A Tale of Two Two Hundreds
or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Ratchet Strap
Part 1 — Ideation, Preparation and Planning
It’s impossible to stop dwelling on thoughts by trying to do so, and a better method of forgetting bad memories is pushing out the old by making new. Dedicated drinking might also do the trick, but this can occasionally, and perhaps unavoidably, lead to even more trouble, and hey, going on an adventure is more accepted by friends and family, if you have any good examples of either left.
Or maybe there is a need to find liminal space. This is a term that I’ve heard recently, and it describes a place — whether in space, time, or other — between places, where a guy can go to shed the usual responsibilities, think differently for awhile, etc. As always, one can take the high or low road to such a space, whether by climbing Mt. Everest, or drinking to oblivion under a bridge. We each have to define what these spaces mean to us, or imagine what we want from them.
So, how about trying a long distance motorcycle trip? Of all the real or imagined possibilities available, that’s where I landed. I’ve had my motorcycle endorsement for 30 years, but never titled a motorcycle myself, always borrowing them from friends, sometimes for a whole summer, or snagging a ride here or there when the chance arose. But for a trip like this, I needed bikes all my own.
My original goal was to ride around New England forest roads on small cycles, enduros, dual sports, adventure bikes, whatever you want to call them. I wanted just enough road legality so I could avoid trouble while keeping the bikes light and fun. But “bikes?” What’s with the plural? Well, while there’s fun in the solo adventure, motorbikes seem to be more fun with a friend, even moreso than pedal bikes.
The sheer variety of bikes available from all eras makes it really hard to choose just one, and I prefer used to new. My search started with the following that I simply took the time to add to the list: Yamaha WR250R, TW200, BW200, SR400, SR500, XT250; Honda XR650L, NX250, XL185, XL125, CB350, CL350, SL350, CL175, Fat Cat; Kawasaki KLR650, KZ200; Suzuki VanVan. I was interested in the oddballs in the list more than the more usuals — the CL and SL Hondas are a bit harder to find than the ubiquitous CBs (and are better off-road), and the Honda NX seems to be rare, yet has a dedicated cult following. Neither the Honda Fat Cat, nor its similarly fatty cousin, the Yama BW200, is road legal, so sadly, they’re off the list. I’d maybe ridden a few of these listed cycles over the years, but was otherwise pleasantly unburdened by experience, prejudice, or loyalty to any make or model.
The only way to know what you’re looking for is to start somewhere, so I rode a few bikes. An old Honda XL didn’t work for me, but I started noticing many paths leading to the venerable yet humble Yama TW200, also known as the TDub. It popped up everywhere. The market in my area said these beasts generally sold used for $3-5k, primarily depending on age. As their technology has hardly changed from 1987 to today, there are always a few available. I studied, learned, rode a couple. They’re charming, fun, and slow as shit — what’s not to love? I found one with some nice modifications, including a larger Clarke tank, custom racks and windshield, all things that a caring owner might add. I bought it for $3k and felt good. Let’s see how it goes, shall we?
While the right bikes help a trip go right, even more essential to a great motorcycle trip is the right friend, and I found that in my buddy Graham. We’ve known each other for 40 years, and we still want to hang out, which is a thing more precious than gold. And fittingly, he’s actively ridden motorcycles for all the years I was just flirting with them. I figured his experience would average out over both of us, as I think that’s how it works.
Ah yes, about this TRIP. A smart fellow would buy bikes intended primarily for off-road use close to where this off-road area was located. But where’s the challenge in that? Rather, why not buy them where we live and ride them out to New England? Now we’re talking about a real trip, since we live in Minnesota. My fiancée lives in central MA, between the Quabbin and Worcester, and that’s 1300 miles from the Twin Cities. While that’s a significant distance, it could easily be a lot further, as MSP is only 20 miles from the border with Wisconsin.
Herein lies a fundamental dichotomy — the very qualities that make a bike good for the off-roading also make it bad for the on-roading. What a promethean realization that is! It’s so obvious that it’s hardly worth stating, but while these differences in focus hardly matter for a trip of 10 miles, they start to matter a LOT over multiple days, or so I figured. But again, here lies the challenge of what is possible … and I already own the venerable TDub. I’m already in it. What to buy next?
Two hundred cubic centimeters of engine is the minimum size I’d spec’ed for the bikes. It generally means, even in my limited experience, that the bike will go 60 miles per hour without getting too stressed. In the TW’s case, this was debatable, so a gearing adjustment was made. You can either swap for fewer teeth on the sprocket in the back, or add one in the front to get a higher top end, but of course, this only works to a point. The engine can only push a certain ratio. We swapped a 15 tooth up front in place of the stock 14, and the bike seemed happier at cruising speed, without too much of a tradeoff on acceleration (i.e. still slow as shit).
This story is titled as being a tale of two 200s, which is really what I intended to do. Comparisons are commonly made between the TW and the Suzuki VanVan, and I wanted to try one, but they were pricy little buggers, and hard to find. I also considered a second TW, so that I only needed to learn maintenance for one bike. This would make ongoing life easier, but where’s the adventure in that, and variety is the spice of life, they say. I took recommendations and looked at all of the models in the list a few paragraphs above, but nothing really grabbed me.
In one sense, I just gave up on the VanVan or similar, usual choices, or ran short of time, but the more accurate thing to say is that I was hopelessly seduced by a most unlikely second bike. A 37,000 mile BMW g650 xChallenge popped up on the local marketplace, and I had to take a look at it. The price seemed high for that tired and dirty example, and the seller was flaky, but when another one miraculously appeared on ye olde Craigslist, I had to take a look. Graham came along to help me get carried away, and we were instantly both captured by this big old thumper. She only had 7k miles (surely being capable of going 37k as the other had), and had a bunch of useful mods already done, the value of which, by my totally accurate, quick Google pricing, added up to $4100, while the owner was only asking $5400. We all know that mods, despite their steep costs, rarely add value, but this deal seemed right, particularly as I’d want an auxiliary fuel tank, bark busters, all of that. Both Graham and I were so excited by this bike that we seemed to forget how tall it was.
You can read that a bike is tall, nod knowingly, and think “well sure, but I’m a tall guy, I can handle it.” It easily becomes a matter of pride. So while you might win the early “I can do this” battles, over a long trip, while wearing heavy gear, getting that leg over the bike becomes a chore. Shit, even reaching the ground with more than the ball of a foot is a challenge. But regarding this seat, what is tall, you say? 36.6 inches. The TW seat height is 31.1 inches, for sake of comparison. While both Graham and I are both around 6’1” in height, we’re not as young as we used to be (who is?), and we were nearly forced to stretch before throwing a leg over the Beemer, and as experienced middle-aged guys, we know that stretching only leads to higher expectations, which we prefer to avoid.
But all sensory feedback in the heat of the buying moment was coming back positive, and caution had fallen off the back on the test rides, so we struck a deal for $5k even, and brought the mighty BMW into the fold. It’s pretty much just an overgrown 200, after all, so the title of the article must stay as it is. The thing that helped it immensely is that it really is an oddball bike that sold poorly back in the day, yet is highly revered these days, once a few issues are sorted (the rear air shock, primarily, which had been done). The odd bike suited the odd plan.
After riding around the bikes for some hundreds of miles to shake ‘em out, get to know them and preview a bit of the future grief we’d experience, we checked the weather for the umpteenth+1 time, and picked a date for departure. Graham packed some soft bags that he already owned, while I was insistent on using a hard, waterproof box like the kind the real adventure riders use. At the end of that road, I found that Harbor Fright sells a Pelican-like box called the Apache 5800 for un-Pelican-like prices. Although the reviewers called it “huge”, after loading it up with two laptops, assorted support gear, minimal clothes, and even some tools, as if we expected to know what to do with them, I did not see it as “huge”. But it fit the stuff well enough, if tightly.
I even splurged and bought a two-pack of the Sena 30k intercoms (that’s See-na, not Senna, y’know) and installed them in our helmets. Sena helmet intercoms have 4-5 buttons with which to perform about 47 different functions, but I found the combinations to turn the bloody things on and pair the pair without too much trouble and minimal cursing.
And thus, we set our course for the (inland) seaside town of Manitowoc, WI, some 360 miles away. There is only one reason any decent Minnesotan willingly chooses to visit this god-forsaken outpost, and that is to pay a small fortune to ride the S.S. Badger across the Great Lake of Michigan. Because as the Midwestern driver knows, one must do anything to avoid the disaster known as “Chicagoland.” At the last moment, I noticed a critical piece of information regarding the ferry ride, which was to bring 2 ratchet straps per bike. As I was already packed to the gills with the necessities of modern life (yes, two laptops are roughing it — a guy’s gotta work at least twenty minutes a day), the idea of taking half of the space I’d already used in the fake Pelican for ratchet straps was a real blow. I hemmed and hawed and complained mightily, but the need for the ratchet straps to protect the bikes from the mighty waves of Lake Michigan took precedence over all else, and along they came. The toothbrush had to go.
Part 2 — And So It Begins
The “no highways” route option in google maps works pretty well, yet I still find fault with it. It can (and did) choose the worst roads, needing or ongoing construction, with seeming ease. I need a “no shitty roads” option. But after only seven carefree hours on bike seats seemingly sculpted from recycled railroad ties, we arrived at the boat with little time to spare. When deadline anxiety is nullified (aka you’ve arrived), a great sense of peace can settle, but I soon saw a sight which caused great consternation — there were at least 47 ratchet straps already waiting on the boat for us. Why, oh why did we have to bring our own when we could’ve tied the bikes down 27 ways from Sunday with what was already there? This troubled me mightily, not only because we’d be carrying these now useless items all the rest of the trip, but also because despite my situational crankiness, I couldn’t indulge my true desire, which was to throw the precious, ever-loving, space-consuming straps over the side of the boat into the deep.
However, I took a moment or three, and we settled into the boat for the 4-hour cruise, buying all the food we could eat and exploring (aka wandering aimlessly). The Badger is an immense boat, nearly 500 feet long, capable back in the day of carrying 34 railcars. There is plenty of nostalgic talk about how it is a throwback to an earlier time, but she’s not luxurious, nor advertised as such — she’s a transport device that continues to serve.
We disembarked on the Ludington, MI side similarly to how we boarded — clumsily and hurriedly. The weather was just as foggy and chilled on the east side as on the west, and if I didn’t know better, I’d have said we were in the same port. The Great Lakes have a way of making any sunny and pleasant day into a cold and clammy mess, which I love more when I’m in a warm car or small diner than on a motorcycle, but so be it. The only way to get out of the cloudbank was to head inland.
The only day of the trip I’d really planned was the first, as we had to catch that boat or sit for a day. With that badge earned, I’d roughly sketched out a stay for the night at a serviceable-looking place in Clare, MI titled “Crossroads Motel”, and we eagerly anticipated our arrival as we dodged all manner of wildlife in the growing twilight. Upon arrival, the view from the street quickly turned hope into dread, as it was one of those formerly standard little motels that had accomplished its decline into a long-term stay place roughly 1.3 steps away from living in a car. The “Stars & Bars” hanging over one of the windows, and the “extra storage” outside each room, along with the craters in the parking lot made it clear that this place was below even my low, low standards. Thus, we headed back to downtown proper and splurged at the Doherty Hotel, by far the nicest place in town, which at $135, swallowed up 3 days of generously budgeted overnights, but I was in no mood to continue the lodging search. The Timeout Tavern across the street stayed open for us, where we were transfixed by food, drink, comfortable seating, AND the intriguing but incongruous Amish woman sitting uncomfortably in one of the booths. But we had neither the energy to investigate that situation further nor the space (or interest) to rescue her on the back of one of the bikes, so we left that crusade for another knight.
The next day brought another great quest into focus — the crossing of a geopolitical black line into a dark place known as “the Canada”. The name alone strikes fear into all good Americans, y’know, who live in ‘merica, as in the 50 States, USA-variety. Not those other Americas like Central and South, which aren’t really America. But enough geographical lecturing — true Americans know where they live, and Ontario ain’t a real state, altho it should be, unlike Puerto Rico, which clearly doesn’t deserve statehood. Oops, there I go again. Back to the point here, I had struggled to find a way into Canada that didn’t involve a big interstate bridge, and while I had considered sail-equipped whisky-smuggling vessels (which I hear still run the gauntlet on moonless nights), I ran across a quasi-legal ferry plying the St. Clair River between Algonac, MI and Walpole Island, ON. I say “quasi” because this isn’t so much a river as a channel between Lakes Huron and Erie, so how can any of it be legal? We came across this nearly hidden, unobtrusive ferry landing so suddenly that we didn’t even have time to eat one last proper American meal (at McDonald’s) before braving the seven-minute crossing.
This “river” had a current which appeared to be driven by the weight of all the water contained in Lakes Superior, Michigan and Huron, which it is, and the ferry boat struck a heavy angle as it churned across the great metaphysical (and physical) gulf between the Land of Freedom and that of oppression and darkness. Surprisingly, it then landed as delicately as a butterfly on a tulip. We alit with trepidation and the usual clumsiness, while the mall cops in the heathen land had the nerve to question our business rather than bowing in honor of our greatness as American citizens. I suppose they have to keep up a good front for the locals. The surroundings looked vaguely American, yet somehow, of course, not quite as good. Graham and I, as proud, although non-card-carrying Libertarians, were quite sure of this.
I was surprised that much of the land close to the northern shore of Lake Erie was undisturbed, rural farmland. There were a few small towns, crossroads with blinking lights, and other minimal signs of life, but most of it was filled with the same stuff as rural Wisconsin or Michigan, only with fewer Trump signs. We observed many of these weird flags with red maple leafs on them, as if the Ontarions are as patriotic as true Americans. Weird. One highlight for us was stopping near an RV park or fairgrounds (a good combo) to tighten the chain on the TDub. As I hopped around and awkwardly tried to get my leg over and off the BMW, I glanced up and noticed a local couple watching from their back deck. I hoped they were amused by some humorous anecdote one of them had coincidentally related to the other, but no, they were laughing at me. Fortunately, I had become used to it and said “normally, I’m even worse” which caused more merriment at my expense. Fine. At that same moment, a helpful fellow came along and said, “Not sure if you know this, but your headlight is on, EH.” That unsolicited, spontaneous “eh” really let us know we were deep in the heart of the dark land and to keep up our guard. On a positive note, we were delighted at how the tools we brought did in fact allow us to successfully tighten the chain without the back wheel falling off. Miracles do occur in everyday life.
However, the lack of civilization (redundancy alert) in the region led to hunger, especially as we’d missed the chance for a last American meal, and we almost drove right by a place called “Tall Tales Cafe” in Wallacetown, ON. It looked dumpy, but we turned around, and wow, were we impressed. The food was great, and our server even tracked down some “tuck tape” so that I could tape the sole back on my boot which chose this trip as the perfect time to fall off, seemingly randomly (thanks, Asolo). This place was the center of the region, everyone knew each other, and welcomed us, and our hearts were warmed. I concluded that the Canadians are alright, and as I said before, they probably do deserve the chance to be annexed into America, with a proper probationary period of course, during which to monitor for latent, rambunctious, overly-Canadian behavior.
Day 2 had been threatening rain most of the day, and while we thought we were staying barely ahead of it, it caught and slowed us a bit, and we ended up staying overnight at an odd little place called “Hipwell’s Motel” in Pelham, ON. It was apparently built during that time long ago when people were not uniformly obese, as the turnaround space in the bathroom and doorways was quite tight. I rather enjoyed that reality check from an earlier, nearly vanished time. However, the bikes did receive a thorough dose of rain overnight, which may have contributed to the next day’s trouble, of which we were yet blissfully unaware, as we dreamed of returning safely to the Golden Land of Opportunity and Adventure. And Freedom. Goddamnit, I nearly forgot to mention freedom. That’s what a visit to the Canada will do to a guy.
Part 3 — The Ratchet Strap Redemption
We arose on Day 3, hoping to reach our destination, but looking at 10+ hours of riding to get it done. We made it to the town of Niagara Falls fairly quickly, crossing the Rainbow Bridge to the other Niagara Falls, only to discover that the American version is a bit underwhelming and, shall we say, challenged. Or suffering from “former glory syndrome”. It could surely do with some maintenance, but as I like a bit of urban decay in my sightseeing, I didn’t mind too much. I would’ve liked to look around a bit more and take some pics, but it was raining, we were on motorcycles, and we had a long way to go.
But then, just west of North Alabama, NY, the BMW just stopped running and I coasted to a stop. No sputtering, or related complaints — it just stopped. A local guy named Eric who happened to be a mechanic and knew motorcycles well and who carried with him more tools than I have in multiple garages stopped quickly (and amazingly), and he and Graham started looking at fuses, relays, wiring and whatever else could be examined. As there are only 2 sides to a motorcycle, and their experience surpassed mine, I went into “this isn’t gonna work” mode and started looking for BMW motorcycle dealers or repair shops in upstate NY. Ha ha, how quaint a notion was that. When they put it all back together without victory, I had already located a U-Haul outpost only 10 miles away. Salvation in Batavia was at hand.
But first, we needed to get off the shoulder of the road, lightly traveled as it was. As my fiery hatred for the ratchet straps had been rekindled to burning every time I had opened the fake Pelican case, they came back to mind immediately in this hour of need. Well, not to my mind, but Graham’s. We decided to tow the sad BMW into town using the remarkably reliable TDub. This is neither a recommended nor safe course of action, so of course we proceeded to do it. Once the BMW was sitting in front of the local town hall / fire department building, I set off to Batavia on the TDub, remarkably bringing along two ratchet straps, y’know, just in case. I give Graham credit both for this mindful suggestion and for tolerating my withering glance at mentioning the cursed straps, even after they had just proved useful and necessary. I am capable of holding legendary grudges at both inanimate and animate targets effectively.
Once in town, I found that the only one-way rental I could obtain was your typical 20-foot truck. WAY TOO BIG for what we needed, but that cargo van out front was only for the locals, ya know. A casual conversation with the donut-loving U-Haul employee on duty revealed that we’d be carrying motorcycles, at which point she immediately (maybe gleefully) stated that “we don’t have straps for motorcycles.” I paused sufficiently for full effect and gathering of strength, at which I responded with “I BROGUHT SOME OF MY OWN Bee-YOTCH!” Wait, that might’ve been only in my mind. I think I actually replied casually with, “Oh, no bother, I happen to have magically brought some along with me on this journey for no good reason at all and look, life has surely blessed me with this golden opportunity to use them.” But OMG, this saved a trip to Wal-Mart at a time when I was unsure whether I could’ve survived one. Count your blessings, name them one by one, doesn’t the old hymn say?
Despite the absolute overkill of the 20 foot truck, the handy, “EZ load ramp” and lowest deck (of any truck, ever produced) made loading the bikes a helluva lot easier than some skinny ass portable ramp from Wal-Mart could ever match. Unforeseen blessings abound, all around us, possibly more often than we would care to consider. Very liminal. We finally got a welcome back to America meal at the local McDonald’s before proceeding to head east on the New York State Thruway and the MassPike (aka I-90 in places where THEY DON’T CHARGE FOR USE OF AN INTERSTATE). I just love the eastern US states’ penchant for toll roads. When high gas prices alone aren’t enough to break the bank, toll roads are there for the assist.
Whereas in past travels, I have begrudgingly endured the U-Haul experience, in this case I thought I was traveling in the utmost luxury, which this truck easily offered in comparison to the motorbike experience. Additionally, we passed thru multiple heavy, true downpours, in which we’d have most certainly been sidelined for long stretches. The rain, and our avoidance of it, came up nearly every 10 seconds when speaking of how glad we were that a bike broke down. And in this manner, with the gratefulness only exhaustion can truly bring, we pulled into lovely Barre, MA after 3 days on the road. Hooray!
Part 4 - The Transformation of the Ratchet Straps into Love, Legend and Lore
As part of the contract with U-Haul, we couldn’t return the truck until Monday (we’d rented it on Friday). As usual, when one has access to a big truck, we could think of nothing but wanton debauchery like all dirty truckers, but rather than pursue that, we were distracted by the need to donate some furniture to the local charity shop (aka Savers). As it turns out, we had four large pieces of furniture to move and no way to tie them down. And yet again, the good old yellow ratchet straps were pressed into service. My god, there appears to be nothing a guy can’t not do with ratchet straps, or something (I’m so emotional about them that I can’t conjugate proper verbiage). The sad experience of trying to give away furniture and the hilarious Savers “work crew” aside, we got the job done and checked another task off the to-do list. Thanks to Gary at ReStore Habitat for Humanity in Worcester, MA for taking the desk that Savers couldn’t comprehend. It is no wonder people sometimes just throw stuff away when faced with the hassles of donation.
There is an obvious connection here between ratchet straps and moving trucks. Just like love and marriage, you can’t have one without the other. But for real, unlike that Sinatra song that even he surely couldn’t have believed, as he sang it with a large smirk in his voice. Believe me, ratchet straps are a holy thing.
Part 5 - The Great Fix of the BMW
The U-Haul and ratchet strap successes had us quite chuffed, but we were still left with the BMW problem. There is some sort of BMW dealer in cosmopolitan Worcester that might’ve accepted the bike for repair, but they had a policy of calling a guy back after a groveling request for an appointment was made via website. Shit, this could take awhile. All we wanted to do was ride the delightful forest roads of central Massachusetts at the end of a long slog, and it did not look like that would happen. Like medieval monks painfully copying ancient manuscripts, we poured over wiring diagrams, forum anecdotes and suggestions, and youtube videos on common problems with a BMW G650 xChallenge. No, it is NOT helpful that the BMW F650GS (and the older G650) is 85 times more popular than the, as previously mentioned, oddball 650X. Too many Fs and Gs and 650s for the search engines to comprehend clearly. Thusly armed with little additional knowledge after much research, we ripped into the BMW again, even stopping by another Harbor Fright in scenic south Worcester for more tools.
We knew that we were getting 10.8 volts to the fuel pump, which allayed fears about the ignition system being wet, wiring being worn, or relays broken, or so we figured. We could not hear any fuel pump priming upon ignition startup, but then again, we couldn’t remember if it had actually made noise before. Heh heh, know your bike’s usual noises, right?! We poked and prodded, trying to start the bike after each poke and prod, to check what might’ve worked. Such hope and optimism we had … but no life, no go, no joy was found.
At last, in desperation, we hit upon (that’s a pun and foreshadowing simultaneously, friends) the idea to simply whack the fuel pump with a claw hammer. We’d used all the other tools lying around, but had to this point ignored the silent pleas of the humble hammer. This advanced repair technique may have been done out of desperation, but was not of anger, as we gently tapped every part of the fuel pump we could reach. After this seemingly nonsensical yet cathartic activity, upon the next push of the starter button, the bike came to life. My my, what do you know. Replaying all we’d checked and re-checked, this made little sense, and thus, we will take no further questions from the media at this time, no need for further discussion on our (lack of) expertise or luck or divine guidance or liminal navigation. If I am sure of anything, I am 57% sure that something in, on, or near the fuel pump might’ve been just plain stuck. Or not. I sorta wish we’d done this alongside the road back in Alabama, in addition to the actual sensible things we’d tried, but nah, I remain really happy we rented the truck and were present to see the power of the ratchet straps in action and their subsequent transmogrification to sacredness. You gotta let the redemption process play out in its own time, perhaps. The bike had to be ready to be fixed.
We did the usual next steps in testing THE GREAT FIX, which was to venture deep into the woods with no confidence at all, and the bike kept on running, which it did for three successive trips into even deeper woods. We did leave the tools out, lying around on the garage floor, to keep the fear of God in the bikes — to let them know we were ready for another round if they were. And we remembered to bring along on the bikes those two tools that every motorcycle trip should include in case of trouble — ratchet straps and a claw hammer.
Part 6 - The Conclusions
Thus ends the Tale of Two Two Hundreds, of which one isn’t even close to being a 200, and was, in fact, less reliable than the real TDub, which was a stalwart companion, just like Graham.
By no means do I wish to minimize the importance of Graham, who is the guy who enabled this trip. I have not praised him enough. Where I am the guy who will overly vocalize and bemoan any feeling at any time, he is far more stable and patient a companion than I deserve. Any guy who willingly, even happily, goes along on a road trip with motorcycles NOT intended for road trips has to be pretty amazing. And he’s been on motorcycle trips before, where things have gone right and gone wrong, and so he should know better, yet he came along anyway. He’s my great friend of 40 years, and here’s to hoping for another 40 years, where we can turn more crazy ideas into great adventures together. The helmet headsets let us talk all day, revisit a lot of topics, keep each other alert, and were instrumental in making the trip as great as it was. This was not my adventure, or his, it was OURS.
After riding both bikes around the magical forests, I am leaning toward selling the Beemer, as it simply is too big a bike for the riding I want to do. I am a big fan of the bike and am not holding a grudge against it for breaking, despite my predilection to do exactly that. The BMW is powerful, makes the thumper noises that a thumper should make, and has been built to be the best adventure bike out there. It leans toward off-road use far more than most of the so-called adventure bikes that can’t stay upright on the bumps and gullies of broken down roads and trails. I’m not going to hurry into getting rid of it, as I am reluctant to sell anything quickly to avoid ragrets of any sort, and I love riding it on everything but the really tight trails. Time must be given to tell with certainty.
The New England forest road part of this adventure will go on for a long time. The cross-country road trip portion is over, blessedly. The whole time on the road trip, I couldn’t escape the thought that a small sports car would’ve been immensely more practical and enjoyable. Few say that a Lotus Elise is luxurious, but even that silly car would’ve been a better choice. I may never go on another motorcycle road trip again, but I am glad I did, to see for myself what it’s really about.
Part of the joy of a real road-going motorcycle is the ability to zip up to warp speed telepathically, on any stretch of straight (or curvy) road. The motorcycles I bought are not those motorcycles, so why pretend they are? In my defense, I just wanted to see how they’d be, whether or how we’d survive. Maybe I will try this same (or another) trip on real road cycles and see how that goes, but I also know that a good car is also capable of going nice and fast on the back roads, with less to fear when a flock of deer bound out of the woods.
Speaking of woods, on the first trip we made thru the woods, we saw a couple of teenaged black bears ambling across a logging road ahead of us. They stared at us for awhile, then kept on going. This experience is what I wanted from these bikes — to get easily to these sorts of places where a Harley would not venture, or where it might be too far to roam easily on a bike with pedals.
Yep, this was truly liminal, man. We hung it out there over the virtual abyss with no ropes, and we came back to tell about it. We clung to the edge of the metaphorical crevasse, with nothing more than hopefulness, passports, and credit cards. We turned ideas into memories via the alchemy of true life experience. Along the way, we touched the liminal, the subliminal, and perhaps even the superliminal. Here’s to more adventures in the motorcycle and other mindspaces to come!
I laughed, I cried… What an excellent recount of a trip that became more than they bargained for in many ways, but was a net positive in the end. I heard about the plans a few days in advance and was skeptical but had confidence in these two, having known one since pre-birth (twin brother) and the other since 4th grade? Well played, bravo, good on you, cheers, etc! :)
Man, what a tale. And yes, the hammer often turns out to be the most useful tool in a too box, and should be among the initial go-to implements in nearly all circumstances.