 Elvidge and Andy Cherney for some quality riding, serious chowing-down and the chance to meet and greet some of Motorcycle Cruiser's 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 did I choose a Triumph Bonneville America "mere" 800cc motorcycle 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 remind people who read this that 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.

My plan for my ride to the Hoot is to run interstates where I have to, jumping over to state or local roads when I can. As I head east from Connecticut 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 completely. It's now so humid I need to strip off the one-piece rainsuit, whereupon it immediately begins raining again. This cycle will repeat itself every 20 minutes for the rest of the day. After a few hours of dancing in and out of my raingear, 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 riding along 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 regain 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 6:00 p.m. I plot a route that'll take me into Charleston, West Virginia for the night.

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 Rocket III, 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.

Of course, not everyone I met along the trail struck the right chord. Earlier at a rest stop in Maryland, a nicely dressed, typically suburban middle-aged woman and her fashionably goth daughter paused to admire the Triumph's clean lines. In a positively surreal moment, Ms. typically suburban mentioned that she and her husband had taken their honeymoon on a '79 Bonneville, but that "he got drunk and killed himself on it one night, which was a shame, 'cause I really liked that bike." Indeed.

Onward to the Hoot

After catching a few z's in Charleston, I take a flyer back to I-81 and head toward Knoxville. As far as riding goes, the southern portion of 81 is better than the northern, but only just. In its defense, it does get you there, wherever there might be, as quickly as possible, and the scenery isn't all bad, especially if you're a NASCAR fan. The Morgan-McClure race shop, located in Abingdon, Virginia, is just a stone's throw from the highway, with the Bristol racetrack only a few miles down the road on the Tennessee border.

After a few hours I notice that the leading edge of the passenger seat is digging into my back. It's annoying, but something the aftermarket will no doubt remedy in good time. As you'd expect, I blow the offramp and circle around the city streets until I can locate our digs at the fashionable Knoxville Marriott. Two Coronas later, no lime please, and I'm napping soundly in air-conditioned splendor while the America cools in the parking lot.

Here Comes The Weekend

Friday and Saturday are filled with all the fun things you get to do at the Honda Hoot. Suffice to say they included lots of riding, benchracing and food, the capper being our Motorcycle Cruiser Readers' Ride and Best Dam Fish Fry at the Norris Dam. Sunday I was back on the road. Since I didn't want to retrace my exact steps, I formed a half-baked notion to run north toward the Cumberland Gap National Park, then sneak up the back way to West Virginia, spending the night somewhere north of Charleston. Monday I'd h