One-Way Adventure

by Doug Gordon

Unlike some other riders, I have rarely had the time available to take really long motorcycle trips. Only once have I taken more than two weeks of vacation at a stretch, so that pretty much precludes a trip from Michigan to California and back, especially given my disdain for traveling “by slab.” A few years ago, then, I was excited to see that everything was coming together professionally and financially so that I could realize an old dream of mine – to travel to the West Coast, buy a bike out there, and ride it back on a one-way trip. I was in the market to exchange my ’83 R100RS for a new R1100RT, and I had half of a frequent flyer round-trip ticket that was close to expiring. My original dream was to travel out by train and return on a motorcycle, but this was close enough!

Talking to my local Detroit dealer, I found that this was no problem at all; I could buy the bike from him, and he would have it delivered for setup at a shop in California. I had already picked out Santa Cruz BMW since it was as close as I could get to the coast itself. I ended up buying a bike in March that I would not pick up until June, so I had three months to plan the trip and for the anticipation to build up. I was really pumped up!

I enjoy doing the pre-planning for trips, so I spent a lot of time poring over maps and reading various tourist guides. One of the best was a book called “Road Trip USA”, which has detailed descriptions of end-to-end trips along some of America’s major U.S. Routes. I would reach my initial service mileage early in the trip, so I made an advance appointment for service at the BMW dealer in Missoula, MT. This tied me to a definite schedule for the first few days, but it was worth it to know that I’d be able to take care of this without delaying my trip. In April, I managed to finagle a business trip to Santa Clara, so I took an afternoon to drive over the mountains to Santa Cruz and introduce myself to Bill at the BMW shop. After this, I felt that the upcoming adventure was no longer a dream and was really about to happen.

Day -1 – Detroit to Santa Cruz

My wife and son drop me off at the airport. I have shipped a big box out to Santa Cruz a couple of weeks earlier, containing my Aerostich suit, helmet, and other bulky riding gear and accessories. I am carrying my clothes and other things in a ratty old suitcase that will be making a one-way trip. As I get older I find it harder and harder to pack light, and have just had to guess at how all this will fit on the bike. It’s mid-June, but since I’m planning on a northerly route back I have packed plenty of cold-weather gear. I just hope that it’s not a waste of space.

On the plane, I’m sitting there catching up on some back issues of MOA News and OTL when the woman next to me asks me if I’m a motorcyclist. I rarely converse with strangers on planes, but when you meet a fellow biker it’s an exception to the rule. It turns out that she is an attorney in Marin County, rides a Honda CB600, and knows all the hot riding spots in Northern California. We end up having a long and pleasant conversation, and she tells me about various places that I should be sure not to miss while I have the chance. She is fascinated by my plans for my trip, and we exchange e-mail addresses so that I can later let her know how it all works out.

My brother picks me up at SFO and takes me down to Santa Cruz. It’s been a while since we’ve seen each other, so we catch up on what’s new in our lives. We drop by Santa Cruz BMW to make sure that everything is “go” to pick up the bike the next day. After a nice dinner, Brian drops me off at my hotel. I unpack my suitcase and tell him that he can have it or dispose of it as he sees fit (I think he kept it). We say goodbye and I am on my own, anticipating delivery on the morrow.

Day 0 – Santa Cruz BMW

I’m an early riser by nature, so with the 3-hour time difference I am wide-awake at about 3:00AM. I do everything I can to kill time – drink coffee, go have breakfast, take a long walk around town – until the shop is open and I can pick up my new bike. Finally, at about 10:00 I call a cab and get a ride to the shop. My new Amarena Red RT is sitting there gleaming in the (hot) California sun while getting a final wash and prep. I pay Bill for the setup charges and some accessories that I bought from him, take a deep breath, and climb aboard.

My plan is to spend the day riding around the area, getting to know the bike, and be able to take it back to the shop if anything is immediately amiss. This is also when I start to get a bit nervous about this entire venture, to the point where I am wondering if it was a good idea. I’ve spent so much time planning this trip (over a year) that I can’t quite wake up to the fact that it’s really happening. I have a sort of “detached” feeling that is hard to shake. I’m also worried about various problems I’ve read about on the mailing lists – oil consumption, break-in techniques, etc. – and start thinking about the long, lonely stretches of road that I will be covering.

Then there’s the issue of starting out on a long trip with a brand new, unknown motorcycle. Trying to familiarize myself with the controls and characteristics of the RT while at the same time keeping an eye on the heavy coastal traffic is a bit nerve-wracking to say the least. I manage to find a rather twisty route up into the hills, and eventually find myself on Skyline Drive. It’s very quiet up here during a mid-week afternoon, and I start to gain confidence in the bike and its characteristics. Still, it’s a long way home while depending on an unfamiliar machine.

That night, I still feel like I’m on Eastern time, so that 10:00 seems like a reasonable bedtime. As I pack my bags, top trunk, and tank bag with the stuff that I’ve brought, I find that I have indeed over packed. I can get everything into the bags, but it is a tight enough fit that it will continue to be an annoyance throughout the trip. Oh well, it’s usually better to have too much than too little.

Even though I should be tired, I’m so keyed up that I have trouble getting to sleep. Then, at about 11:00, people start piling into the room next door for a loud party. I stumble over to where my riding gear is laid out for tomorrow, find my earplugs and insert them, and eventually manage to get to sleep.

Day 1 – Santa Cruz, CA to Fallon, NV

As expected, I’m awake by 4:00AM. Again, my mind is reeling with negative thoughts about the trip that I’m about to embark on. I’m normally about as calm a person as you would want to know – how can I be having such an anxiety attack? Well, the obvious solution is to load up and go, and that is exactly what I do. My bike is parked in a sheltered spot that is just about directly under last night’s party room, and I wish for a moment that I could remove my muffler and depart in a roar of Harley-esque straight pipes. It’s hard to be obnoxious on a BMW, even when it’s justified.

Pulling out of the motel in the dark onto a deserted city street marks the beginning of my long journey home. My path is along Rte. 1, next to the ocean, right up through San Francisco. As I’m going along near Pescadero the fuel warning light comes on. Something wrong there, as I’ve got a full tank of gas. It must be a malfunction, and I get that sinking feeling that comes when you find the first defect on such an expensive purchase. My confidence level goes down a notch, but the light eventually goes off. Strangely, this problem will occur a couple more times on that first day of ownership, then will disappear for good.

5:30AM is a good time to ride through San Francisco. I’ve driven around the city by car a few times, but with the streets fairly deserted it is much more enjoyable on a motorcycle. Right now I’m just following the signs to the Golden Gate Bridge. One of my mental images while planning my trip was an aerial view of a lone rider on a BMW crossing the bridge, heading north (this must have come from countless shots of this type in the movies). As I actually make this crossing for the first and probably only time by motorcycle, I try to picture myself as seen from a hovering helicopter. It works – for the first time I feel that my trip is really underway, and all of my recent concerns just seem to fall away and disappear. Things always look better by the light of day…

Heading easterly I travel along Rte. 12 toward the Sierras, crossing the lush farmland of the San Joaquin Valley. It’s interesting to note that even though I am surrounded by all this vegetation and greenery, I don’t get a single bug-splat on my windscreen during the crossing. A good advertisement for the pesticide industry, I suppose. I stop for a late breakfast somewhere along the way and note that Santa Cruz already seems far behind me.

I proceed up Rte. 88 into the mountains and find myself now among trees and curvy roads. There is traffic on the road, but I am impressed not only by the many pullover lanes along the way, but by the fact that most people ahead of me actually pull over into them and let me pass. I make good time going up into the pass and start to explore the cornering capabilities of the RT a bit more. My next concern is that I’ve calculated that I’ll have over 1200 miles on the bike by the time I reach Missoula, which is well beyond the 600 mile recommendation. So, at a general store near the top of the pass, I find a phone and make a call to the BMW dealer in Reno, which I should reach by early afternoon. He tells me that it will be no problem to get me in for a “quick oil change.”

With this new destination in mind, I descend down the other side of the mountains to the flatlands of Nevada. I proceed through Carson City and on up to Reno, and have no trouble finding the dealership. It’s a good time for a break in the heat of the day, so I kill a couple of hours while their service department changes the oil and filter. The bike is only a day old, but changing the initial oil at the 400-mile mark makes me feel better about the high mileage for the initial break-in service in Missoula.

I always hate to have to look around for a place to stay, especially when travelling by motorcycle, so I’ve reserved most of my lodgings along the early part of the trip. This was possible partly because I knew exactly when I had to be in Missoula, and could guess where my intermediate stops would be. My first night is at a Travelodge in Fallon, and I roll in in the late afternoon after a long initial day in the saddle. They have a pool, and I manage to jump in within about 10 minutes of my arrival. There’s a Gold Wing Aspencade parked in front of another room, and I meet a gentleman from San Diego who is taking his 10-year-old grandson on a long loop up along the California coast, into Nevada, and then back down to Southern Cal. He admires the RT and we talk bikes and riding for a while.

Day 2 – Fallon, NV to Ely, NV

Now I’m getting into the “travel zone,” and I wake up anxious to hit the road and see some of the sights along US-50, a.k.a. the “Loneliest Road in America.” I’m getting ready to leave at about the same time as grandpa next door, and he actually laughs at me as he sees me donning my Roadcrafter suit. His riding attire is more like an open-face helmet, jeans, and t-shirt. He has a point about my wearing such a heavy suit in this heat, but it’s not as if I have a choice at this point because I have nowhere to stash it if I wanted to. Besides, this is as far north as he has ever gone, but it’s about as far south as I’ll be for the rest of the trip. Like I said earlier, I’m definitely more prepared to face the cold than the heat.

Taking my cues from the “Road Trip USA” book, there are a number of interesting sights and stops along US-50. One of my first is near Sand Mountain where there are ancient designs carved on stones that used to be at the edge of an old inland sea. Driving across this country you are actually driving along an old ocean floor, and it is easy to tell this once you know what to look for. You can even look at the surrounding rock formations and tell where the old shorelines used to be. While stopped there, I also have the chance to make an observation about the traffic on the “Loneliest Road.” It actually is very steady, but the cars are spaced a mile or two apart. You might feel like you are alone on the road, but if you stopped someone else would come by within a few minutes.

I’ve always had an interest in paleontology, so my next side-trip is to “Ichthyosaur State Park” – about a 50-mile detour south of US-50. There is a town shown on the map where I am planning on stopping for gas before reaching the park. State route 361 is a very nice, smooth, straight road. In the 30 miles from US-50 to Gabbs I never see another vehicle on the road going in either direction. When I reach Gabbs my hopes for a fill-up diminish as the town appears to be mostly a collection of mobile homes baking in the sun alongside the highway. On the side of a hill southeast of the town I can see some sort of mining operation – the town’s reason for existence obviously – with a large dust cloud over it. There is a gas station in town, and fortunately just as I pull in a man comes over and unlocks the pumps. He explains that they are usually only open for a few hours each day, but that since he happens to be there it is no problem to fill up. I look around and try to imagine what it would be like to live in a place like this, but come up with a blank.

When I reach the State Park, I realize just how hot, dusty, and desolate this area is. People are camped here, but I can’t understand the attraction. In Michigan, our campgrounds are known for their woods, streams, lakes, and wildlife. Here there is nothing but sand, scrub brush, and no shade. There are a couple of trailers where the park staff lives, and I notice from the toys and playsets that some of them have children living with them. Again I try to imagine raising a family in a place like this, and realize how different our life experiences can be from one another. In any case, the tour of the excavation site is very interesting, with the exposed fossils of hundreds of these extinct fish-like reptiles very visible.

I hate backtracking on a trip for any reason, so I check my map for an alternate route back up to US-50. There is one that is shown as unpaved, but the ranger assures me that it is in very good condition. Due to the scale of the map, what appears to be a fairly short distance turns out to be about 40 miles of gravel road. I’m a former dirt-biker, so riding in the loose stuff doesn’t concern me too much. The RT does well and I find myself eventually cruising at 50 or so, passing by ranches and through Indian reservation territory. A couple of times the road curves a bit, the gravel is deep, and there are some squirrelly moments of panic, but I finally make it back to US-50 with an intact but very dirty bike.

The next town along the way is Austin, and I stop to find a place for lunch. I come up with a real gem. What appears to be just a small-town eatery is furnished inside with various antiques and curios. The tables have linen tablecloths with flower vases on them. I am the only customer in there the whole time, but I have a very pleasant lunch while being able to watch the “traffic” passing along the “main highway” through the town.

The rest of the day’s ride from Austin to Ely is fairly uneventful. The one exception is when I come up on a short line of cars waiting for a flagman at a construction zone near Ely. I get off the bike and walk up to see how long the holdup will be. When I turn back, I remember why you should never park a fully loaded bike on its sidestand on very fresh blacktop on a hot day! The bike is about at the maximum possible lean angle before falling over, with the stand sunk about 3 inches into the surface. I muscle it upright, pulling out a huge divot of blacktop, just as the flagman gives us the go-ahead.

Arriving in Ely, I find my motel, then find a car wash to carefully spray the dust and road grime off the bike. After dinner I explore some of the sights in the area, including a cross-section from an old bristlecone pine tree. Actually, the park service didn’t know just how old until after they had cut it down. The tree rings then showed them that it had been over 4900 years old, making it possibly the oldest living thing on the surface of the earth!

Day 3 – Ely, NV to Twin Falls, ID

Ely is at the junction of major U.S. routes 50 and 93, and I now turn north on 93 to head for Idaho and Montana. This day’s riding is uneventful, but at least the roads are empty. I am struck by how much the country changes right at Nevada’s state borders. Early in the day, I take a side-route along Alt. 93 from where I can see the edge of Utah’s great salt desert to the east. It’s interesting in a bleak sort of way, but I’m glad that I’m not headed in that direction. Later, when I cross the border into Idaho, things almost immediately look more habitable to my Midwestern eyes (that is, there is some greenery showing through).

This is a really short day, as I arrive at my destination in Twin Falls early in the afternoon. I’ve greatly underestimated my ability to cover the miles on the RT, but there’s no sense in getting to Missoula ahead of my service appointment. Besides, I can always fill up the time with side trips, as I may never get back this way.

Just north of my hotel is the Snake River Canyon, best known in motorcycling lore as the site of Evel Knievel’s famous jump fiasco. The canyon takes you by surprise, as you can hardly tell that it’s there until you are right up to it. A guide points out that you can look along the canyon rim and still see the mound of dirt that was used for Knievel’s ramp. At another point along the canyon, there is an impressive waterfall. With the heavy Spring rains this year the river is unusually full, and the bike and I get a bit of a bath from the mist that rises up from the falls.

I’m really into trip mode now, looking forward to heading north into the mountains on the morrow.

Day 4 – Twin Falls, ID to Salmon, ID

As usual, I’m on the road very early and it’s the coolest that it has been so far. In fact, I’m getting quite chilled with just a t-shirt under the Roadcrafter. I finally decide that it’s ridiculous to be cold when I’m overpacked with cold-weather gear, so I pull off to put on another layer. In the distance ahead I can just start to see the peaks of the aptly-named Sawtooth Mountains, where I hope to be riding in another hour or two.

First, though, I arrive in the town of Ketchum. From the time that I see what is parked at the local airfield, I can begin to smell the money that permeates this Sun Valley town. I take a small loop through the downtown area, which is filled with designer-name boutiques, art dealers, and trendy-looking sidewalk cafes. However, it is north of town at the cemetery that I make my stop. A couple of elk are grazing on the other side of the fence while I search for a specific gravesite. Hemingway’s grave is not easy to find, as it is a flat slab that is flush with the ground, and there are no signs posted. With the help of some locals who happen to be there, I finally find it. The slab and surrounding ground are littered with weathered coins. After paying my respects, I succumb to tradition and toss a few pennies on Papa’s grave before remounting and riding on.

I branch off of US-93 onto Rte. 75, which is the old route that goes through the mountains. I start ascending along a series of nice looping curves – the first such roads since I cleared the Sierras in California. I’m much more used to the RT’s handling now, and I really start getting into the flow. Near the top of the ridge, I pick up the Salmon River – a very fast-flowing course that I will follow the rest of this day. After descending along the route going back towards the main highway, I stop at the Sunbeam Resort for lunch. The place was listed in “Road Trip USA” and I had considered staying overnight here at one time, but it looks a bit more run-down than the description in the book. In any case, the location is superb and I have a leisurely lunch out on a deck that overlooks the river. This will be one of those scenes that sticks permanently in my memory, as I sit in the shade reading a Patrick O’Brian book, sipping a hand-made malt, and watching canoeists and kayakers putting out into the rapid river below.

The finish of a perfect riding day is at a small motel a couple blocks off the main street of Salmon, Idaho. It’s a traditional old-fashioned tourist motel, but they have a newly remodeled laundromat facility that I gladly make use of. It reminds me of places where my family used to stop on our summer vacation drives down to the Smoky Mountains when I was a kid. Later I have a good meal at the “best restaurant in town” for less then $10 and take a walking tour of the highlights of Salmon.

Day 5 – Salmon, ID to Missoula, MT

I’ve become acclimated to the time change, so I get a bit later of a start today. Heading up US-93, I now take a good look at the signs announcing the construction zone that is ahead. The heavy Spring rains completely washed out a section of the road going up to Lost Trail Pass and it is a major reconstruction effort. In fact, the sign indicates that the road is only open for passage every two hours during the day! I look at the clock and see that I can probably just make it there in time for the 10:00 passage; otherwise, I’ll have a two-hour wait ahead of me.

I make it to the end of the line just about 10 minutes before it’s scheduled to open. Miraculously, the flagwoman comes over and tells me that motorcycles can go to the front of the line. This is great, since I wasn’t looking forward to eating the dust (or mud) of everyone ahead of me. I ride in the deserted left lane past a very long line of campers, trailers, vans, and other mostly tourist-occupied vehicles. I get more than a few surly looks, as some of these people have been sitting here for the last two hours or so. At the very front of the line I find that I’m the only motorcycle, so I slip in just behind the escort truck and get off for a short break.

I’ve barely taken my helmet off when the flagman signals me that it’s time to go, so I saddle up and follow the slow-moving truck up the road toward the top of the pass. I’m even gladder to be at the front, as the road is stripped down to dirt at many points, with a lot of loose gravel, mud, and ruts. Being where I am, I can see the road clearly and don’t have any problems negotiating my way through the zone.

I’ve recently read Steven Ambrose’s “Undaunted Courage,” about the Lewis & Clark expedition. I had hoped to stop and look at the sights and historic markers at the top of this pass, but when I see that we are at the end of the construction zone another thought hits me. This is a rare opportunity. I am at the front of a long line of slower vehicles, and nobody has been on the road ahead of me for almost two hours. It is a long and curvy downhill route, in a state with no posted speed limits. There’s no choice but to go for it! As the escort truck pulls over just before the state line, I wick it up and proceed to blast down the empty highway that lies ahead. This is another of those memorable moments on the trip, as I leave whoever is in second place a long way behind…

Missoula is the largest city that I’m planning on passing through between Reno and Detroit, and it appears to be just about a perfect size. Having the university in town adds to the atmosphere, and ensures that there will be a lot of small restaurants and bars in the downtown area. As usual I’m at my hotel early, but there are enough things to do in the area to keep me busy, including a tour of the nearby “Smokejumpers” base.

Day 6 – Missoula, MT

It’s raining lightly when I leave my motel to ride to the BMW dealer. Then, in my haste to get there before the weather gets worse, the rear wheel appears to lock up as I’m trying to back the bike out of its parking spot. Without thinking, I roll the bike forward and then hard backwards a couple of times, trying to figure out what could be happening. As the fog clears from my brain I realize what is going on. Being parked “in a city”, I had wrapped my cable lock around the swingarm and rear wheel the night before. Of course, it’s now pretty much stretched tight and twisted up, so it takes me a few minutes to extract before I can continue on.

I drop the bike at the dealer and then take a long walk to a historic site and a couple of other places that I can kill time, as it will take most of the day before it’s done. When I return in mid-afternoon, he’s just finishing up. He calls me over and explains that there is a problem with the rear brake disc runout. It appears that the disc carrier is slightly warped or bent, and it is keeping the brake from functioning correctly. Remembering back to the morning’s adventure with the cable lock, I have no doubt how it happened, but I don’t really want to explain it. I ask what my options are. The tech says that they would have to order a part, but it would take a couple of days; or, I could just try not to use the rear brake if possible and have it looked at when I get home. I take the second option, pay them for their excellent service, and spend another night hanging out in Missoula.

Day 7 – Missoula, MT to Williston, ND

Today marks the end of the pre-planned portion of my trip; from now on I can make as many or as few miles as I want to. As I pull out onto wet roads early in the morning, it looks like the rain itself has finally moved out and there will be clear weather ahead. The temperature has dipped into the high 30’s, so my packing has finally paid off and I am thankful for the Widder vest in addition to the heated grips and adjustable windshield. Crossing the Continental Divide a short while later, I encounter the first of a number of bicycle tourists. This is something that always amazes me. It seems like every time I get to thinking that I’m doing something “adventurous” by being out in the middle of nowhere on a motorcycle, I encounter some guy on a bike who is doing the same thing by leg power alone, and with about a fourth as much packing space. I’m cruising in luxury by comparison.

After stopping along the Missouri River for a look at another Lewis & Clark monument, my route has me heading northeasterly toward my eventual path across the northern plains. The true meaning of “Big Sky Country” becomes apparent as I crank up my speed along the smooth, gently rolling highway. You feel safe at almost any speed here because you can see for miles in every direction and there’s nothing that can take you by surprise along the roadway.

At Havre I finally intersect with US-2, the “Great Northern Highway” that will be my primary route from here all the way to the Mackinaw Bridge. This road is more heavily traveled than the one that I have just been on, and is much more monotonous in character. Someone has put small crosses beside the highway to mark the occurrence of fatal accidents. From their locations, it seems obvious that the main cause for these accidents must be falling asleep at the wheel, and even I become a bit drowsy from time to time and take more rest stops than usual.

The seat on the RT is also becoming uncomfortable. I had known from various mailing lists that the stock seat was not very popular, and I have also had custom seats on my last two BMWs. I considered getting a new seat right from the start – perhaps even riding right to the Corbin factory which was not that far from Santa Cruz – but it seemed silly to scrap the stock seat on an expensive bike without even trying it out first. Now I wish that I had made that move. This will be my first 500+ mile day, and I can already feel that the seat will be the limiting factor.

This route was established almost entirely by the Great Northern Railway in the late 1800’s. Towns were located mainly to serve the fueling and watering needs of the trains, and were given arbitrary names that were often intended to attract recent immigrants to populate them. You can see each town well before you get there because the large grain silos located along the tracks mark each one. Another amusement of the ride is to catch up and pass the trains that are encountered frequently along the way, moving steadily along at about 50 or so.

At some of my stops, I ask the locals about whether there are motels in such-and-such a town up ahead. A couple of times they answer affirmatively, but then add in a knowing way “you realize that that town is inside the reservation, don’t you?” Well, the route does pass through territory that is within the bounds of various Indian reservations, but I’m not sure what they’re implying here. This is outside my experience. Should I be concerned? Is it dangerous to get a room and a meal in reservation country? At any rate it’s a moot point since I make better time than expected, cross into North Dakota, and finally stop at a Super 8 in Williston.

Day 8 – Williston, ND to Lake Itasca, MN

At breakfast the next morning, I meet a married couple who again makes me feel like a total wimp. They are alone on a tandem bicycle, traveling from Baltimore to their home in Seattle! They started in early May, rode down to Tennessee to visit friends, from there pedaled due north all the way through Michigan and across the bridge, then turned west to follow US-2 out to Washington. Not only is this a major distance for any bicyclist, but they are doing it in the reverse direction from most; since the prevailing winds are from west to east, most cyclists travel in that direction to keep the wind at their backs. I marvel not only at their fitness and determination, but also at any relationship that could survive four months on a tandem bike with about two cubic feet of packing space!

US-2 is a four-lane divided highway from here all the way across the state, and it is incredibly boring to ride. Somehow, the road across the plains in Montana was a lot more interesting and kept me much more alert. I read an article somewhere about how these northern plains states, and especially North Dakota, are becoming more and more depopulated as the young people move out and the small towns literally die. Minot seems to be an active place, but other than that there is not much moving in any of the towns that I pass by. I stop in Rugby at the marker that claims to be at the exact geographic center of North America; this is about the only point of interest for the day.

Approaching Grand Forks at the east side of the state, I have an interesting encounter with a military convoy that is moving along in the right lane. I can see it well in advance, as there is a helicopter that appears to be “sweeping” the road from above and ahead of the convoy. The first things that I pass at the back of the convoy are standard SUV-type vehicles that are marked with some sort of federal agency emblem, each carrying a group of four burly, no-neck, no-nonsense looking guys in white shirts. Getting closer to the center, there are a couple of serious-looking armored cars – the kind with slits for windows and machine guns mounted on top. The vehicle actually at the center is a medium-sized truck that has a very special-looking box on the back; it’s the kind of container that looks like it’s made to contain something small but very dangerous. With all this security, I have the definite feeling that by the time I reached the center of the convoy, someone there already knew my name, address, height, weight, and place of employment! These guys are definitely not out for a joy ride. In any case, I clear the convoy and proceed on ahead without drawing any fire…

In Grand Forks, I take a ride into the downtown area to see the remnants of the recent flooding of the Red River [remember: this trip was in 1997]. The devastation is amazing, but also amazing is the progress that has already been made in rebuilding things. At least one of the main city government buildings even looks like it is open for business. Across the river on the Minnesota side, it looks like a much poorer area, and the lack of cleanup shows. Entire blocks of houses near the river banks are completely deserted, and the entire area looks lifeless.

Proceeding farther into Minnesota, I start to feel like I am “coming home” again. Even though I have not been on the road that long, I have barely seen a stand of trees, let alone a forest, since I came down from the mountains in California. For this Michigan boy, that’s like a sailor being away from the sea too long. As the smell of the pine forest reaches me, the strange emptiness of the Great Plains falls away and I am once again on familiar ground. I stop at a visitor’s center to see if I can find a place to stay the night, since there seems to be a distinct lack of motels in the area. Since it’s mid-week, I manage to luck out and reserve a room at a state-run motel in Lake Itasca State Park, the headwaters of the Mississippi. It’s been a long and rather tiring day, so I head there as quickly as I can.

The park and accommodations turn out to be a real gem, and one of my most memorable stops. The “motel” is just one step above a rustic cabin. There’s no TV or air conditioning, but it’s unlikely that I’ll miss either. Even on a hot day like this, the air under the pines is cool, moist, and fragrant. Near the motel building is a lodge overlooking the lake that has rooms and a nice sitting area. It also has a very nice screened-in dining room, and my dinner is one of the best of the trip – the food as well as the surroundings.

After dinner I take a leisurely ride along the park roads, ending up at the headwaters area. Even though I’m alone, I do the traditional “walk across the Mississippi” at the point where the stream flows out of the lake. Back at the lodge, I talk with a couple that has ridden in on a Gold Wing, and spend the rest of the evening reading quietly, absorbing the ambience of the lodge’s lounge area.

Day 9 – Lake Itasca, MN to Marquette, MI

The gas stations are a bit sparse in this rural part of the state, so I’m getting to the nervous point by the time I finally stop as I approach Duluth. There’s some sort of Harley-oriented bike event going on in town, and I spend some time talking to one of the riders while I’m filling up. He has never seen this model BMW before and is amazed at the various features that I point out. He’s standing on the right side of the bike as I finish and push the RT forward off of the centerstand. This is very lucky, as I have left the sidestand down and the bike comes off the centerstand in such a way that it hits hard on the sidestand and rebounds away from me to the right, almost jerking the bars out of my hands. Fortunately, the H-D guy is a big dude with quick reflexes, and he catches the bike just as the right valve cover kisses the tarmac. A minor scrape, but no expensive-type damage (other than to my ego).

This is my third time on a motorcycle passing through Duluth, and all I can say is that it has been hotter than hell every time! Plus, this is probably the largest city I’ve been through since Reno, and it doesn’t take long before the heat and traffic really get on my nerves. I had originally planned to make a stop at Rider Wearhouse, wherever it might be, but I’m now too hot and cranky to be much interested. So, I take the shortest route to get around the city and pass across the bridge into Wisconsin.

This pretty much marks the point where I am once again riding on roads that I have been on before, so there is little reason for making stops or side trips (and not much to stop for anyway). The population density is definitely up, both with locals and tourists, and it makes for crowded roads that demand all my attention. I have to make at least one more overnight stop between here and home, and decide to stop in Marquette instead of pushing on to a farther destination. Besides, I am looking forward to a good Upper Peninsula pasty for dinner, and that should be a good place to find one.

I have been through Marquette numerous times, but have always blown through on the main highway without paying much attention to the old downtown itself. Now, after checking into a motel and washing a few days’ worth of bugs and dirt off the bike, I find myself fruitlessly searching for a restaurant that serves pasties. How can this be? Looking through the yellow pages, there aren’t really that many decent-sounding restaurants in town, and the only pasties listed are carryout places. Sure, this isn’t the Keeweenau, but it’s still in the U.P.! I end up eating at a Mexican restaurant in the old town, which is a bizarre ending to a rather strange day. At least the food is good.

Day 10 – Marquette, MI to Rochester Hills, MI

Well, this is it. A bit less than 500 miles today and I’ll be home. I get the usual early start, mainly to get some miles in before it starts to heat up. If I had a convenient place to stash the Aerostich, I would probably at least take off the lower half. In 90+ weather it gets hot in the suit even though I’m just wearing shorts and a T-shirt underneath.

I pass through Munising and then on M-28 to Seney -- the longest straight stretch of road in Michigan. When I finally stop in St. Ignace, just north of the bridge, things are really jumping. There are people with lawn chairs and coolers lining the road, and there’s a lot of partying going on. It turns out that this is the weekend of the annual hot-rod car event, and the place is packed with cruisers and spectators. I’m really glad now that I didn’t press to get this far the day before, as there’s no chance that I would have found a room within 50 miles.

This is about the only Interstate Highway portion of my trip, as I head across Big Mac to the Lower Peninsula. Now I’m really back in my home territory, but I quell the impulse to just blitz down I-75, and instead get off immediately in Mackinaw City to take my usual two-lane route to my final destination. This goes by quickly, considering the weekend tourist and camper traffic, as well as a few construction zones.

I make it home by mid-afternoon, with stops only for gas and snacks. Now that I’m here, I find it hard to believe that I’ve done it and that the adventure is really over. My wife comes out and snaps a couple of “finish line” photos before I even get unsuited. The wandering motorcycle nomad has returned to hearth and home!