War Pig

                "High on a mountain in western Montana
                A silhouette moves 'cross a cinnamon sky
                Riding alone on a horse he called Music
                With a song on his lips, and a tear in his eye"

                          From “A Horse Called Music” by Wayne Carson


My Honda ST1300 was a great bike on which to learn.  In spite of it sounding like George Jeston’s aerocar it was utterly reliable, capable of hauling a load and its V4 engine was smooth and powerful.   All of this made the ST a good touring bike and, at the time, just what I needed.  It allowed a full blown case of motorcycle touring fever to set in.  But even though I was happy with the ST, there were issues festering.  Like a man married to a plain woman; if she’s all you know, then she’s all you want.  Truth be told,  I knew the ST was plain and eventually I strayed. 


Out of the blue, KC called and asked if I’d ride his 2006 BMW1200GS back to his home from his son’s, crossing a good part of north Georgia in the process.  

“Is this a trick question?”,  I asked.


I rode the GS across the southern end of the Appalachian mountains and at the end of the afternoon, I had a full blown epiphany.  I’m talking angels with trumpets, blinding shafts of light and thundering God voices.    The GS had OK power (actually the Boxer engine is an acquired taste), but Mama Mia, what handling! Controllable, predictable and stable cornering.  Oh my God.

Days later, I sold the ST and bought KC’s GS.

On the GS I felt in control and confident in the turns. It felt athletic in the mountains; turns went from terrifying to terrific.    The GS was lighter than the ST but it could carry a bigger load of camping gear without looking like the Beverly Hillbillies.  I could run down a rutted fire road with confidence, handle a water crossing without blinking and still pass semi’s on the interstate in the driving rain.  The GS went places the ST would NEVER have gone.   It was a case of man-bike love at first sight.

The cliche is that the bike becomes an extension of your body and does what your mind wants without you having to think about it.  Well, just because its a cliche doesn’t mean its not true.  The GS and I bonded and in the bargain I became more confident and, importantly, safer on the mountain roads.   It was much easier to stay off the “goddamn center line”.

KC began to see the GS as “the” bike to have for the riding that we were doing.  After a brief affair with a BMW K1600 and its Porsche Turbo acceleration, he located a 2012 Triple Black 1200GS with 7 miles on the odometer that a doctor in Tennessee was selling because his feet didn’t reach the ground.  That’s the problem with a GS...if you’re not a six-footer you’re going to have to be creative with gettin’ on and gettin’ off.  The bike had been farkled with something of a heavy hand;  the skid plate looked like it had been designed to defend against IED’s in Fallujah.  We began referring to the Triple Black as “War Pig”.

When the 2013 water cooled 1200GSW’s debuted, riders gushed.   Reviewers declared it to be “Best GS ever”,  “Best BMW ever”, “Greatest bike ever” and  promised it would “Make you forget all about your Hexhead or Camhead”.  Though he loved War Pig, KC ended up with a gorgeous new 1200GSW in white.  With every imaginable feature and farkle...it was fast, sleek and beautiful.   He said, “I’ve owned a couple hundred motorcycles in my life and this is the best bike I’ve ever had”.  From a guy who could ride any bike on the planet, that was a mouthful. 

But, do the math people...it put two GS’s in KC’s barn and War Pig began developing cobwebs.  Had it been on a chessboard, War Pig would have been the King sitting alone in the middle.   Had it been sitting at a bar at midnight, War Pig would have been by herself wearing red lipstick and high heels.  Had been in a river, War Pig would have been a big trout sticking it’s snout through the surface sipping mayflies.

Anyone could see, War Pig was in play.

I began dropping subtle comments to KC about War Pig’s future which eventually revealed that he was done with War Pig and that it was, to my great delight, available.   While I loved my ’06 GS, I lusted for a newer bike with more power, lower miles and a taste of the OEM warranty.    War Pig fit the bill and KC made the price right.  Within a week the ’06 was sold and War Pig was sitting in my shop getting a farkle make over.   I am pleased to announce that War Pig is now tour ready. 

I’ve ridden War Pig a couple thousand miles now and with each ride I learn a bit more about what it can do.  I believe that if I am sensible and do what KC has taught me, War Pig can be trusted.  I can ask for no more than that.

KC

    “Oh”, says Red Molly to James, "That's a fine motorbike
    A girl could feel special on any such like"
    Says James to Red Molly, "My hat's off to you
    It's a Vincent Black Lightning, 1952"

        -From “Vincent Black Lightning” by Richard Thompson

Allow me to introduce KC.

While first and foremost a devoted husband, father, son, uncle, brother-in-law and father -in-law,  KC is a successful business owner, stunt pilot and expert motorcycle and car racer with 37 broken bones, now healed, to show for it.  He's won races at The Daytona International Speedway on both two wheels and four.  Incredibly well read, he is possessed of a photographic memory, can tell you the route numbers on every damn road in the southeast and has NEVER lost at Trivial Pursuits.  He owns a fabulous motorcycle collection (though he claims IT owns him) that includes a pristine Vincent Black Shadow that he acquired from legendary Vincent tuner “Big Sid” Biberman.  KC is a burly Scot who’s no stranger to a bar room brawl, though those days are (thankfully) behind him.   He is generous to a fault but suffers no fools.  He is powerfully smart;  his ethics are beyond reproach.  When it all turns to shit, you want KC on your side.


He is as good a friend as I have ever had and I am delighted that he’s agreed to partner with me on Tour the Rockies.   A lot of this Vision is KC’s and you can expect to hear from him a good bit as this project unfolds.

Here’s the back story on me and KC.

Following my “discovery” in Livingston I began thinking about the experience I was after.  I understood that it was going to require a proper road bike, one that was big enough and powerful enough to haul me and some gear through the mountains.   A road bike that could perform reliably and handle well under difficult conditions. 

Question was...what bike would fit that bill?  I was completely uninformed.

At the time, KC and I were barely acquainted but I knew he could guide me to a starter bike.  He agreed to help, flatly rejecting the first bike I suggested.  But after learning that I had some dirt bike experience, most recently aboard an XR400 through single track trails in the north Georgia woods, he agreed that a Honda ST1300 might work.  So I bought one, took the MSF training class and got my “M” endorsement.  I was legal, but nothing more.

KC offered to accompany me on my first ride and pulled into my driveway on a late model BMW 1200RT wearing a faded Aerostich Roadcrafter suit.  The ride was massively effective at showing both of us how much I had to learn about riding a motorcycle on our twisty north Georgia mountain roads.  On subsequent rides, KC would periodically pull over, draw me close to his helmet and then read me the riot act.  Nothing subtle, but rather, a loud and in my face, “IF YOU DON”T GET OFF THE GODDAMN CENTERLINE IN THESE TURNS YOU”RE GONNA GET KILLED”.   When he’s right, he’s right.









It was equally clear, even to me, how skilled this man was on a motorcycle (try racing a motorcycle at Road Atlanta or Daytona Speedway with no skills).   He would frequently disappear off the front and 10 minutes later I’d see him pulled over, waiting for me.  He rode through the mountain roads without flash, knee dragging or close calls.  Never seeking attention, always smooth, always under control, always safe.  As fast as he wanted to be.

While riding behind him, I studied his cornering technique and followed his line, trying to imitate his braking and acceleration.  Sometimes I’d get close, but mostly he did it way better.  We began riding together regularly and, after four years, I still learn from him on every ride.  KC is my sensei...wipe on, wipe off.


In addition to countless day rides in the Blue Ridge Mountains, we’ve done a number of bike trips together including The Moonshine Lunch Run, the New River Gorge, Bike Week at Daytona and an epic trip (including Lucy and Ethel...more about them later) to Moab, UT. 

KC and I began as riding buddies but our friendship has grown way beyond motorcycles and curvy roads.  I’ve done long motorcycle trips alone, but without KC along I doubt I’d be doing this trip.  

Shakedown in the Smokies

                "There's a hole in this mountain it's dark and it's deep
                 And God only knows all the secrets that it keeps"

                         -from "The Mountain" by Levon Helm


Last week I decided to disregard my better judgement and do a ride with KC in the southern Smoky Mountains.   I say it was against my better judgement because it was pretty warm and I really hate wearing all the gear (full Aerostich pants, jacket, leather gloves and a full coverage helmet) in weather that is hot and humid.  Still, it was an excellent opportunity to stage a shakedown for our September ride and see how my GS, the Adventure panniers and my packing system would do over a multi-day tour.  Long story short, it did fine.  It was also a test for how I'd hold up with several consecutive days riding on some varied and challenging routes.  I survived just fine.


Our first day's route took us from home in northeast Georgia to Ellijay then through a brief downpour in Chattanooga (we were here so KC could check out a BMW dealership), then north up Hwy 58 towards Knoxville and then south on I-40 through the incredibly scenic Pigeon River Gorge and into Maggie Valley, NC....a total of about 375 miles, which is definitely on the high side for me.  Maggie Valley lies smack in the heart of some of the best riding in the Blue Ridge Mountains.  We stayed at the Smoky Falls Lodge in Maggie Valley...covered motorcycle parking, nice clean room, good wifi, good A/C and quiet....in short, everything a touring motorcyclist needs.  Dinner (fresh bread, bottles of cold water, Grey Goose for KC, fried calamari, veal marsala, spaghetti with marinara and key lime pie...slurp!) was at an absurdly good Italian restaurant...Frankie's Italian Trattoria...and the best waitress I've ever had. This is THE spot in Maggie Valley.

While at the Smoky Falls Lodge I met two guys that were also motorcycle touring.  One guy was on a 1992 Goldwing with 155,000 miles.  He traveled alone and his route was New Jersey to Georgia to San Diego, up the west coast to northern Montana and then home!  This was the extent of his "plan".  He was in his 60's and he inspired me to go long!   The second guy, traveling alone on a Harley, was 5 years from retirement and lived in Ohio.  He was scouting retirement locales and was focused on Maggie Valley...smart move.  It reinforced what a popular destination these southern Appalachian Mountains are.

The next morning was sunny with temps in the low 50's...just about perfect!  KC and I headed up Hwy 19 towards Ashville, turning south on Hwy 151.  As soon as we turned onto Hwy 151 we spotted two hot air balloons and were able get close to the area where they were landing.  Beautiful sights.  Out came my new Fuji XT-1 and I was able to get close enough for the 18-135mm lens to do it's thing.

After chasing the balloons we headed up onto the Blue Ridge Parkway and rode it for a hour or so, until a gaggle of Harley riders got the best of us (ten of them, all riding 10MPH UNDER the freaking speed limit) and we dropped off the Parkway onto Hwy 74 near Balsam. 

The scenery on the BRP was great and we were treated to lots of very typical "smoky" views and could easily see 10-15 ridge lines very clearly separated by the haze.

Once off the Parkway we wandered west into Cherokee and stopped briefly at an abandoned motel named The Warrior Motel

where KC recalled having spent a childhood vacation.  It appeared to have recently served as a location for a yard sale and I guess that's what Marilyn was here for.

We continued west and eventually ended up at the Fontana Dam and spent an hour soaking up the A/C in the visitor center.

We spent that night at the Iron Horse Campground in Stecoah, NC and rode into Bryson City for dinner at the Bryson City Cork and Bean.  Neither met my expectations...dinner was so-so and my $120 room had no wifi, no table, no chair and no TV.  In addition to this, KC's room had no AC.  But the campground's owners are very, very nice people and they are trying hard...I'll give it another try.  KC tells me it rained last night, but I was out cold and missed it.

The next morning we decided to start early and head for home.  After a decent breakfast at the Iron Horse Campground, our route took us down Hwy 28 to Franklin....a popular and scenic route that features lots of tight twisties and Little Tennessee River views.  It is an excellent place to remember to stay "OFF THE GODDAMN CENTERLINE".  Once in Franklin we took 441 south and I was home by 10:30.

Once home I replaced my burned out low beam and topped off the oil with a half quart.  I think I am ready for the Rockies!

This Time Will Be Different

                              In a big country, dreams stay with you
                              Like a lover's voice fires the mountainside
                             Stay alive.

                                   - from the song “Big Country”


When I was a younger man, though certainly not a young man, I took hold of a dream that had  formed thirty years earlier, when I first became a "serious cyclist".  That dream was to some day ride a bicycle across the US.  Now, you know that the term “serious cyclist” isn’t a formal thing...its just how I came to see myself.  Not a Category 1 Road Racer, not a Round-the-World-including-Mongolia Touring Cyclist, not a Randoneur Loving Long Distance Freak. 

But in spite of having a life that was bordered by reality (as in real job, real wife, real kids), I was ambitious enough to do an occasional 100 mile century ride, to ride a bike around Lake Tahoe or Canandaigua Lake or to spend a few days camping from a bicycle in Letchworth Park or along the Natchez Trace.  Traveling long distances over the road and being self sufficient on a bicycle captured my imagination and I dreamed of doing more.

Riding a bicycle across the US is something that many serious cyclists dream about.  It is something of a rite of passage and it adds a degree of gravitas to one’s cycling curriculum vitae.   With this accomplishment, you are "bonafide" and may claim street cred among other cyclists, next door neighbors and those in line next to you at the DMV. 

It might go like this.

Someone says, “That’s Bob.  He rode his bike across the US”.

The other responds, “Uh-huh.”


See what I mean?  Its a pretty big deal. 

In my dreams a proper cross country bicycle tour crosses dozens of summits in the biggest mountain ranges, a Great Lake on a ferry, the high deserts and great prairies, the Columbia, Missouri, Mississippi and Niagara rivers and countless small trout streams.  The route includes two lane roads, interstate highways and old railroad beds,  goes past hog farms, dairies and turkey farms for days on end, passes through a couple big cities and a hundred small towns each with a pretty white church and a downtown that long ago surrendered to the big box store’s everyday low, low prices.

It takes you through a forest fire and a thunderstorm, lets you meet a retired clown and eat ice cream every day while getting into the best shape of your life at age 57.  You feel me?

For years this dream lay dormant, but in 2006, for reasons that will not be revealed here, it surfaced and demanded to be implemented.   After a year of training, in the summer of 2007 I set off on a bicycle ride across the US and rode 3200 miles from the Oregon coast to my childhood home in upstate New York.  For 44 days I saw, felt, heard and smelled our big country in an intimate way; such is the nature of bicycle touring. 

While a plane, train or automobile isolates you from the country, a bicycle immerses you IN the country.  It charges your senses and lets you to savor the details.  My ride across America was a long, slow, delicious experience-of-a-lifetime that I reflect on almost every day.

“So what?”, you ask. 

Well, here’s the so what. 

There’s an excellent chance that during Tour the Rockies I will ride my motorcycle on some of the same roads I bicycled in 2007.  The opportunity may present itself on our way back to Denver beginning in Jackson, WY (where I overnighted in 2007).  The two days I spent riding from Idaho Falls through Victor and over Teton Pass into Jackson and then along side the Snake River and the Grand Tetons over Togwotee Pass to Riverton was the most challenging I faced all the way across the US.   Long difficult climbs, monstrous descents and long hot days....it was a stern test for this rider.  You pay a price when you ride a bicycle across the Rocky Mountains and in 2007 I took a beating when I came over these passes.  

This time it will be different. 

I Could Get Into That

                    To everything - turn, turn, turn
                    There is a season - turn, turn, turn
                   And a time to every purpose under heaven

                                   -From “Turn, Turn, Turn” by Peter Seeger

There are lots of reasons for my late-in-life affair with one wheel drive vehicles (motorcycles, that is).  I love the mental state it takes for me to approach perfect situational awareness, the exhilaration of accelerating from a dead stop through six gears, feeling the power of an engine that’s linked to my brain through the tips of my fingers and drinking in the ridiculously beautiful land the bike carries me over and through.  

But, more and more, what gets me on the bike is the turns.

Carving a big boxer twin through a series of turns, especially with a change of altitude thrown into the mix, and we’re talking about serious fun.  Left, right, up, down.  Picking a line through the tar snakes as I roll like a rock down the continental divide; leaning into a long sweeper and then heeling it all the way over and squirting through the next turn.  It is a physical sensation that is close to skiing...gliding down the mountain, carving turn after turn after turn.   It is hypnotic, mesmerizing, Zen-like and, to paraphrase Robert Plant, a whole lotta fun.  You feel me?

I live near some of the most heralded motorcycling terrain anywhere in the US.... the Blue Ridge Mountains and the Great Smoky Mountains.  North Georgia, eastern Tennessee and western North Carolina.  The southern Appalachian Mountains is performance-bike-heaven and has some of the best twisties and sweepers anyone could want.  It is a genuine Motorcycle Destination and I’m very grateful to have these world class roads in my back yard. 

But there is this one little thing that keeps nagging at me.

Allow me to digress.

Five years ago, my son Jon and I spent a couple of weeks fly fishing in Montana and Wyoming.  We spent time on the Bighorn River, Slough Creek, the North Fork of the Shoshone, Armstrong's Spring Creek and the Yellowstone River.  This was Jon's first trip West and he'd been awakened to the supremacy of fly fishing for big wild trout on big western rivers.  Our last stop was Livingston, MT where we had come to do two things. 

The first was to be humiliated on the gin-clear spring creeks that emerge from cow pastures along both sides of the great Yellowstone River and that hold an astonishing number of big, picky wild trout. 

And the second was to spend a day in a drift boat floating the Yellowstone River in search of (hopefully, more cooperative) big, wild rainbow and brown trout. Talk about your destinations...this, sir, is world class fly fishing.

To get to Livingston we drove from Cody, WY.  Our route took us through some jaw dropping country, including a drive over the Chief Joseph Scenic Highway which was surreal...made so by the murderous-looking storm clouds rolling in from the west.  

Sometimes the sun would find a way to slip between the clouds and then it would go all biblical-looking;  we’d have yellows and purples and reds in places they didn’t belong.  It became a scene from an old master’s oil painting.

As we topped one of the high mountain passes the weather system finally paid off with a genuine Rocky Mountain summer T-storm. 

Thunder and lightning, wind and cold, hail and rain, cats and dogs living together....the works.  In the midst of the mayhem, I began noticing folks riding motorcycles.  I didn’t know it at the time, but on our way to a Fly Fishing Destination, we had stumbled into a Motorcycle Destination.  Weather-be-damned, these people were here for the views and the roads; they were here to carve the turns.

That night I went to our hotel parking lot to get something from the car.  I began seeing people coming into the underground garage on motorcycles and I’ll never forget the impression they made on me.  I was struck with their rugged, purpose-built bikes and weatherproof suits.  It was clear, from the mud on their boots, the wild looks in their eyes and their tanned faces, that they’d been in the elements all day.     

“Damn”, I thought, “I could get into this”.  Right then and there, I decided that I wanted to feel what those people had experienced that day.   The mountains, the roads, the bikes, the cold air, the rain, the wind.  All of it.

Fast forward five years and I’m now on my fourth touring bike; my third BMW at that. 

I’ve logged 25,000 miles and have gone from total noob all the way to advanced beginner.  But I have achieved a very high level of passion for this sport.  I don’t recall being quite this smitten with any other interest...guitars,  woodworking, fly fishing, hell, even bicycling...all pale in comparison.

Back to that “one little thing”. 

I still have this one recurring mental image of me sitting on my BMW at some western pass...might be on the Chief Joseph Highway or Beartooth Highway.  Or maybe I’ve pulled over along side the Snake River north of Jackson to photograph the Grand Tetons.

Or I’m running alongside the Yellowstone River down in Paradise Valley or parked in front of The Murray Hotel on a sunny Saturday afternoon. 

Ok, I lied...there isn't one image, there are lots.  Given enough time and inattention, mental images like these usually fade away and become powerless to affect me.   But sometimes these images become richer and more detailed and can coalesced into a Vision.   And a Vision has the power to compel me, to force me to act. 

In time, this particular Vision blossomed.  It was eventually Discussed Out Loud.  Then agreement was reached that it Sounded Like Fun and was declared to be Something We Should Do.  Maps Were Consulted and Mileage Was Calculated.  Recognize the symptoms?  Mental health professionals refer to this as The Slippery Slope. 

As the possibilities were identified, Vision-creep set in.  The plan expanded to include touring all of the western National Parks through 10 states, adding a buddy and adding our wives.  We found ourselves needing first class airfare, luxury hotels, shopping in Aspen, a dog sitter, a new bike and a new camera.  The Vision had ballooned to 5 weeks and 5,000 miles and promised to vaporize a good chunk of my children’s’s inheritance.   Sweet Baby Jesus, is this negotiable?

Truth be told, the Vision had bloated to the point of being undo-able for a man of my age, abilities and assets.  I recognized this, as did my buddy KC.  And so, with surgical precision and his uncanny ability to plan a route, the Vision was pruned.  Saving “this” for another trip and canceling “that” for good measure, we began tuning the Vision into something that made sense for two guys old enough for Medicare.  But understand this, the current Vision is no slouch and has me wondering if I can deal with it’s reality...2,200 miles through the Rockies, three weeks on the road and 10 days living on a bike.. But, the most ominous aspect is having to lock into travel dates months in advance.  There’ll be no shopping for a weather window like a proper retiree should do.  On “the” day...we roll.  Period.  I assure you, there’s a lot Murphy can do with a plan like this.  To Murphy, I say simply, "Go fuck yourself".

So, the dates have been agreed on and the basic plan has been laid out...in September the two of us will trailer our bikes to Denver, stash the trailer and bikes, pick up our wives (Lucy and Ethel) at the airport, enjoy 4-5 play days with them in the Rockies and then drop them back at the airport. We’ll park the truck, unload the bikes and it will be at this point that we'll begin converting the Vision into Memories.  The view from thirty thousand feet is this...we will ride north for five days through Colorado, Wyoming and Montana to Glacier NP, cross over Going-To-The-Sun Road and then, over the following five days, head back to Denver along a roughly parallel route.  Once back to Denver, we’ll load the bikes up and two days later, “adventures” notwithstanding, we’ll arrive at our homes and will check the Vision off the Bucket List.

I am calling this Vision “Tour the Rockies”.

One last thing.  There is something, beyond the Vision, that I hope to accomplish.   I hope that somewhere along this route someone will see my rugged and purpose built BMW bike, will take note of my sunburned face and the wild look in my eyes and will say to themselves, ”Damn, I could get into that”.