Long before I got into motorcycles, I was into boots. As a rebellious middle-schooler, I stomped around in army-surplus combat boots. In high school, I bought a pair of Danner hiking boots that have protected my feet over hundreds of miles of trails in the Appalachians, Rockies, and Sierra Nevada. Thirty years later, I still have them, and their Vibram soles have been replaced multiple times. When it comes to boots, as with other gear we depend on, quality is worth paying for.
Umberto Luce boots first popped onto my radar last November at the IMS Outdoors show in Southern California. Peter Jones, Rider’s resident fashionista and shoe aficionado, and I both admired the stylish kicks, which look cool but are also designed to withstand the rigors of knocking about on motorcycles. We met Humberto Luce, the company founder and designer, who exudes energy and passion.
In January, Peter and I ran into Humberto again at AIMExpo in Las Vegas, and this time he sent me home with a pair of Crimson boots. I tried them on at the show, and they were so comfortable that I kept them on. For the past few months, with rare exception, the Crimson boots have been on my feet both on and off the bike. Part of what makes them so comfortable is a flexible, durable sole made from a stack of leather, EVA (ethylene-vinyl acetate), and an anti-slip vulcanized rubber with a lugged tread. The outer sole has a unique speckled pattern that reminds me of a terrazzo floor.
The full-grain leather upper has an oil-tanned suede finish and a butter-soft, odor-resistant interior. Getting in and out of the lace-up boots is made easy with a quick-entry side zipper. Protective features include CE-certified D3O ankle protection, secure lock stitching, and a frontal-impact-protection cap toe, all of which are tastefully incorporated into the stylish design of the boots.
I’ve spent full days in the saddle of a motorcycle, as well as full days tromping around city streets and airports, with these boots on, and they’re among the most comfortable I’ve ever worn. You’ll have to pry them off my cold, dead feet.
Umberto Luce Crimson boots are available in men’s sizes 7 to 13.5 and priced at $329. They’re made in small batches by craftsmen in León, Mexico. Check out the website for other styles.
The Aerostich factory on 18th Avenue West was originally a candy factory.Today the sweet stuff is created solely for motorcyclists.
To tell the story of the legendary Aerostich riding suit is to tell a story about America. The dream of it, but also the tenacity required to navigate its possibilities. Because running a successful small business in America these days demands more than a clear vision and hard work. It requires staying power.
Native Duluthian Andy Goldfine was committed to the dream of creating a small business long before he knew what product or service he might offer. Separately, the concept of a lightweight, armored, easy-to-use coverall to wear over clothes as one commuted to and from their job was born from a personal wish to own such an item. These two ambitions merged when Goldfine conjured the first Roadcrafter one-piece riding suit back in 1983.
Andy Goldfine’s intention to supply motorcyclists with high-quality, handcrafted apparel and useful kit has never wavered.
What Schott is to leather and Belstaff is to waxed cotton, Aerostich is to synthetic-fiber textiles used to create durable, high-performance motorcycle gear. The world is overflowing with it now, but back in the early ’80s, people weren’t talking about things like breathability or tensile strength or viscoelastic foam armor. Cordura and Gore-Tex were still exotic. And so, without any kind of roadmap, Goldfine created a totally new type of riding gear, and boy, did that suit show us what our leather gear was missing.
The Aerostich building in Duluth is no factory, instead feeling more like an artist’s enclave where the skilled craftspeople combine forces to create exceptionally high-quality riding gear. It’s cool to see, and all visitors who happen by are welcome to a tour. For me, it made my connection to my latest Roadcrafter suit so much more significant, having watched in person the craftspeople who handwrite their signatures inside each suit.
I (literally) stepped into my first Roadcrafter back in 1986 when Goldfine was visiting the Rider offices in California, and I have been living in these suits ever since. Like so many motojournalists of that era, I found the Roadcrafter wasn’t just the gold standard for commuting, it was also magic for sportbike riding and touring. Newer designs (R-3 Darien and AD1) from the Aerostich factory in Duluth might be just as popular these days, but when I last visited the shop I was hunting for a new Roadcrafter Classic two-piece to fit my now middle-aged bod.
The original Roadcrafter Classic, handcrafted in Duluth, has been refined over the years, yet remains totally recognizable.
It was my first time in Goldfine’s very Minnesotan three-story brick building – a former candy factory – and it was obvious right away this is a cool place for bikers to chill. After I was fitted for my new suit, I got a tour of the different floors and stations where skilled craftsmen and craftswomen, a fair number of riders among them, cut and assemble the various fabric into “kits,” which are then handed over to expert sewers and finally seam-taping machine operators before each garment is inspected and prepared to meet its new owner.
The handcrafting of the suits is enjoyable to watch, especially since everyone working here – some who have been with Goldfine for decades – seems to enjoy their craft.
But one of the things I leave most impressed by is how fiercely this operation works to remain “Made in the USA.” For example, Goldfine explains that, due to current trade policies, the tariff on bringing in fabric from Asia is about twice as high as the tariff for bringing in completed riding gear. “It’s as if the USA doesn’t want commercial/industrial sewing activity done in this country,” he told me.
Supply chain issues caused by Covid have only deepened the challenge. Yet Goldfine remains true to his standards, a rare example of an apparel manufacturer uneasy with the lure of inexpensive offshore production, even as many consumers take the bait, sometimes unwittingly trading quality for low prices on everyday goods.
While the riding suits remain the pillar of Aerostich offerings, Goldfine has created and collected a dangerously desirable array of complementary apparel items, accessories, and equipment to make riding “easier, safer, and more comfortable.” It might be a heated mid-layer, a unique tool, perfect-fitting earplugs, stink-resistant socks, or a new tent you didn’t know you needed until you saw it on the website or in that cherished catalog that occasionally shows up in the mail.
And while he finds satisfaction in his artful curation of products and the affirmation of Aerostich loyalists, Goldfine’s core intention isn’t driven by being fashionable or even making money. His deeper motivation is about promoting the physical, psychological, and societal benefits of riding motorcycles every day. It’s why he created Ride to Work Day, to remind us of the Rx effect of being on the motorcycle, even for a short “useful” ride each day. He believes riding makes us “better-functioning, calmer, clearer” people and also brings economic, environmental, and congestion-lessening benefits to our communities.
It’s with these big thoughts in mind that I step into my fresh Roadcrafter a week later. How the heck can a riding suit feel like home? This one does. No matter what newfangled riding apparel comes into my life to be tested, it’s the all-American Aerostich that endures.
Bias alert: About 10 years ago, I procured a set of Air Mesh Kevlar overpants from Motoport. In the more than 100,000 miles of riding in every conceivable condition since, my expectations have only been exceeded. They wear like iron and the black Kevlar fabric hasn’t faded a bit, even after thousands of hours in the sun. They are, far and away, the most rugged and comfortable overpants I have ever tested. These new Motoport Air Mesh Street Jeans share much in common with my old overpants.
Upon first inspecting the garment, the impression is one of substance, quality, and extremely stout construction. They’re made of a Kevlar mesh blend on the front and a Kevlar stretch blend on the rear, all safety-stitched. The mesh-blend material is thick and surprisingly rough to the touch. Motoport claims a tear strength of 1,260 pounds with an abrasion resistance of 1,800 cycles before failure for the mesh fabric, and a tear strength of 420 pounds with an abrasion resistance of 1,800 cycles for the stretch fabric, both of which exceed values for competition-grade leather.
Aesthetically, the Air Mesh Jeans are strictly business, with a quasi-militaristic appearance. On our black test model, there are two cargo pockets, two front handwarmer pockets, and gray reflective piping on the lower leg. Internally, the Air Mesh Street Jeans feature what is likely the industry’s most comprehensive armor coverage. There are hip pads, a sacrum pad, thigh pads, knee pads, and shin pads, all fitted in dedicated pockets.
A plethora of options are available, including various colors, suspenders, alternate pockets, cuffs, armor upgrades, and more. I upgraded to four-layer Quad Armor (three-layer Tri Armor is standard) and added an Aero-Tex waterproof/windproof/breathable pant liner and 1.5-inch reflective striping on the calf area. These jeans are built-to-order for each rider’s measurements and tastes, with a base price of $549 plus options (see website for the full list and pricing).
The Air Mesh Street Jeans are easy to take on and off, thanks to beefy 13-inch-long YKK zippers with thick pull tabs at the cuffs, which are hidden behind Velcro flaps for a cleaner look. The armor requires a break-in period before it conforms to the shape of a rider’s body. It initially felt bulky but molded itself to my lower body over time. After two weeks of steady commuting, the pants felt like a second skin.
The realistic temperature range of the Air Mesh Street Jeans was 50 to 105 degrees, the hottest temperature encountered during testing. For colder temperatures or foul-weather riding, the optional Aero-Tex liner kept me warm and dry down to 30 degrees.
After an adventure-filled three seasons, I have only one minor gripe: The interior of the cargo pockets is the same rough-textured Kevlar mesh material as the exterior of the garment. Some delicate items, like documents or smartphone touchscreens, deserve a soft lining.
Aside from that, I have no doubt that these Motoport Air Mesh Street Jeans will be every bit as reliable as my old Air Mesh overpants. This is not an inexpensive, off-the-rack item, but rather first-class American-made protective gear for the serious motorcyclist.
With Arctic blasts of frigid air gifting us single-digit ambient temperatures here in New Jersey, most motorcycles are parked for the winter season. However, there remains a small but dedicated band of polar bears who insist on riding in spite of the cold, and for them proper gear is critical. Klim Resistor HTD Gauntlet Gloves (HTD stands for “heated”) are specifically intended for this type of application.
(Resistor HTD Gauntlet Gloves are part of Klim’s snowmobile apparel line. The Hardanger HTD Long Gloves are designed for motorcycle use and offer more crash-protective features.)
The Resistors feature subdued, but contemporary styling. The black polyester exterior shell is punctuated by additional padding and a swatch of 3M Scotchlite reflective material across the knuckles, with tightly seamed stitching throughout. The palm and fingers are a grippy black leather treated with 3M Scotchgard. A large strap keeps the gloves tightly secured at the wrist, while a bright yellow shock cord at the gauntlet clamps down against the jacket’s cuff. The gauntlet itself opens to a generous 5 inches and can be stretched further if necessary, which is more than enough space for most riders. Each glove has a 1.5-inch-long rubber face shield wiper on the index finger, which was moderately useful in rain and light snow conditions. A large pull loop on the bottom of each gauntlet allows excellent leverage to cinch the gloves on tight.
Inside, a Gore-Tex windproof/waterproof membrane is sandwiched between the outer shell and the soft moisture-wicking “comfort fleece” inner lining, supplemented with generous 3M Thinsulate insulation (200g on the backhand, and 100g on the palm.) Overall construction of these Vietnamese-made gloves is excellent, with no loose threads, blemishes, or defects detected.
Power for each glove comes courtesy of a 7.4VDC Atewa Li-Po battery, rated for 2Ah. The 2.1- x 0.5- x 1.8-inch cell slips neatly into a Velcro-sealed pouch within the gauntlet. A small backlit button on the gauntlet allows the rider to turn the glove on, off, and toggle between 3 different heat levels. Holding the button down for 3 seconds turns the power on to the High heat setting as default. (If left there, the setting will automatically step down to Medium heat setting after 10 minutes, to conserve battery life.) Tapping the button allows the rider to select between High (red,) Medium (blue,) and Low (green) settings as necessary, and holding the button down for 3 seconds will turn the gloves off.
Run time on battery varies according to ambient temperature, but in the low teens (the bulk of my testing regimen,) I was consistently able to get nearly 8 hours on low, nearly 3 hours on medium, and about 1.5 hours on high. (This was all after cycling the batteries a few times.) One can expect more time in warmer ambient temps, and less in colder. An AC-DC charger which handles two cells simultaneously is included.
Out on the road, these gloves were supremely comfortable thanks to their plush, well insulated interiors. Indeed, even unheated, they were warm enough to ride in the high 30s without the heating function activated. In colder conditions with the heating turned on, they reached peak temperatures in about 5 minutes, and were more than a match for sustained rides in the single digits. Likewise, the waterproof claim was verified by submerging them in a bucket full of water for 20 minutes, without a drop leaking inside. Overall, these Klim gloves represent a superlatively functional choice for my fellow polar bears who brave any temperature a sane motorcyclist would dare venture into.
Klim Resistor HTD Gauntlet Gloves retail for $249.99 and are available in sizes XS-3XL.
For more information: See your dealer or visit klim.com
Testing the British Motorcycle Gear Adventure Jacket on the 2022 Kawasaki KLR650. (Photo by Drew Ruiz)
Like an adventure-touring bike, an adventure-touring jacket needs to be ready for anything, come what may. It should provide comfort and protection in a range of conditions and stand up to abuse. The British Motorcycle Gear Adventure Jacket was originally designed for the Dakar Rally, which puts more demands on riders, motorcycles, and gear in a fortnight than run-of-the-mill adventure riding will do in a year (or even a lifetime).
The Adventure’s outer shell is made of 500-denier nylon with anti-abrasion overlayers on the elbows and shoulders that are backed by EVA foam. The adjustable waist/kidney belt on the outside of the jacket also has EVA foam padding along the back. The inside of the jacket is lined with stretchy, breathable athletic mesh, and there are pockets for shoulder, elbow, and back armor. Knox CE shoulder and elbow armor is provided; back armor is sold separately for $29.
To deal with the variable weather conditions, there’s a waterproof/windproof layer that can be zipped over the jacket, and it can be conveniently stored in the large, rectangular pocket at the lower back. There’s a removable hydration system with a bladder and a long tube that secures to the front of the jacket. Zippered vents – large ones on the inner forearm and smaller ones at the front and back of the shoulders – provide ventilation. There are numerous fit adjusters (neck, arms, cuffs, waist, and hem) and pockets (two on the inside and seven on the outside).
My first test of the BMG Adventure Jacket was at the press launch for the new Kawasaki KLR650 and on my 1,000-mile ride home from the event. Over five days of riding, I encountered chilly mornings in the mountains of northern New Mexico, a drenching monsoon thunderstorm in Arizona, and 120-degree heat in the Mojave Desert. In the months that followed, I wore the jacket during on- and off-road rides in Southern California.
In terms of fit, function, and style, the jacket has performed admirably. I have been particularly keen on the soft neoprene-lined collar, built-in hydration system, and mesh-lined vents. Of course, on the hottest days, more ventilation would have been appreciated, but in those extreme situations only a full mesh jacket would have done the job. The easy-on, easy-off rain/wind layer served me well when I needed to quickly adapt to sudden changes in the weather.
If you’re looking for a versatile, practical, three-quarter-length textile touring jacket, then BMG’s Adventure Jacket is good option at a good price. It’s available in sizes XS-4XL in orange or blue for $279.99.
The rider is wearing Fly Racing Resistance Jeans, as well as Fly Racing’s Sentinel Helmet, Flux Air Jacket, and Milepost Boots. Next to him is the 2021 Triumph Speed Triple 1200RS. (Photo by Kevin Wing)
The old maxim “you get what you pay for” is usually a reliable predictor of quality, but when it comes to Fly Racing’s Resistance Jeans, I’m not convinced the rule applies. They’re made of light, durable 12-ounce denim with an aramid fiber lining that provides abrasion protection across the entire seat and from the waistband down the front of each leg, finishing below the knee. Removable CE Level 1 knee armor adds extra impact protection.
Thoughtful design features include adjustable pockets for the knee armor with additional hook-and-loop patches that allow an inch of adjustment, ensuring it will be where it should if needed, regardless of the wearer’s height. The right front pocket is equipped with a lanyard for attaching keys, and removable hip armor pockets are compatible with optional Fly Barricade CE Level 1 armor ($23.95). Styling details include classic denim contrast stitching and plaid detailing inside the waistband and pockets. Quality touches include a durable YKK fly zipper and riveted front pockets.
Fly Racing has made an effort to fit riders of various body types with a range of both regular and tall sizes. But if you’ve got an extra-long inseam like me, you’re still going to wish for an extra inch (I’ll leave it to you to add the punchline). The fit is slightly relaxed, and the straight-cut leg will go over all but the largest boots.
I’ve been wearing a pair of Resistance Jeans throughout the summer. They provide a solid balance between breathability and protection, remaining comfortable in hot weather, and they look great too. They also wash far better than some of the more expensive brands I wear, and I expect they will age over time like a favorite pair of old jeans. Most impressive, they’re a good value at just $129.95. I guess sometimes you do get more than you pay for.
Fly Racing Resistance Jeans are available in men’s regular sizes 30-40 and tall sizes 32-38, in either Indigo (pictured) or Oxford Blue (for a pre-washed look).
For more informationor to find a Fly Racing/Western Power Sports dealer near you, visit flyracing.com.
Riding on technical off-road terrain can be hard on feet, ankles, and lower legs. During stand-up riding, one’s full bodyweight is carried on the footpegs, and the acrobatics required to counterbalance, absorb g-outs, and keep the bike upright over obstacles can be hard on muscles, joints, and bones. And, as I know all too well, sometimes things go pear-shaped. I once broke my foot on an adventure ride while wearing boots that weren’t up to the task.
Lesson learned, now I won’t go on a serious adventure or dual-sport ride without wearing boots that provide the utmost in crash protection as well as comfort and maneuverability.
After torture-testing a pair of Gaerne G-Midland Boots on the Oregon Backcountry Discovery Route, EIC Drevenstedt reported that “the just-right fit, rugged soles, and generous ankle support have served me well in all kinds of riding and walking conditions. In fact, G-Midlands are among the most comfortable boots I’ve ever worn” (read the full review). Wanting even more protection, I opted for Gaerne’s Dakar GTX Boots.
A key feature of the Dakar GTX is a fully pivoting mechanical hinge at the ankle that wraps around the Achilles area. It attaches to a hard plastic heel counter as well as one of the two MX-style adjustable buckles. Covering the shin is a durable polyurethane armor plate, and there are flex panels at the front and back of the ankle. The rest of the boot’s outer is made of full-grain, oil-tanned leather, which is lined with a breathable, waterproof Gore-Tex membrane. Instead of a third buckle at the top, there’s a large outer flap with a Velcro panel to secure the boot. A lugged sole is attached using tough welt stitching, and it has a multidirectional tread pattern that provides good grip on the pegs (though more so on cleated pegs than on those with rubber inserts) and traction when walking on loose surfaces.
With a spacious, well-padded interior, a cushioned insole, and a flexible yet supportive sole, I concur with our EIC’s assessment – the Dakar GTXs are some of the most comfortable motorcycle boots I’ve worn in 46 years of riding, both on and off the bike. I haven’t had any pain points, and it is easy to pull them on and off as well as adjust the fit to be snug and secure. And although the sole is tough, it isn’t too rigid. It allows some flex and feedback through the pegs, and I was able to use the shift and brake levers with confidence.
If you’re looking for an adventure boot that provides excellent protection and comfort, then Gaerne Dakar GTX Boots are worth considering. They’re available in brown in men’s sizes 7-13 for $429.95. They’re darn good-looking boots, too.
Wearing the Olympia Airglide 6 Jacket Pants while testing the 2021 Honda Gold Wing Tour DCT. (Photo by Kevin Wing)
We’ve tested a lot of Olympia apparel over the years, starting with the Sentry Jacket and Ranger Pants back in 2003. And we’ve worn and tested every iteration of the Airglide jacket/pants combo, which is now in its sixth generation. Olympia was founded by the husband-and-wife team of Kevin and Karilea Rhea, both designers and avid riders, and for years it was based in Hendersonville, North Carolina. A few years ago they sold the company, which is now owned by Motovan, a Canadian powersports distributor.
Olympia Airglide 6 Jacket in Grey/Red/Black
The Airglide jacket and pants are part of Olympia’s Mesh Tech line. That means they have large panels of Ballistic Airflow abrasion-resistant mesh (gee thanks, Captain Obvious!), with 1000D Cordura used in impact areas. Designed for three-season riding, there is a removable thermal layer as well as a windproof rain layer that can be worn under or over the jacket and pants (and a handy carry bag is provided). Removable Powertector Hexa CE Level 2 armor fits into pockets at the shoulders, elbows, back, and knees, and there are removable foam hip pads.
Olympia Airglide 6 Pants
With various fit adjustments and stretch panels, the Airglide jacket and pants are comfortable, with a generous cut that accommodates under-layers (and American midsections). I found the pants in my normal size to be a bit too large to be worn by themselves (they felt more like overpants), and the jacket sleeves were a little short for my long arms. If possible, try on the Airglide 6 before buying. The pants have full-length two-way side zippers and EZ-Hem bottoms so they can be tailored to length.
Wearing the Olympia Airglide 6 Jacket Pants while testing the 2022 Suzuki Hayabusa. (Photo by Kevin Wing)
I’ve personally worn and tested a lot of Olympia gear, and I’ve always been impressed by the quality and attention to detail. For example, the front pockets in the Airglide jacket and pants are lined with soft fleece, so they’ll actually keep your hands warm on a cold day. The jacket also has an inside chest pocket with a pass-thru for earbuds. Grippy rubber zipper pulls are easy to use with gloved hands. Over multiple days of testing the Honda Gold Wing Tour and Suzuki Hayabusa, with temperatures ranging from the low 50s on the coast to well over 100 inland, I appreciated the versatility that the Airglide 6 ensemble provided.
The Airglide 6 jacket is available in men’s sizes S-XL ($379.99) and 2XL-4XL ($399.99), women’s sizes XS-XL ($379.99) and 2XL-3XL ($399.99), and Grey/Red/Black (shown), Black/Hi-Viz Yellow, and Black/Silver. The pants (Black only) are available in men’s sizes 30-38 ($279.99) and 40-44 ($299.99) and in women’s sizes 4-12 ($279.99) and 14-18 ($299.99). Everything is covered by a 1-year warranty.
This essay was originally published in the September 1992 issue of Rider. (Illustration by Roland Roy)
Sometimes you don’t know where you are, the name of the town or even the state. The place is located by days and miles. It is remembered by highway proximity. And by what kind of terrors gripped you there.
For me, that April night fell on day four. I had already passed through New Jersey, Pennsylvania, Virginia and North Carolina, finally stopping in Tennessee. Yes, that’s as far as I must have gotten. Near U.S. Highway 81. Days Inn.
After a little practice, divesting a motorcycle of all its luggage for the night and carrying it into a motel — three trips, including the tool pack with its 10 tons of lock, spare cables, liter of oil, roll of tape, tire tube, rain gear — doesn’t get any more fun. But such a trip, all alone, is about repetition as much as it’s about welcoming the blessedly new. I’ve always stayed at Days Inns or Knights Inns, make of that symmetry whatever you will, because a woman searching for lodgings after dark by herself is looking only for predictability and the guaranteed anonymity these places make it their business to provide.
After three days of telling myself different, the truth was coming through like green oxide on bogus silver: this wasn’t such a gas. My vacation, my proud declaration, my little adventure, was oppressing me as nothing before. I hadn’t suddenly become loquacious the minute I hit the road, the sort who meets locals at every way station and makes them fast friends over a bowl of chili, or gets invitations that start a new trajectory of discovery about the places passed through. I was still myself only more so, saying not much more than was necessary to purchase gas, coffee, a place to sleep, glossy post cards on which “Wish you were here” was written with no little urgency. Night would bring the same: take-out food eaten at the plasticized fake-wood veneered desk; a long bath to leach the cold from the bones; the local news indistinguishable from any local news anywhere; five hours before sleep to kill in the confines of the double-double-bedded room because continuing after nightfall pushed the stakes up a tad too high; a dose or two of Jack because of that.
I was feeling every one of the 975 miles that separated me from home. The most comfort I’d had was talking to my painfully estranged boyfriend, a mechanic, from a hotel room in Waynesboro, Virginia, the first night. Earlier in the day, stopping at a truck plaza after riding through two hours of the most imposing rainstorm I’d ever encountered, I’d noticed the box at the rear axle spewing the 90-weight oil that lubricated the shaft drive. My boyfriend was properly worried on my behalf and told me to seek out a bike shop in town the next day and have it checked out before I started down the Blue Ridge Parkway. The second deepest conversation I’d had in all the intervening time was at that shop, when four mechanics stopped to inspect my bike.
Now, near U.S. Highway 81, I spread the map out on the rigid bed and scanned it for some promise that I might make it all the way home tomorrow, three days before schedule. There didn’t seem much point in drawing it out longer, to look for more motels just like the last. I’d simply had enough of blissful solitude.
However I looked at it, though, the miles would collapse no further. There were at least 15 hours of holding the throttle open at a steady 70 mph etched in those lines, and it couldn’t be done — not by me at least. The force of the wind at that speed, the temperature, the buzzing, the constant watchfulness, the tension that crept up the neck, took it out of you too fast. You got more tired on a bike than you ever thought possible.
The days had grown so elongated that to look back on them seemed to be to glance into history: had it really been this same afternoon that I had ridden up the side of Mount Mitchell, parked, and ascended the lookout tower in the persistent wind that blows up there? Taking in the small exhibit room empty of visitors except for me, I read the placards that described Mitchell’s quest to prove that his mountain was actually higher than Clingman’s Dome, that it was in fact the highest spot in the East. Scrambling around on the desolate peak with his calibrators, he slipped and fell, perhaps dying instantly, perhaps waiting days for death in the cove of rocks. His was a bitter feud with Clingman, and his victory was posthumous. He lay now under the stones there, unable to give up his purchase on faith. At the height of my own futile journey, I realized that he and I were about the only people up here on this cold day, and he was dead.
I had known from my trip down this bucolic byway the previous October, legendary among motorcyclists, that the next stretch would take me farther into the Smokies, and that the higher I went, the lonelier the way. Then, though, I had simply felt alone, not lonely; I was with a man I was beginning to love. At that stage you welcome the height, the wide vista over uninhabited wild. It feels fine to be there and feel small, together. Now, the peculiar lunar landscape at 6,053 feet, the highest point on the Ridge, was crushing. The wind singing over the rocks had an edge of cruelty. I had climbed into the thinner air with my Guzzi’s beating engine without seeing but a car or two hurrying in the other direction, and the groups of riders I’d hoped to fall in with were still home, waiting for the next month and warmer air.
I wouldn’t let it stop me from going through the motions of marking my trip in the customary manner, and I stopped the Moto Guzzi in front of the sign that declared this the highest point in order to take the obligatory photo of proof. As I did so the lone man who had been standing, looking out over the view from the opposite end of the parking lot, came up behind me and told me I could get into the picture, too.
After handing my camera back he engaged me in a conversation that felt somewhat unreal: he told me his destination, his reason for g here in such an unvacationlike month, all the while glancing at my bike. As often happens, he informed me he used to ride, too, and asked me if the road was good for riding. My enthusiasm was a little forced – it certainly was, but I would have hardly known it from this experience. He said he wasn’t sure if he’d ever make such a trip alone, and he kept complimenting me on my bravery, though I wanted to correct his misapprehension so it could bear the more proper label: foolishness, a bid to prove I would have a grand time without anyone else at all.
But I couldn’t say it to this stranger. It took too much explaining, too much time-intensive shading between black lines. The simple version was more appropriate to this meeting, so I let him have it the way he wanted. He insisted on writing his name and address in my notebook, extracting a promise that if I ever passed through Iowa I’d look him up. I put it in my tank bag with an assurance that I would, while the knowledge that I wouldn’t sunk down hollowly inside.
There was nothing else to do but get on the bike and keep going, to the next mark on my map, the end of the Parkway in Cherokee.
On the prior trip, too, I had insisted on stopping in this gewgaw heaven, darting into stores on a restless search for the perfect ridiculous souvenir, tiring out my boyfriend until he cried uncle. He let me go on rushing from shop to shop while he waited outside by the row of glass windows that housed the Drumming Duck and the rattlesnake and the python and the rabbit clown and the other sad creatures on display for the visitors who paused a moment, pointed to the displays for their ice-cream-sticky children, then hurried on to buy their rubber tomahawks and beaded belts.
On this day I went looking again, having never found the perfection in plastic I sought, but after two stores I wandered back to my bike and glanced at the sky. It was getting late, and I needed to make it through the winding ways of the Great Smoky Mountains National Park with plenty of light. Besides, I had it in mind to visit Dollywood in Pigeon Forge, Tennessee, before nightfall.
Pressing on. I began seeing monumental billboards, on which a horrific, huge butterfly loomed, for the attraction miles before town, a formerly bereft Hamlet that had been Dolly Parton’s hometown before she made it big and it turned into a theme park of cheap restaurants and Western-wear outlets. I turned into the massive parking lot for the amusement park and saw the sign that informs two bucks is the price for parking; besides thinking that was steep for the few minutes I wanted to spend inside, I always resented paying anything to put such a narrow machine into a corner that couldn’t have been used by anything else anyway. Then I found out the admission was $18, and that clinched it. Who spent that much money to ride a ferris wheel alone? Shady characters in old movies did it, but they had ulterior motives. I could only turn around, another wistful goal having come in sight and revealed itself useless in plain view.
The sky was lower as I headed back out of Pigeon Forge, and I wanted to do it fast. I wanted to find somewhere I could be alone where no one would see me being alone. It was time to find the night’s Days Inn.
I hauled in all the garbage — the saddlebags, tank bag, helmet, tool bag. I went back down the hill to the service station’s convenience store and got some Italian rolls that were too white and too soft and a package of string cheese, thus exhausting their variety of real food. I sat in the bathtub and turned on the orange-red heat lamp so that the timer buzzed judiciously for 20 minutes. I unfurled the map and read it with a side of bourbon, so that some time in the future I might be able to fall asleep in the strangely familiar room. I made my peace as best I could with the discovery that I would have one more night like this, but I could do it. Since I had to, I could.
I turned on the news, and just when I was listening intently to some important-sounding item about the municipal airport of the nearby town I can’t recall the name of, I heard the voice.
It spoke in a stage whisper that reached to the fifth tier and back.
It said, “Tomorrow is the last day you will spend on earth.”
A shaking started in my gut, my feet felt very far away. The words of the anchorperson continued to accumulate in the room like cotton batting being stuffed into a mattress. Behind my eyes a scene was now projected, and I saw a white car of some general make coming at me and my white bike — a horror all dressed in the tones of clouds — but there the movie stopped, although I knew its end.
The utter precipitousness and incongruity of this final pronouncement made me unable to avoid its truth. I had apparently had one of those supermarket-tabloid premonitions: WOMAN FORESEES OWN DEATH.
It seemed just as certain that I couldn’t stay in a Tennessee motel in order to stave off death; the irony of that, I presume, is completely obvious. I reached for the glass of Jack Daniel’s and saw my hand quivering in midair. I spoke to myself sharply: Don’t be ridiculous! It kept on shaking.
It was intolerable, more than merely nettlesome, to be here alone now, and I caught sight of the decorator-almond telephone with its little red siren light sticking off the top. Besides the fact that it was well past midnight, how could I explain to anyone I could rouse from sleep what I’d just experienced? I was beginning to think that most of my friends thought I lived on the border of sanity anyway.
I lay back on the bed with a groan. Say, eight hours isn’t too long to spend lying here in the leaden grip of an absurd fear, until it’s light and you can go out and bravely prove the folly of your fantasies, shaking all the way.
If I couldn’t talk to anyone real, I figured I could make someone up and talk to him on paper; God knows I’ve got enough characters in my brain that one of them must be up and willing at this hour.
In the desk drawer were three sheets of motel stationery. Not enough, but a start. I took them back to the bed and started talking. We discussed why at this particular time I would be feeling afraid, why fear was often my co-pilot on my motorcycle. From the moment I’d bought my first bike three years before, I’d managed to pin most of my previously free-floating anxieties on some aspect of machinery. And wasn’t that why, later, I’d realized I wanted one in the first place, to wage war on this fear in the concrete?
At the bottom of the second page, the TV well into a rerun of “All in the Family,” the writing trailed off. I slipped into sleep and dreamt of nothing.
II
There is a beginning to this story, of course, far before the beginning. I was boarding at a prep school in Ohio, the town — a miniature replica of a New England hamlet replete with town green, white steeples, stone wall around a campus of gentle slopes and neatly tended playing fields — was midway between Akron, where I am from, and Cleveland. Although I had opted to attend (pleasing my father, who had also gone there) and escape public school for which I was decidedly not cut out, by my third year I was beginning to feel I had chosen another type of prison instead. I was blissfully happy up in the art room, a sun-filled kingdom ruled by the brilliantly eccentric Mr. Moos, but I was not allowed to spend all my time there as I would have wished. I had to do sports (for which I was equally woefully miscast), science, woodshop (which I flunked, for “refusing” to keep my plane sharpened), and, most loathesome of all, math.
No one has ever erred in calling me stubborn. I have a place, like the end of spring, beyond which I can stretch not a millimeter further. I hit that wall one achingly green spring day, on which I was not uncoincidentally expected in math class at 8:30 a.m. — stupefyingly early, to add injury to insult. I looked at the clock when I opened my eyes, saw it was 8:20 and pulled off the covers. I put on my jeans, forbidden in class, a T-shirt, and put my money and keys in my backpack. I wheeled my Raleigh 10-speed out the door, carried my prize possession bought with hard-won summer babysitting funds down the stairs and outdoors. And I rode past the streams of students heading up the brick walks toward school.
The trip took a half hour in the car. I was thankful in more ways than one that the direction was reversed this time. Approaching the quaint crossroads of Peninsula, a half-mile hill shot down into the town. I coasted, let the bike pick up speed. The wheels were flashing now in the sunlight. I couldn’t go fast enough; I shifted into tenth gear and pedalled as hard as I could, pumping, pumping. The wind dried my teeth clean so my lips stuck to them — that was because I smiled.
When I turned up the drive to my house my mother looked up from her gardening. She hardly seemed surprised to see me. Without her asking, I told her that I simply couldn’t take it anymore. She nodded, and we had some lunch. I think she must have called my father at the office, because when he came home he didn’t seem too stunned either. I was relieved, near elated. I could stay — we would work out the credits and whatnot later. We had the usual nice dinner my mother prepared. Then my parents rose from the table and announced it was time to get going.
Now it was my turn not to be surprised. I had achieved at least that much maturity to understand a certain version of reality.
The next day I was summoned into Sherwin Kibbe’s office. The school’s dean was a dead ringer for Norman Mailer, and he looked frighteningly out from under overhanging silver eyebrows and inquired just what I thought I had been doing. I was several pages into my explanation, which combined a bit of Jefferson with a smattering of Kerouac, when he cut me short. “Well, I think you just wanted to take a ride on a nice day.”
My deeply felt protests met with an offer of demerits and probation. Tears of misunderstood frustration coursed down my cheeks after I shut the door. My issues were high – how could he have leveled me with such an insignificant charge? It was contemptuous.
Sixteen years later and I still ask myself the same question. My answer is still stubborn. So why shouldn’t I run away because it’s a nice day? There is never a better reason.
III
I’d made it as far as the Delaware Water Gap in one day. I’d been riding for 13 hours, and it was now 1 a.m. I was strung out from the numbing consistency of the highways, the same speed, the light, persistent rain that shrouded everything in mist, just like my brain felt. If I could just stay awake and bear down hard enough, I could be home in another two hours.
It was just me and the long-haul trucks now, and nothing broke the dark outside my headlight beam. I didn’t know if I’d been riding for one day or 10. Time had no meaning, except that it was what had exhausted me. I probably could have gone on. Suddenly, though, a thought came into my head, a small distillation of all the biking horror stories I’d ever heard: I was outrunning my headlight’s visibility, and if there were a railroad tie across the lane, I wouldn’t see it till it was too late. I was awake enough to appreciate what that meant.
In a few miles I saw the green Holiday Inn sign rise above the gloom of trees. In the office the woman behind the desk gave me a wide-eyed look as I clomped in in my rainsuit. No, no rooms, all full; there was another place 20 miles away — she’d call. No room in that inn, either, she informed me on putting down the phone. I felt at that moment I was going to collapse.
Actually, she considered, there was one, but the air conditioning had gone out in it. If I didn’t mind….
No, I didn’t. A couple of hay bales would have sufficed. I fell asleep in moments in the sickly, still air.
It was still raining in the morning, and I jerked on the same still-wet clothes and covered them up with the rubber-lined suit. I got an early start.
Two hours later I made the last turn onto my street, and for the first time was forced to slow to a near halt. It had stopped raining. The sun was calling up the hot moisture from the pavement to choke the air. Halfway down the block an earth-mover and police barricades barred the way. Workmen were sweating in their undershirts. I felt the heat rise up from the Guzzi’s cylinders and envelop me. I was wearing a long-sleeved shirt, sweatshirt, jeans, leather jacket with winter lining, rainsuit on top of that; my hands were encased in rubber gloves with a thick synthetic liner, and the vents on my helmet were closed against the early morning chill that was an incredible memory now.
The men tried to wave me to a stop. Instead I let out the clutch and came toward them, provoking wilder gesticulations. At the last moment, I jumped the curb onto the sidewalk to pull up in front of my garage. Only then did I apply the brake.
I switched off the key, then pulled off my helmet and sat for a second, steam rising around my neck. The bike let out its little clicks and coos, already cooling in the heat.
This is how 2,000 miles ends. I’d made bigger trips, but not alone. There was a certain purity to this one, a perfect insularity. It was as though I had done all that distance without leaving a mark on any atom in the universe. I had slipped quickly and quietly by, and the wind in my wake only a vague memory of disturbance in the grass by the edge of the road. Maybe we were white dream-cars ourselves. Yet now I was home, and that’s all that mattered.
As the saying goes, if you can’t stand the heat, get out of the kitchen. But much of North America has felt like living in an oven lately. If, like me, you prefer to ride with the protection of an armored jacket regardless of how high the mercury rises, Fly Racing has a summer solution that will help you beat the heat.
The Flux Air Mesh is a lightweight riding jacket with a crew-style collar. Huge mesh panels on the chest, sleeves, and back allow plenty of cooling air to flow through to the wearer. High-abrasion textile sections provide additional safety at the elbows and across the shoulders, and behind these are pockets that hold removable CE Level 1 armor. An additional pocket at the back secures a foam back pad, but we recommend upgrading to Fly Racing’s Barricade CE Level 2 back protector ($39.95).
Fly Racing Flux Air Mesh Jacket in Black/White/Grey
Reflective panels across the shoulders enhance nighttime visibility. Adjusters at the cuffs, forearms, and waist enable an optimal fit and help ensure body armor remains in the correct position. A slightly tapered fit makes for a stylish cut, and a drop tail accommodates a more aggressive riding position while adding a measure of safety for the lower back. The jacket is fitted with a durable YKK main zipper with a lanyard for ease of use with gloved hands, and two external zippered pockets combine with phone and wallet pockets inside to provide plenty of practical storage for your valuables.
During recent test rides on a Triumph Speed Triple 1200 RS, temperatures hovered in the 90s. Thanks to the generous airflow and light weight of the Flux Air Mesh, I all but forgot that I was wearing an armored jacket. Wind passed through the entire chest and arm sections, and even with the optional CE Level 2 back protector fitted, any sweat was wicked away quickly. I was also impressed with the fit, which provided room for comfort but was snug enough to keep the armor in place and prevent any annoying flapping on the highway.
Black
Camouflage
Black / Hi-Viz
During the heat of the summer riding season, the Flux Air Mesh Jacket is a great option to ride safely and in comfort. And at $119.95, you can’t beat the price. It’s available in men’s sizes S-3XL in four colorways: Black/White/Grey, Black, Camouflage, and Black/Hi-Viz. It’s also available in women’s sizes S-3XL in White/Grey and Black.
For more information: See your dealer or visit flyracing.com
