This rider is enjoying the curves along State Route 60 on his way to Two Wheels of Suches, which is an ideal spot to stop for a cool drink and to see cool motorcycles. (Photos by the author)
Formed roughly 480 million years ago, the Appalachians are a chain of mountains that stretch from Newfoundland, Canada, down to central Alabama. Eons of erosion have rounded and softened their edges, and rivers and creeks have cut deep creases within their slopes. The result is a nearly endless variety of roads that follow the contours of the land, attracting motorcyclists from far and wide like moths to a flame.
The Appalachian Trail begins in North Georgia, on Springer Mountain, not far from one of the best riding loops in the Southeast. The three sides of the Georgia Triangle are anything but straight. In fact, the triangular loop made up of U.S. Route 19 and Georgia State Routes 60 and 180 has some of the most challenging curves and best scenery in a region known for both.
The Georgia Triangle is located in the Blue Ridge Mountains just north of the charming, historic mountain town of Dahlonega. The three-road loop is located within the Chattahoochee National Forest, and there’s an abundance of streams, waterfalls, lush forests, and historic sites in the area. Add in numerous tourist attractions, activities, hotels, bed-and-breakfasts, campgrounds, and eateries, and you’ve got everything you need for a great day ride or a long weekend of exploration.
Plying the curves on State Route 180.
Six miles north of Dahlonega, the triangle begins where U.S. 19 meets State Route 60 at Stonepile Gap. Within the junction’s roundabout is a mound of stones that is said to mark the burial spot of Cherokee Princess Trahlyta. According to legend, Trahlyta was a beautiful princess kidnapped by a Cherokee warrior she refused to marry. Her dying wish was to be buried near her home on the mountain, though she probably didn’t imagine her grave would be surrounded by a ring of asphalt.
Riding north on Route 60 toward the town of Suches is the first leg of the triangle. If you have not been practicing your cornering skills, be cautious. These roads are not for the faint of heart. They can either be exhilarating or nerve-wracking, depending on your motorcycle’s cornering clearance and your comfort with tight S-curves and decreasing-radius turns. For the alert, confident rider, these roads offer an unforgettable riding experience, with gorgeous scenery and well-maintained pavement.
A shady spot on State Route 180.
About 5 miles up Route 60 is Woody Gap, and a look to the left reveals an expansive valley with Springer Mountain rising on the other side. The Appalachian Trail crosses the road nearby, and other stops on the road have signs and information about Civil War battles, gold mining sites, and hiking trails.
In the small town of Suches is a well-known motorcycle lodge and campground called Two Wheels of Suches, a popular meet-up spot. On weekends the parking lot is filled with bikes of all styles and vintages, and riders from all over. There’s an onsite restaurant that serves burgers, sandwiches, snacks, and drinks on Friday nights and weekends. The main lodge offers rooms for rent, and there are small cabins and campsites with a bathhouse on the property. A single-person campsite is $15/night, cabins are $65/night, and lodge rooms are $75/night.
Two Wheels of Suches is a motorcyclists’ oasis.
A stone’s throw from Two Wheels of Suches is the junction with State Route 180, also known as Wolf Pen Gap Road. This segment of the ride is without a doubt the most challenging leg of the triangle, with more tight curves and steep grades per mile than any other paved road in Georgia. The first few miles are a sedate and primarily straight two-lane blacktop leading to Lake Winfield Scott Recreation Area. When the lake’s emerald-green water is calm, it acts as a large reflecting pool for the mountains that surround it. And it is a particularly scenic spot in the fall when the leaves change color.
Once past the lake, the roller-coaster ride begins with a sign that says “Sharp Curves and Grades Next 5 Miles.” Route 180 snakes through the Sosebee Cove Scenic Area with speed limit signs on some curves reading as low as 10 mph, with nary a straight section of road. Stay sharp and heed the caution signs. The great thing about this section of the Georgia Triangle is that it’s only 11 miles long – the same length as the Tail of the Dragon in Tennessee – so you can ride it back and forth to your heart’s content.
Canada Creek passes through the Two Wheels of Suches property.
In Cherokee mythology, Blood Mountain, located within the Georgia Triangle, was home to the Nunnehi or Immortals. It was also the site of a fierce battle between the Cherokee and Creek tribes.
Just before Route 180 merges with U.S. Route 19, it passes by Lake Trahlyta, which is part of Vogel State Park. You can swim in the lake and stay in the park, which offers tent camping, RV sites, and rental cottages and yurts. Georgia is often hot and humid in the summer, even up in the mountains. I have stopped here on a hot day for a quick change and a swim, so pack your swimsuit.
Riding south on U.S. 19 is the last leg of the triangle. The road here is wider, with passing zones for easily and safely getting around slower traffic. Still, it has magnificent twisting sections of repeating S-curves and turns, great scenery, and worthwhile stops all the way back to the triangle’s starting point.
Lake Trahlyta is part of Vogel State Park, located in the northeastern corner of the triangle.
Continuing to the junction with Route 60 yields total mileage around the triangle of about 36 miles. The travel time for a nonstop ride is about 90 minutes at a reasonable rate of speed, but why hurry? The beautiful forest ride and options for stops make a leisurely pace worthwhile. Or, follow the lead of many motorcyclists and repeat the loop or run it in reverse. You won’t be bored, I promise.
Part of what makes the Georgia Triangle such a target-rich destination is that it’s a hub for other great rides in the area. Route 60 is a joy to ride not just to Suches but beyond, all the way to Route 76. From there, head east to Hiawassee, the scenic town on Lake Chatuge, or west to Route 515, which becomes I-575 and takes you to Atlanta.
A real estate investment opportunity on U.S. 19.
If you’re looking to explore further, taking Route 60S (also known as Murphy Highway) northeast at Mineral Bluff into North Carolina will lead you to U.S. Route 74 and the town of Murphy, North Carolina. Continuing east on U.S. Route 64 is a scenic ride through the Hiawassee River and Lake Chatuge areas, and several roads connect back to the Georgia Triangle area.
Continuing north on U.S. 19 past Vogel State Park, Route 180 breaks away again and continues east. A short hop on 180 takes you to State Route 348, also known as the Richard B. Russell Scenic Highway, another gem of a road. Or continue east on 180 to Brasstown Bald, the highest point in Georgia (4,784 feet), which on a clear day offers a 360-degree view of four states.
Ride to eat, eat to ride. The Smith House in Dahlonega serves some of the best country cooking in the region. Don’t wear tight pants.
If you are planning a stay in the area, Dahlonega is a charming, historic town known for its history of gold exploration and mining. Legend has it that in the 1540s, Spanish explorer Hernando DeSoto searched this area for El Dorado, the legendary lost city of gold. Dahlonega was the site of the second major U.S. gold rush in the early 1800s and still has active mines where visitors can pan for gold and gemstones. For lunch or dinner, I highly recommend the Smith House, which serves fried chicken, ham, sides, and desserts family-style, with platter after platter passed around long tables. Just to the east of Dahlonega is Helen, a quaint alpine-style village. Both towns offer many choices for lodging, dining, and shopping.
If you’re undecided about which road to ride first, throw a dart at the map – chances are wherever it lands, you’ll find a winner. North Georgia offers hundreds of miles of great roads to ride, and the Georgia Triangle is just the beginning.
Ohio State Route 555, also known as the Triple Nickel, has for a long time been a beacon, calling single riders or large groups from all corners to experience its challenge. (Photos by the author)
No more than 10 miles from where I learned to ride a motorcycle is one of our country’s finest set of twists and turns. Prejudiced, you may be thinking, but these are not just my thoughts. They come straight from Car and Driver magazine, which in 2020 published a list of the dozen best driving (and riding!) roads in America. First on their list: Ohio State Route 555, also known as the Triple Nickel.
It’s a throwback, a two-lane highway built in another era, originally a gravel road for farmers and small-town folk to get to the big cities of Zanesville or Belpre, back in the Depression years when you might find a Hudson or Studebaker puttering along its 63 miles, the driver cursing every twist and turn that today make it a destination for car and motorcycle enthusiasts.
The Triple Nickel has the feel of a time long ago. Some may think it has a nostalgic charm, but don’t be deceived. There’s attitude-a-plenty along its miles. Photos by the author.
Nicholas Wallace introduced his Car and Driver piece by writing about the mystique of the best places to aim your car, or in our case, motorcycle: “Looking for an adventure – even if only in your mind? Let these treks take you away. Maybe it’s the fact that, despite constricting responsibilities and busy schedules, the car still stands as a beacon of freedom in our daily lives. It would take us hundreds of pages to list every great road, so instead we’ve brought you twelve of the best. Twisty, scenic, dangerous, and remote, these routes offer a lifetime’s supply of variety. So pack your stuff and head out – we promise it will be worth it.”
Pick a direction and at some point the highway will take you there, but rarely in a straight line.
Our motorcycles offer us that same beacon of freedom. Starting just south of Zanesville, I’ve been down our great Ohio highway many times, always on something made for scraping footpegs, not that I still have that kind of nerve. But today was to be different. For this ride I’d be on three wheels, on my brother’s Can-Am Spyder. It was to be my maiden voyage, my first time on his trike, soon to be mine. Chuck had warned me about an adjustment period, the time it would take to get comfortable on a machine so different from the two-wheeled motorcycles that have carried me for over half a million miles.
But my life had changed. Two vertigo attacks within three days had forced me to open my eyes to what might come next. The first bout had been when riding my Beemer on a western Ohio county road. In an instant I simply lost all sense of balance, going left of center and crashing in a farmer’s front yard. Luckily, I was unhurt and there was little damage to my bike. The second attack, when in my car, sealed the deal. For nearly a year since my crash, I’d been without a bike, until today.
The three-wheeled cycle, a 2014 model, had been Chuck’s pride and joy, the best bike he’d ever owned, he told me. Riding it that day was bittersweet. It should have been Chuck out on his Spyder. But his life had taken a turn of its own. For half of his 66 years he’d been plagued with muscular dystrophy, the disease slowly eating away at his ability to get around. It had finally gotten the upper hand, relegating Chuck to a walker and a wheelchair.
Dozens of American flags lined a long section of the highway, quickly out of view over the next hilltop. Around Halloween, there are small pumpkins on display.
But he had not gone quietly into his new solitude. Over the previous several years, Chuck had a single focus: to get his Spyder to 200,000 miles. He’d pushed hard, riding hundreds of miles every day. Only three years earlier he’d ridden over 43,000 miles in 12 months, with every year but the last tallying well over 30,000. But last June, at the height of the riding season, his body told him it was finished. It was done. (You can read more about Chuck’s high-mileage pursuits in “Chuck’s Race”.)
There are reminders along the highway of other eras, with Ohio’s famous highway having outlived them all.
Chuck had put up a valiant fight, but there are some things a human being simply can’t overcome. That last day, when he parked his trike, its odometer was frozen at 188,303 miles. But now, on this day – my day – it was to move again. It had fresh oil and a full tank of gas, so all I had to do was to check the tire pressure. Chuck had kept his Can-Am road-ready all winter, sometimes visiting and sipping a beer or two, reminiscing about the good old days, sometimes firing it up, simply to listen to the Spyder’s engine quietly humming along.
Farms, some owned by the Amish, thrive in the area, most found on hilly terrain, our motorcycles carving along their boundary lines.
The Spyder had been waiting, patiently, for nearly a year for its next adventure. It had waited long enough. Me too! For his trike, this was to be a new spring with a long summer ahead. There were miles to be ridden, new places to explore, with me holding the grips.
It was to be a careful ride. It was me that had to be broken in. Chuck watched as I rode up and down his rural road, getting my first feel of the Spyder. I couldn’t help but wonder what was going through his mind. He knew it would be my goal to get his Spyder’s odometer in motion once again, to get it past 200,000 miles. His trike was not meant to sit as a quiet monument to its past glory. What Chuck knew, in no uncertain terms, was that the road was where his Spyder was meant to be. And maybe, hopefully, this year it would take me along other top-ranked riding roads.
Near the highway’s northern beginning, the Triple Nickel Saloon has a sign out front asking everyone to “Look Out For Motorcycles.”
With both Chuck’s and my limitations, this three-wheeled cycle was meant for where I was heading. True, on a road meant for many to be a test of their riding talents, maybe riding the Triple Nickel wasn’t my wisest decision. There would be a learning curve, that I knew. But what better road was there to get the feel for the Spyder, to accelerate that learning curve, than where others went to challenge themselves. And for my Sunday ride, this highway, one of Ohio’s least traveled, was perfect.
The Triple Nickel Diner is in Chesterhill, the prettiest of the small communities along the highway. Some who ride the highway consider dining there mandatory.
“While not the most technical course,” Wallace wrote, “the Triple Nickel’s combination of high-speed sweepers and tight, low-speed corners means there’s something for everyone.” Granted, the other 11 highways in his story may have offered something more unique, a view of the Pacific, or the northern tundra along the Top of the World Highway, or the relentless craziness of the Tail of the Dragon. Of the nine highways on the list I’d ridden, the Triple Nickel, with its twists and turns, may have more closely resembled Mulholland Drive in California. But as I rode on, there was no question that Ohio State Route 555 fit right in.
This ride offered me the solitude I needed. This was a reawakening for me, a bridge from my past to a new future, to again feel the wind and see the road surface blurring beneath me. But respect for the highway was in order. The riding rules had changed. The undulating highway surface beneath me, not my natural sense of balance when on two wheels, set all of the rules. There was an initial element of uncertainty, with me in an unsettled place, somewhere between riding on two wheels and driving a car.
Words to live by, found at the Pleasant Hill M.E. Church Cemetery, the church founded in 1889 but long ago abandoned.
At one of my stops, local resident Tom Collins, who had seen me ride by and knew of this highway’s history all too well, summed up its danger in only one sentence, reminding me that, “For every mile of highway, there are two miles of ditches.” Riding buddy Mac Swinford added, “The 555, especially between Ringgold and Chesterhill, resembles a paved footpath constructed by a drunk who hated people.”
Cannelville, then Deavertown and Portersville, were first in line, three tiny towns forgotten as soon as I rode beyond them, reminded of their names only by looking at my map. Then Chesterhill, a quaint and attractive community, and Bartlett, where you can find lunch if you know where to look. You can get gas just north of Chesterhill on Ohio Route 377, and in Bartlett a half mile to the east on Ohio 550, another great ride by the way, but nowhere else
Judy Pletcher’s front porch message in Deavertown, something I had to stop and ask about. It was something she had seen and liked, and a gift from her daughter, Martha.
Russell Pletcher, a Vietnam veteran, with one of his pride and joys, a ’64 Chevrolet Impala SS. Russell scored 15 points for the York Tigers basketball team in their February 12, 1965, 171-point record performance, a record that still stands today.
The highway draws you in, encompassing you in a unique way. Then all too suddenly, once after little Decaturville, then into Fillmore and near Little Hocking, the highway ends. One minute you’re on the highway, and then the next it’s over, finished. There’s not even a sign. Every time I ride this road there’s an immediate sense of disappointment, wishing there was more.
A new chapter opens for Chuck, from two wheels to three and now on four, where he can still feel the breeze against his face. He installed a GPS unit in his new golf cart to keep track of his speed, and naturally his miles driven. What else would you expect? Chuck’s race continues.
If it hadn’t been for my brother’s Spyder, I doubt I’d ever have ridden again. At 72 years of age, I might have simply allowed myself to leave behind the joy of riding I’ve known from before my adult years. Chuck sensed it too. He wanted me to ride toward a sunset he could no longer enjoy. There are always new highways, singular places we need to find, known and unknown to us. This day I was being introduced to the Spyder that would take me to many of them.
This highway is worthy of its #1 ranking, with its endless array of ups and downs and arounds, where not long ago I might have stretched my limits. But that was not my purpose this first day on the Spyder. By the end of my ride, I knew Chuck’s trike a lot better. I knew after the Triple Nickel’s 63 miles it was something I could get used to. I should know better by the time the odometer rolls over 200,000 miles.
Ride on!
The Can-Am felt right at home. It had been here before. But for me, on my first Spyder ride, it was slower going, calling for caution and patience
Riding For Warriors 7th annual tour riders. From left: Michael Nehlsen, Jim Kessler, James McQueen, Jim McQueen, Sr., Tom Stein, and Joey Mac Dizon.
The seventh annual Riding For Warriors event recently completed its six-day motorcycle ride to commemorate the 20th anniversary of 9/11, raising over $100,000 for Hope For The Warriors and its Warrior’s Wish program. Air Force veteran Michael Nehlsen led six of his fellow riders from his home state of New Jersey on a 900-mile journey ending in New York, visiting 9/11 memorials and related locations to remember and honor the victims of the attacks.
Hope For The Warriors is a 15-year-old nonprofit serving the warrior community — active-duty, veterans, military families, caregivers, and families of the fallen. Through one of its first established programs, Warrior’s Wish, Hope For The Warriors fulfills a desire for a better quality of life and works to provide rewarding experiences for those who have sacrificed their physical and psychological health in the line of duty.
Front row behind flag: Jim Kessler, Matt Smith, Michael Nehlsen, James McQueen. Second row: Jim McQueen, Sr., Debbie Kessler, Rebecca Nehlsen, Frank Prigmore. Back row: Tom Stein, Anna Hillmann, Joey Mac Dizon
“Being the 20th Anniversary of 9/11 and being able to support our veteran community with Hope For The Warriors through the Warriors Wish program has been an honor and a privilege over the past seven years,” said Nehlsen. “The team of riders and support staff that accompanied me this year made the importance and impact of the journey from the NYC Ground Zero Memorial to the Flight 93 Memorial and finally to the Pentagon memorial a lifetime memory of brotherhood and sisterhood. We also met a lot of wonderful people along the way that have made a lifetime impact on me and I am sure all the others on the ride. 2021 solidified the very reason I started this journey seven years ago and will continue in the future. God Bless America and all our brothers and sisters who have served our great nation’s military past and present.”
This was the seventh year Nehlsen has led the tour and given his time to the charity, traveling over 30,000 miles on his motorcycle and raising over $253,000 for Warrior’s Wish, providing wounded veterans with woodworking and farm equipment, family trips, a horse trailer, a bass boat, bicycles and more.
“Every day we are reminded why Hope For The Warriors was born from the tragedies that took place on 9/11.” said Robin Kelleher, co-founder and president of Hope For The Warriors “The need to care for military families has not waned in the 20 years since the 9/11 attacks and it is with deep appreciation of Michael, Hillmann Consulting and the many supporters for sharing HOPE’s mission along the ride and raising critical funds to support our clients that need assistance”
The 9/11 Memorial and Museum in New York City.
About Hope For The Warriors: Founded in 2006, Hope For The Warriors is a national nonprofit dedicated to restoring a sense of self, family, and hope for post-9/11 veterans, service members, and military families. Since its inception, Hope For The Warriors has served over 36,000 through a variety of support programs focused on clinical health and wellness, sports and recreation, and transition. One of the nonprofit’s first programs, Military Spouse and Caregiver Scholarships, has awarded over 170 scholarships to caregivers and families of the fallen.
For more information and to make a donation to Hope For The Warriors or its Warriors Wish program, visit: hopeforthewarriors.org
This feature was published in the August 2021 issue of Rider. (Photos by Eric Trow)
I was doing a valve adjustment on a vintage BMW at home in southwestern Pennsylvania as my then 13-year-old son Parker looked on. “You know, Park, 20 years ago I rode a bike like this one across the country.” Pause. “Maybe I should take a 20th anniversary ride to the West Coast and back.” Without hesitation, Parker replied, “Make it the 25th anniversary and I’ll go with you!”
The thought of traveling across the country by motorcycle with my son was a fabulous notion. But, while such an adventure with Dad might seem fantastical to a kid, surely new priorities would squeeze out this plan by the time he turned 18. Yet, Parker continued to research the trip, propose routes, and suggest must-see attractions. We pored over maps and travel books. We read Blue Highways – him for the first time and me for the third – about the wonders of traveling America’s two-lane highways. This whimsical idea was evolving from abstract to absolute.
After five years of planning, father and son are ready to embark on their epic journey to discover America.
We still had his mother to convince. I reassured her Parker would first get the requisite training and emphasized how this trip would allow the boy to develop his skills while under my constant observation. I would avoid setting firm daily destinations and, instead, we would stop when we got tired. Or sooner. We would send her updates from the road, and she could track our progress through the Spot satellite tracker software. Disapprovingly, she gave her approval.
Parker kept a journal to document the experience. It began on the first night of our journey after we set up camp in Indiana.
After three days riding across the Great Plains, the mountains were a welcome sight.
After years of preparation, the faraway date arrived. Family, friends, and a couple neighbors I don’t think I’d ever met gathered to give us a proper send-off. Parker and I slipped the bikes – him on a Triumph Bonneville Thunderbird and me on a BMW R 1150 R, both heavily laden with luggage – into gear and eased onto the road, leaving family and friends waving in the mirrors. The made-for-TV moment was made a little less dramatic when I had to ride back for my wallet, but it was still pretty cool.
Eric and Parker Trow, as they cross into Colorado.
Blue highways took us through small-town America.
Escaping the familiar landscape of Pittsburgh, we picked up U.S. Route 50 west heading into unknown territories for Parker. After nagging technology issues, we abandoned the bike-to-bike radio comms and went old-school. Although we were traveling just a few bike lengths apart, we would experience the road individually. Later, when we stopped for gas or food, or at the end of the day, we would recall what we saw and thought about. I’d nearly forgotten how special such conversations can be. It was satisfying to see how much Parker was enjoying the experience and connecting with the magic of back roads and small-town America.
We always though of West Virginia as “almost heaven.” Colorado provides some tough competition for that claim.
A pivotal moment was when we stopped in historic Madison, Indiana, for a bite. As we strolled the sidewalk in search of a coffee shop, an older gentleman approached from the opposite direction. “Good morning!” he said joyfully. It was a standard social exchange except for one thing: instead of continuing to walk on by after the polite acknowledgement, the man stopped. We stopped. And right there, we began an impromptu conversation.
Silhouetted cowboys on horseback welcomed Eric and Parker to Dodge City, Kansas.
I think the scene threw Parker off for a moment, but he quickly embraced it. The man asked about our journey and listened with interest. He told us about his town and his life there. And, as we paused to engage with each other, strangers became acquaintances. The gentleman undoubtedly went on to tell others the story of the father-and-son two-wheel travelers he’d met, and Parker and I have shared the story of this kind and interesting man as well. This is the small-town friendliness and hospitality I was drawn to as a young solo traveler, and it was wonderful to see Parker discovering it as well.
Carrying a tremendous sense of responsibility, I devoted a good bit of my attention to making sure all was well with Parker behind me.
In each town we would eat local and order what the locals ate. In Syracuse, Kansas, the favorite was lengua tacos. That’s cow tongue, for the unfamiliar.
That brings to mind another encounter. A man on his riding mower waved enthusiastically to Parker and me from his front yard as we rode by. We waved back with matched enthusiasm. About a mile ahead, Parker and I made a U-turn, deciding to circle back to explore an interesting store we’d passed. As we rode back by the mowing man, he was waving just as fervently as before. We waved again. Following our store visit, we traveled past the man and his mower for a third time. Sure enough, his arm was high in the air. That’s when Parker and I realized our new friend was a mannequin that had been placed on the riding mower, its arm propped in a permanent welcoming wave to passersby.
We waved to this guy each of the three times we passed by the property. By the third time we recognized it was a mannequin placed to welcome travelers.
I’d ridden the interstate through Missouri and Kansas in the past and have little to recall – the super slab isolates travelers from the local culture. Parker and I rode into the heartland instead of past it. No rest-stop plazas for us; we visited family-owned restaurants and sampled the local flavors, like lengua (tongue) tacos at El Rancho in Syracuse, Kansas.
Traveling across the endless Great Plains gives one abundant time to think. Or get mischievous. Recognizing it was time to update Parker’s mother, we paused to take photos of each other performing “stunts,” including standing on the seat and riding without hands on the controls. We texted her the pictures with greetings from Kansas. In reality, the bikes were parked securely on their centerstands at the shoulder of the road, but the camera cropped out that little detail. Mom was not as amused as we were.
Kansas left us abundant time to be creative. We posed for pictures to send as travel updates to Parker’s mother. For the record, the bike was parked on its centerstand along the shoulder of the road.
When the landscape goes unchanged for hours, one gets silly ideas when something fresh and different pops up.
Eventually, the Rocky Mountains rose before us, and Parker had an opportunity to apply his training as we took to the demanding mountain passes of Colorado. I threw in a favorite 36-mile scenic dirt stretch known as Colorado River Road to show Parker the joys that can be found down a dirt road and to build his confidence riding unpaved surfaces on a loaded streetbike. We went on to conquer Independence Pass and, from there, got every penny out of the Million Dollar Highway, as we negotiated its daunting twists, turns, and drop-offs in the rain.
Out West, dark skies like this can linger for hours and present the rider with intense weather and tough decisions.
Just beyond Four Corners (the juncture of Arizona, Utah, Colorado, and New Mexico) an ominous black cloud loomed overhead. Afternoon Western storms can be severe and sometimes move slowly, an d, in this open territory, there is no place to duck for cover. I knew such storms were often isolated and this one appeared to be small, so with just one path available to get us to where we needed to go, we leaned toward the darkness and into an intense, blinding downpour. We emerged just a couple minutes later into sunny skies. I pulled over to make sure Parker was okay and to talk about the experience. He asked if I’d seen the other rider who had pulled over in the downpour to wait it out. With such a slow-moving storm, the guy was likely to get pelted for another hour or more.
They call it the Great American Desert. Yet this little patch is the only sand we saw.
Our path took us to the South Rim of the Grand Canyon and then over to America’s Mother Road, old U.S. Route 66. We wheeled into Seligman, Arizona, as night fell where an abundance of neon signs and classic American roadside attractions were abuzz. The next day, our kicks continued on Route 66 over to Kingman. Thinking Parker would enjoy seeing Las Vegas, we detoured north.
Unfortunately, my gamble on Vegas was a bust. Bumper-to-bumper traffic on the Strip plus 110-degree heat dealt us a bad hand. With no air movement, the heat inside our riding gear was unbearable. My air-cooled BMW’s valves rattled in protest each time I twisted the throttle. It wanted out, Parker wanted out, and I was more than willing to oblige. Without exploring a single casino, we fought our way back to the desert highway. We had taken a four-hour detour just to sit in Vegas traffic in sweltering heat. That’s when I learned just how much my son dislikes being hot.
After days of straightline riding across the Plains, the curves and elevation were a welcome sight.
It was 114 degrees in the desert. At 70 mph I opened my faceshield to get some relief from the heat inside my helmet only to meet a blast furnace of even hotter air. At a stop, I paid a fortune for two large bottles of water. After drinking a couple swigs of mine, I poured the rest onto my shirt to soak it down for evaporative cooling. Good idea had I not been wearing a moisture-wicking shirt. The water sluiced off the shirt and onto the hot pavement where it evaporated instantly. Parker laughed, and that was all it took to lighten the mood.
Years ago I had taken the same photo with my brother when I arrived in California. I was thrilled to emulate the pic with my son 25 years later.
In contrast to the open desert highway, we went on to navigate the frenzied L.A. freeways and then we surfed the rad canyons of the Santa Monica Mountains above Malibu, ultimately winding our way back to U.S. Route 101. A right turn and we were tracing the coastline northward.
One night, with limited lodging options along a remote stretch of Highway 1 and daylight gone, we set up camp in the pitch blackness at a roadside pull-off. We could hear the ocean, so it must have been a prime spot. Come daylight, we found we’d pitched our tent less than 10 feet from the edge of a sheer cliff with a hundred-foot drop to the rocks below. Thankfully, neither of us stepped out to relieve ourselves in the middle of the night.
We set up camp in the blackness of night. By morning we realized we’d pitched our tent less than 10 feet from a cliff high above the rocky ocean shore.
We stumbled upon Laguna Seca Raceway in Monterey and watched vintage sports cars practicing for the weekend’s races. We had the best eggs benedict breakfast ever in Carmel (Katy’s Place), rode on to San Francisco, did the Golden Gate Bridge thing, and then worked our way east away from the hustle and bustle into the serenity of the Eldorado National Forest and Lake Tahoe region. We’d seen countless small towns by this point, but none as small as Kyburz. A sign outside an old hotel read, “Welcome to Kyburz. Now leaving Kyburz.”
From Reno, we ventured onto “The Loneliest Road in America,” the endless stretch of U.S. Route 50 extending forward to the ends of the earth. No traffic. No animals. No gas stations – a disconcerting notion when the fuel light comes on and there is no sign of civilization for miles ahead and at least 120 miles to the rear.
With no vehicles or people for miles in any direction, U.S. Route 50 through Nevada is aptly named The Loneliest Road in America.
Some 400 miles later, the wide-open nothingness eventually transitioned to the otherworldly landscape of Utah as we rode State Route 24 to Hanksville, where we established camp. A friendly dog warmed up to Parker and followed him everywhere he went, even tailing our bikes for a quarter-mile as we rolled out the next morning toward Moab.
Paralleling Interstate 70 on the more relaxed U.S. Route 6 back through Colorado was our blue highway choice. It’s amazing how different the experience is even a hundred yards off the interstate. We then crossed I-70, took a few more mountain passes to the north, and rose to 12,000 feet at Rocky Mountain National Park, ultimately wrapping the day in Cheyenne, Wyoming.
From the moment they arrived at the campground in Hanksville, Utah, a dog attached itself to Parker and followed him everywhere he went.
This is what 700 miles on I-80 can do to you. And all he could recall seeing were trucks, cornfields, and rest stops. It was a sharp contrast to the sensory-rich experience of America’s back roads.
The casual travel and spontaneous side trips made for an unforgettable experience, but the time window of our journey was closing. Somewhere around Ogallala, Nebraska, we shifted from lazy blue highways to the frenzied Interstate 80 for the return stretch across Iowa, Illinois, and points east. Although we logged more than 700 miles one particular day, when asked what he saw throughout that day’s ride, Parker could only list cars, cornfields, and truck stops. A sharp contrast to the sensory-rich secondary roads we’d been enjoying previously.
In one giant protracted real-world riding session, Parker discovered an America unknown to many. An America that is still kind, compassionate, welcoming, and helpful. He also discovered more about himself, his values, and his character. As a traveler, Parker discovered how to handle a wide variety of riding and weather conditions and successfully navigate a traveler’s challenges. The experience made him an infinitely better rider, a more passionate traveler, and a true lover of small-town America.
Heading into Arches National Park.
Over our roughly 9,000-mile ride, we also learned a great deal about each other. We bonded over discovery and adventure. When we weren’t talking about bikes or travel, we talked about life. We discovered new aspects of each other and grew our mutual respect. Motorcycles have a way of bringing people closer – even those who are already quite close.
Parker’s Perspective
A month on the road with your dad isn’t what most 18-year-olds have in mind for the gap between high school and adult life, but for me this was like a second graduation. It was the nod from my dad that I was ready to dive into the unknown. It was a sign of trust, but also an invitation to share in a lifelong passion. A welcoming to the club of discovery and the joys of no set plans, time for reflection, and seeing how much diversity this country has to offer while simultaneously learning what ties us all together.
A little dampness couldn’t dampen the spirits of riders discovering incredible new terrain and spectacular vistas.
There’s no way I could have known at age 13 that a few weeks after graduating high school was the perfect time for a trip like this. At the intersection of “my house, my rules” and total freedom was an opportunity to force a perspective shift. To reflect on who I wanted to become as an adult. To evolve my relationship with my dad. To put into perspective the sheer scale of this country I’d lived in for 18 years but had yet to experience. And to challenge myself, testing newly learned skills, and building my confidence to move from the passenger seat to the saddle, in more ways than one.
Over the course of this trip, I finished reading Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, a classic book about a father-and-son motorcycle journey. I was incredibly lucky to have the opportunity to do a trip like this and am grateful that my dad had the gumption to follow through and make it all happen. I had no clue the impact this trip would have on me as a rider, a son, and a person. Fourteen years later, Dad and I could still spend all day talking about the things we experienced together on this trip – leaving enough time, of course, to plan where we will go next. — Parker Trow
Father and son on the the Tail of the Dragon, Tennessee. (Above photo by 129photos.com; other photos by the author)
Dad’s first sojourn through the Appalachian Mountains of Virginia, North Carolina, Tennessee, Kentucky, and West Virginia needed to be grand. Dad is a desert dweller from southern Arizona and has never ridden east of Texas. We agreed on a short list of must-haves: Blue Ridge Parkway, Great Smoky Mountains National Park, and Tail of the Dragon. Everything else – the fall foliage, the swollen creeks and runs, the rural country roads, the morning fog – would be an added bonus.
There would also be pancakes. Lots of pancakes.
We picked up Dad’s Triumph Tiger Explorer at a motorcycle dealership in northern Virginia, where he had it shipped from Arizona. We rode south and entered the Blue Ridge Parkway west of Lynchburg. The parkway is aptly named, with smooth, graceful curves, well-manicured roadsides, and plenty of parking areas to admire the view. A word to the wise, as I learned as point man: pay attention to mile markers. I missed the country road that the kind ladies at Explore Park said would lead us to Mount Airy, North Carolina, our first stop for the night and the birthplace of actor Andy Griffith.
Lush valleys provide a stunning backdrop to the Blue Ridge Parkway, Virginia.
Dad’s Explorer has heated grips and a larger fairing than my Triumph Sprint GT, so he was better prepared for the chilly 40-degree temperatures during our ride. For most of the morning, we enjoyed relative seclusion, clear skies, autumn colors, and beautiful farm country. In one short span, the view of the valley below on my left was stolen by a patch of trees and granite outcroppings only to be returned over my right shoulder. It was a literal tennis match of competing landscapes – valleys of farm country on one side and ridgelines stretching to the horizon on the other.
Traffic increased the farther south we traveled, and overflowing pullouts often prevented us from stopping, so, we leaned back and enjoyed the ride. We left the parkway at Asheville, having decided on Maggie Valley for our overnight stay.
The author’s father posing with their motorcycles on the Blue Ridge Parkway.
A steady downpour and tornado warnings nixed riding the second day, so we covered the bikes and took a taxi to Wheels Through Time. While walking through the museum – home to more than 300 interesting and rare motorcycles – Dad shared stories of his older brother’s 1950 Harley Panhead and their shenanigans on it back on the farm in Iowa. One involved the bike, loaded with three riders, being chased by a dog that gave up the hunt after my uncle retarded the spark for a spectacular backfire. Dad hunted the base of many a cylinder barrel, searching for a stamp that would identify the same year as his brother’s, but to no avail.
Tourist traffic in the lush Great Smoky Mountains National Park slowed our progress. We found a place to park the bikes at Newfound Gap, a 5,049-foot pass on U.S. Route 441, allowing us to stretch our legs. Traffic in the park paled in comparison to the carnival of tourism we saw in Gatlinburg, where we found the Little House of Pancakes.
Dad tucked into a stack of blueberry pancakes, and I gorged on sweet-and-spicy apple pancakes. Between bites – and doing our best not to drip syrup on our map – we sketched out an alternate route back to Maggie Valley. We tested our pioneering skills on Tennessee State Route 32 in search of secluded switchbacks. Any concern about traffic was dispelled by a large red diamond-shaped sign that warned “Do Not Enter, Your GPS is Wrong” a few miles into the alternate route.
Littered with wet leaves and twigs from the previous day’s storms, Route 32’s pucker factor was off the scale, especially when I felt the front wheel push over some wet leaves at the apex of a turn. I rarely engaged 3rd gear after that. Pavement turned to hard gravel at Davenport Gap, where we crossed back into North Carolina on Mount Sterling Road. We found blacktop again at Waterville Road along Big Creek, and after a few miles, under cavernous trees and crags, we came upon Interstate 40 and our path back to Maggie Valley.
Compared to Route 32, the Tail of the Dragon’s 318 curves in 11 miles were not as technical, nor as precarious. The roads in this part of Tennessee, which arc around the southern side of Great Smoky Mountains National Park, plunge into valleys, rise to bluffs overlooking man-made lakes and hydroelectric dams, and hug the steep sides of tree-blanketed mountains. After a full day of Appalachian curves, we stopped for the night in Middlesboro, Kentucky, just a stone’s throw west of Cumberland Gap.
Another sweeping view along the Blue Ridge Parkway.
With our bellies full of pancakes, we rode east on U.S. Route 58 through southwestern Virginia under crisp, blue autumn skies, with ridgelines on our left marking the border with Kentucky. We continued northeast on U.S. Route 19 for our next overnight in Princeton, West Virginia, and we awoke the next morning to find frost on our bikes. Despite the cold, the scenery from Princeton to Elkins on U.S. Route 219 was a moving feast of fields, pastures, valleys, woodland, creeks, rivers, and quaint towns.
This route map is available on the REVER app in the Rider Magazine community.
A section of U.S. 219 we traveled along is known as Seneca Trail. A pleasant surprise around one bend was Indian Creek Covered Bridge, which was completed in 1903 at a cost of $400. The rest of the morning was spent passing farm after farm, including writer Pearl S. Buck’s birthplace in Hillsboro, West Virginia. For pancakes, we recommend Greenbrier Grille and Lodge, overlooking its namesake river in Marlinton.
Our last day involved riding from valley to ridge to valley. We followed curves along various creeks and branches of the Potomac River that snaked their way through the Appalachians. Eventually we had to leave the winding roads behind and hop on Interstate 66 to complete our multi-day loop. For Dad’s first ride east of the Mississippi, he was proud to see his tripmeter roll over 1,504 memorable miles.
The Indian Creek Covered Bridge on West Virginia Route 219.
The 5.30 am alarms has me thinking about the day ahead. It’s a day of mixed emotions as I’ve really missed my partner and family over the past twelve days, but today also brings an end to such a great motorcycle experience. The Tenere has been tested over a variety of terrain and conditions but today will be nearly a thousand kays of bitumen, including the Hay Plains.
I’m greeted by another brisk morning and remain thankful for my heated grips, money well spent. Today will be all about munching miles as I’d prefer not to be riding the last few hours home in darkness. Within an hour I’m refuelling at West Wyalong. I’ve always enjoyed stopping here on my travels as it has a great feel and I enjoy the murals painted on some of the business’s walls (apologies I didn’t take any photos).
Hay Plains proved beautiful, boring, challenging and monotonous…
From here it’s a 250+ kilometre stretch to Hay. The Hay Plains actually runs from Narrandera to Balranald, a total of just over 300 kilometres. I’ll be taking a different route entering Hay from West Wyalong, which is still a remote stretch of road.
The ride from West Wyalong to Rankins Springs isn’t as lifeless and boring as I expected, and the road offers a few curves and changes in scenery. I decide this is a good place to stop and refuel. To my surprise I see a have slight phone reception and decide it’s a good time for a Facebook Live to answer some questions I’ve received.
Off towards Hay and this is where to roads begin to straighten and the wide plains open up. In a strange way I’m actually enjoying the open plains, probably as I can relax and not worry about wildlife jumping into my front wheel. Riding conditions are perfect with temperatures in the early twenties, blue skies with large white clouds providing a touch of character.
My drone has been neglected over the past few days and this is the perfect opportunity to capture the vastness of the Australian Outback. In an ironic twist, even though there are mile nothing I have to search for a safe place to park off the road to be able to launch and fly my drone.
About 30 kays from Hay I find a large and wide entrance to a property with plenty of room to park the bike and launch the drone. Having only owned the drone for a couple of weeks I’m a novice, so I’m nervous when I first launch and the wind instantly catches the drone and pushed it a couple of metres off path. The drone quickly recovers, re-calibrates, and amazes me with its stability. It really is incredible the perspective the drone offers and I spend the next thirty minutes grabbing some footage, all centred around the bike of course.
I’ve stopped in Hay many times over the years and enjoy the experience. I’d love to stop for a pub lunch or at the local bakery, but I’m conscious of time and decide to grab fuel and food at the same stop. I visit one of the truck stops at western end of Hay and indulge in a coffee and some deep fried delights.
As motorcycle riders I think we are all accustomed to, and enjoy the questions whenever we stop. People always seem to have such an interest in motorcycles, perhaps it is simply the sense of adventure they evoke. “Run out of fuel before?”, “How’s the wind effect you?”, “Get good mileage?”, “Bet you’ve got a sore arse.”, “What happens if it rains.”, “I use to have a…”
The Tenere 700 received plenty of attention everywhere I went
There isn’t much to report during the next 400 km to Renmark. Accessories I’m thankful for during the long bitumen stretches? Music steaming through my in-helmet speakers, gel seat topper, Camelback for regular sips and my Zumo XT GPS to keep me updated on speed and distances. I settle into a routine of stop, fuel, snack, drink and continue.
Not far from the South Australian border the landscape changes again and lowering light reveals orange-red sand on the roads edge. My mind wanders to what the next adventure could be and my love for watching the Dakar has me dreaming of a Simpson Crossing. I stop for a photos opportunity to cast the illusion that I’m actually riding across red sand and then continue for the SA border.
A few minutes down the road and I stop at the familiar Yamba fruit fly inspection. There had been some recent Covid cases in Sydney and I was concerned this may impact my return home. The inspection officer approached me with a welcoming smile and asks about my motorcycle travels. I think to myself, ‘This is her sneaky of interrogating me.’
Not at all, she simply asks how my ride had been. She looked at my mountain of luggage and then a looks in my backpack for any fruit. She wishes me a safe trip home and off I ride.
I had slipped behind my schedule as the sun was setting and I still had just over two hours to home. I was feeling fine and the adrenaline of being on the home stretch kicked in. This did mean I’d have to ride the Blanchetown Flats in darkness and dodge Kangaroos.
The Tenere 700 came a long way, as did my riding skills and confidence
I reflect on the past twelve days, why I did this, how it evolved, the highs and lows and what it means for me going forward. In short I’ve ridden over 500,000 km in 30 years, on over 40 different bikes. This was the most adventurous and challenging ride I’ve ever done. At a youthful fifty years of age I’ve stretched my comfort zone, improved my riding, and it felt bloody great.
I love that adventure riding covers such a broad spectrum. It can be exploring bitumen backroads, heading to outback locations or conquering the Valley of Doom. I love the interactions with people, the riders who share their experience and stories, and locals whom overwhelming welcome riders and show a genuine interest in our travels.
I arrive at Blanchetown for my last fuel stop of the trip. There’s more questions from friendly tourists passing through and a warning of kangaroos as I approach Accommodation Hill and Truro. The sun had now set and it would be up to my bug eyed Tenere’s high beam to spot any movement in the bushes.
The skies have been threatening with rain for the past couple of hours but luck had been on my side. Weather was still perfect for riding, although I’ve become soft and use my heated grips at every opportunity. I keep my speed to just below a hundred as the bushes closed in to the road edge. I’m not sure if the roos had been scared off by recent road trains or my eyes were tired, but I saw very few animals along this stretch.
Accommodation Hill is a long uphill stretch that leads you into Truro. Hot summer days regularly claims its collection of cars overheating with caravans and speed boats parked up on the side of the road. Tonight was a clear run into Truro, a town know for all the wrong reason to anyone my age.
Tanunda is an easy twenty-minute ride and I eagerly exit Sturt Highway at Nuriootpa as the Barossa Valley welcome me home. I’d phoned my partner to give her a rough ETA of 8 pm and as I pulled into the driveway the roller door was up and she was awaiting my arrival.
The rally provided some amazing experiences…
Rain had commenced falling just as I turned into the street and the arrival photo in the driveway looked far more dramatic that it really was. The only reason I was wet is because I posed for a photo.
Mission accomplished! Over six thousand kilometres, roughly four and half thousand solo in twelve days. It was encouraging to think at the age of 50 my riding adventures have just begun.
If you’ve ever considered buying an adventure bike and start exploring your own backyard or set off exploring Australia, then have a go. At the beginning of my article I mentioned two things I was missing; an adventure bike and the skills to do it.
It really doesn’t matter what adventure bike you own, $2,000 to $20,000, 250cc to 1200cc, they will all take you to amazing places.
Skills to ride them? You will be amazed how quickly your adventure and off-road riding skills will improve and the number of riders that will offer you tips, advice and coaching. As a side note upon my return I bought a six year old WR250 to practise some sand riding with the aim of Simpson Crossing in 2022.
A third point you’ll no doubt be asking is, “Where do I ride these things?” Online groups like Facebook are an incredible resource. Either join a local area group like South Australia Adventure Bike Riders (if you live in SA), or motorcycle specific groups (in my case Tenere 700). Riders will gladly offer up their favourite tracks and be keen to join you on the ride.
Joining a local riding group, or organised rally or tour is a great idea
“So aren’t you going to tell us your thoughts about the Tenere Mark?” I hear you ask. I’ll spoil the ending now; it’s simply the best bike I’ve ever owned. The V-Strom 1000 is collecting dust, and my WR250R will be for specific sand rides.
It is just the perfect bike for me, and I’ll quickly share my reasons why.
I’m mechanically challenged, so bulletproof reliability is critical.
Less electronic rider aids mean less to go wrong – the Tenere 700 only has ABS.
At 6ft and 110 kg the ergonomics suit me.
It has the power to overtake road trains and comfort for the open highway but is also light and manageable for someone of my limited skills to defeat the Valley of Doom.
I love the Dakar Rally styling.
Of course, that doesn’t mean it’s the perfect bike for you, far from it. Consider your budget, abilities, size and most importantly which bike gets your blood pumping.
If you’ve got this far you’re either an Adventure rider or considering having a go. As Nike say, “Just do it.”
A solid night’s sleep had me feeling refreshed and my decision to investigate a more scenic route on the way home had me inspired. The heated grips were immediately activated as I waved goodbye to the King Kong sized Koala. I couldn’t wait to get to Jerrys Plains to commence the reverse Bylong Highway ride.
One of the more interesting motels I’ve stayed at – Mountain View at Bulahdelah
I merge onto the Pacific Highway and use the helmet time to consider options once I arrive at Mudgee. I picture the Aussie map in my head and realise Bathurst must be just south of Mudgee. It would be un-Australian to be that close to Mt Panorama and not do a lap.
I arrive at Jerrys Plains to fuel up, walk inside and there’s a deep fried chicken schnitzel staring at me from through the glass. 9 am is probably too early for this delicacy, but on the plus side I know it couldn’t have been sitting there too long. I munch down my high protein snack and start my GoPro for some footage of the Bylong Highway.
It doesn’t matter which direction you ride of this section, it’s a great ride. As I pass through the flat farmland section, I see the hills ahead of me and know the entertaining curves aren’t far away. At the base of the hills is a red warning sign with a motorcycle logo and intertwining lines and the words ‘Reduce Speed.’ Who doesn’t smile when they see this?
The road conditions are similar to when I rode through a few days earlier, slightly damp from recent rain. I’m no boy racer, but I enjoy the curves and ride at what I’d best call a spirited pace. The bike feels a little squirrely, nothing concerning, but just enough for me to throttle back slightly.
I put it down to the fact the roads are probably wetter than when I previously came through a few days earlier. As you are reading this you are no doubt shaking your head at me, yep, this time I’m on off road tyres, not 50/50 tyres. Those that know the Pirelli STR and the Rally know there is a massive difference in the front tyres, so it’s a huge credit to the Rally tyres that I was feeling as confident as I did.
The rear Motoz RallZ was feeling pretty good too, but of course my mind takes over now that I realise I’m on dirt tyres and I reduce my pace.
Before I know it I’m only a few kilometres out of Mudgee. This is why I chose the scenic route, the kays seem to pass so much quicker when the ride is entertaining. I decide to stop for an early McLunch to catch up on social media and plan the rest of the days ride.
I message Jeff from DMK as this is his town and if anyone knows some great backroads, he will. Jeff and Alanah are celebrating the birth of Lilah only a few days earlier, so I’m hoping he won’t mind me bothering him.
Jeff gets back to me in a few minutes and suggests the road to Hill End. A quick look on Google Maps shows the road leads south towards Bathurst and has more twists than a pretzel factory. ‘Perfect, thanks Jeff,’ I reply and throw back the last mouthful of coffee and head out to the bike.
Taking in some history at the road to Valentine Gold Mine, at Hill End
It’s only a few kays out of Mudgee before the GPS has me turning left towards Hargraves and Hill End. The smiles begin again as the road conditions change as does the scenery. Just north of Hill End a historic marker points to Valentines Mine. I’m conscious I need to be back in the Barossa by tomorrow night, but how can I ride past a gold mine?
The dirt track is deeply rutted and could easily swallow the Tenere’s front wheel. The track only goes for a kilometres or so and comes to a dead end at the abandoned mine and pumping tower. I love reading historic signs, and this story is a familiar one.
Small gold find quickly followed by a booming hive of activity and riches, then just as quickly the bust as the cost of removing flooding water exceeds the gold that is recovered.
Bathurst is calling and I’m excited to do a lap or two of Mt Panorama on my T7. The road from Hill End to Bathurst is just sensational with a great section of steep hill climbs and descents. The dry roads inspire confidence and the grunty Tenere engine loves pulling out of corners and up any inclines. You have to give it to modern day off road tyres, they are performing much better than I expected on the tar.
As soon as I enter Bathurst the signs point toward the mountain, but I resist the urge as I want to give the bike a quick wash before the upcoming trackside photos.
Fuel, quick drink and $4 at the car wash and I’m on my way to the circuit. If you ‘ve never done a lap of the mountain, it is an absolute must do. It’s only then you have some small appreciation of how skilled the drivers are, especially across the top of the mountain and Skyline.
I turn onto the main straight and start looking for places to stop and take photos. A series of ‘No Stopping’ signs are posted around the majority of the circuit so it means being creative to try to grab an Instagram worth photo. Any thoughts of being heavy with the right grip are quickly tempered by the 60 km/h speed signs around the circuit.
The first lap didn’t reveal any great photo opportunities and I decide to line up with the other cars taking a photos on the main straight. I take a few pics, but I’m not happy with any and head off on a second lap to see how creative I can be. I notice a parking area as you approach the dippers and manoeuvre the bike so the low sun hits my new graphics. Satisfied with my photos I post one to my OzBatts Adventures Facebook page and head off towards my next stop, Cowra.
Stopping at Mount Panorama for a snap
Just over an hour and I arrive in Cowra. The town is steeped in history as the site of the World War II breakout from the Japanese POW camp. 231 Japanese prisoners and four Australian guards died during the breakout. I wanted to stop and visit the memorials and learn more about this part of Australia’s history but the sun was setting and I wanted to ride further tonight.
A quick splash of fuel at a Cowra servo and another familiar sign on the door, ‘Urgent – Staff Wanted.’ This has been a theme for retail and hospitality throughout my trip so far, businesses are struggling to find staff to fill essential jobs.
As I leave Cowra the amount of riding tonight will depend on two factors; how fatigued I feel and if there are trees close to the road edges hiding wildlife. I’m feeling quite refreshed and enjoying the setting sun. So impressive is the sunset I find myself stopping several times in an attempt to capture that perfect bike photo.
As the sun ducks below the horizon I notice a few of the locals hopping through paddocks and am reminded about the dangers of wildlife. Grenfell is only fifteen minutes away and trees begin to close in and I’m concerned I wont see skippy if he’s feeding by the edge of the road. I decide that Grenfell will be tonight’s final stop and I look for any motels displaying a vacancy sign.
Grenfell is only a small town with a population just over two thousand and therefor offers limited accommodation. I find a motel in the main street and my lucky steak continues as they have one room left. At reception the mature lady at the counter greets me with, “Don’t let the cat out!”.
How can you not stop for sunset photos like these…
I glance down to see her furry friend that makes Garfield look petite. She ends up being quite friendly (the lady, not the cat) and we discuss the downturn that Grenfell has experienced over the past few twelve months. She tells me that since COVID hit six businesses in town have closed down, but she is hopeful that recent tourism will help the town bounce back.
I unload the bike, grab a burger from the only open takeaway and settle into my room for the night. I open my Facebook and see a list of notifications which include questions about the trip, the Tenere, accessories and of course tyres. I was surprised the most popular photo was from Mt Panorama as I wasn’t 100 per cent happy with the composition, but it is such an iconic race circuit.
Reality sets in that I have only one day left and have 980 kilometres to travel. Decision made, it will be the Hay Plains and bitumen the entire way home.
Day 11: 660 total km. Highlight – Couple of laps around Mt Panorama. Must do – Ask locals or Facebook groups for scenic options.
I woke early, excited about the final day of the rally and decided it was a good opportunity to give the T7 a quick bath. After a visit to the local car wash I headed back for the complimentary continental breakfast and my final chance to catch up with all the riders prior to departure.
The RideADV team thanked everyone for attending the rally and emphasised safety for the final day – let’s not get too carried away as we head towards the finish line. I’d come to learn that ‘offs’ and dropping a 200 kg adventure bike was going to happen and was simply part of riding large dirt bikes.
Day One of the rally I was devastated to drop my pride and joy, but the monkey was off my back and I was learning the differences between road bikes and dirt/adventure bikes.
Today’s ride was to take us through Loomberah, Bowling Alley Point, Hanging Rock state forest, Nowendoc, Cooplacurripa, Tapin tops, Mooral Creek, Upper Lansdowne and Bago before finishing where it all began at Wauchope.
Greg sent us on our way and I was excited to head towards the forest early in the day. As the first bike was about to depart Greg yells out to hold all riders as an important message had just come through from the zero riders. We gather around for the impromptu briefing. “There’s heavy fog, almost zero visibility in the forest and the wildlife is horrific,” Greg explains. Sounds like an awesome adventure to me.
We were warned about the heavy fog as we entered Hanging Rock State Forest
We turn right out of the hotel with my eyes fixated on the GPS to see how soon until we deviate off the main road. Greg and the team don’t disappoint and within minutes we turn left and start to climb towards the awaiting forest. I’m amazed how quickly the roads change transforming from wide straight bitumen to dirt roads that begin to weave and ascend into the forest.
Once again I’m thankful for my heated grips as temperature hover in the single digits. The warning of heavy fog was accurate as a thick soup like mist clung to pine trees and blanketed our entire surroundings. Deep into the forest and my speed drops to below 40 km/h as visibility decreases. At one point a fellow rider pulls up beside me and shrugs his shoulders and we both laugh at the conditions.
It’s one of those times on the rally when I feel I need to pinch myself, I really can’t believe I’m here in this mystical forest on my Tenere. The ride through the forest is amazing and time passes so fast as we head towards our only fuel stop at Nowendoc.
The group is spread out during the morning and as I pull into our fuel stop there are a dozen or so bikes queued up at the single bowser. This is also our only chance for food during the day so I grab a egg and bacon sandwich plus a bag of strawberry cream lollies for later in the day.
I’ve been posting a few photos to Facebook during the rally and had even created my own Facebook page, OzBatts Adventures. I thought it was a great time to do a Facebook Live and chat with a few of the riders on camera. The guys were happy to jump in front of the camera and a highlight was one of the riders’ kids at work watching live and thrilled to see Dad.
Dirt roads weave their way through the surrounding mountains, perfect for any adventure bike
The fog had now cleared as we exited the forest and head towards some open roads. What else can they dish up on the rally? What can we see that we haven’t already explored? If I enjoyed the ‘Australian Safari’ feel from yesterdays ride, this was next level. As I come over a rise and cattle grid the view is spectacular with seemingly endless rolling hills with a single dirt track threading it’s way through them.
For the next hour or so you can’t smack the grin from my face. I take the opportunity to stop and take some scenic photos and some of riders as they pass and gain some air over cattle grids. I’d love to send the drone up, but it’s realistically twenty minutes by the time you pack up and set off again.
My Facebook live and several photo stops had placed me at the back of the pack and it wouldn’t be long and the sweep riders would be catching me. I don’t want to get on the wrong side of Abbey the sweep rider, and she doesn’t want to get stuck behind ‘Batts the slow rider’.
I jump back on my trusty T7, I twist the throttle and slip back into my Dakar fantasy. The GPS guides me over the blanket of hills which eventually begin to flatten. A few more twisties are thrown in and I’m really enjoying the variety and challenges.
As I approach a left turn I see a Tenere parked on the corner and I don’t immediately see the rider. As I turn left I see a rise which is immediately followed by a sweeping left. Two more bikes are parked up and I see all three riders. It’s obvious there’s been a coming together of bikes and one of the guys is holding his hand and another is sitting on an embankment looking pale. Abbey arrives just behind me, and we both check out the riders and make sure everyone is okay.
Abbey radios Greg who rides back to assess the situation. In a safety-first approach it’s decided two of the riders will return in the back up vehicle to be checked out and their bikes placed on the trailer. As the sweep riders will be helping with loading bikes, Greg decides that the third rider and I will ride with him via a shorter route back to Wauchope. It’s times like this you really appreciate the value of riding with a professional group and having access to communication and a backup vehicle.
Even as the rally drew to an end, RideADV still had a few surprise twists and turns
I’ll be honest, I wasn’t overly disappointed to miss the last portion of the days ride. Reports came through from the zero riders that they were encountering wet, greasy clay tracks – and we know how much I love clay.
The ride back to Wauchope gave me a chance to reflect on the past four days. Prior to departing the Barossa I was incredibly nervous about the rally and if it was beyond my abilities. After two crashes and feeling like the walking wounded on the morning of day one I was convinced it was beyond my abilities.
From the lows of certain defeat I experienced the adrenaline rush of conquering the Valley of Doom. Then day two, three and four dished up a variety of roads, conditions and scenery I wouldn’t have thought was possible in such a short time frame. All I could think about was when could I do this again.
As I ride into the Wauchope showgrounds only the first few riders have completed the rally and are collecting their luggage from the Monster Merc.
I chat with a few of the riders, grab my gear and load up the T7 in readiness for the 1800 km trip home. Once packed I seek out the RideADV team and thank them for hosting such an amazing event. I know the term ‘life changing’ gets thrown around a lot, but I now believe I’m an adventure rider and this is something I’ll do for many years to come.
Greg Yager is busy coordinating the conclusion of the rally so I briefly thank him for not only running the event, but for encouraging me over the previous few weeks to ride across from Adelaide.
Keeping consistent with my trip so far, I had no fixed plans or accommodation booked for the ride home. It was now about four pm on Wednesday, and I have to be back in the Barossa Valley sometime on Friday night, 1,687 kms if I take the shortest possible bitumen route.
If I’m going to ride at night then its safest on highways and not kangaroos infested back roads. I set myself a goal of five hours riding ending up somewhere south of Sydney.
It’s perfect riding weather as I merge into the Pacific Highway traffic and begin the long bitumen run. After about thirty minutes of riding I feel a wave of fatigue and decide it’s a good time to fuel up and grab a coffee, Red Bull or both. Refuelled and recharged lets try this again. I accelerate and merge onto the Pacific Highway ready to dodge whatever Sydney traffic throws at me.
It appears the past ten days has caught up with me and the long black coffee is having little effect. My eyes are heavy and my focus is waning, neither ideal when riding in traffic. Next exit is only a few minutes up the highway and I stop again to take a stretch and reconsider my plan.
I decide to stop at the nearest motel and plan out an alternative route back to South Australia. A quick google search shows Bulahdelah only fifteen minutes away so I call a budget priced Motel and book myself a room.
Bulahdelah is only a few minutes off the highway and I’m looking forward to checking in to Mountain View Motel which should at least provide a good photo opportunity. Okay, there wasn’t any great mountain view from the motel but it was photo worthy with a giant Koala statue out the front.
If you seek a motel with character this one is or you. Large framed mid century wall art, which are actually massive jigsaw puzzles, original retro blue knitted cushions and a dusty pink and blue tiled bathroom.
I lay back with my GPS and start to consider my options for the ride home. One thing has become very clear since I’ve left Wauchope, I can’t ride on highways for the next two days and I’m going to need to add some fun to the ride. Remember how much I loved the Bylong Highway? Well that has to be my first priority, so off to Mudgee tomorrow.
Day 10: 480 total km. Highlight – Weaving through the hills east of Nowendoc. Must do – Stop riding when tired. Fatigue kills.
Day three of the rally sees us heading towards Tamworth via towns I’ve never heard of like Elsmore, Inverell, Oakwood, Delungra, Bungarra, Lower Horton, Burraba, Manilla and Halls Creek.
The GPS immediately goes to work routing us through some great roads. The route sends us through the main street of Delungra, a typical looking small country town with a population of around 650. What isn’t typical was a bright pink Rock and Roll Diner food truck on the side of the road.
The first attraction of the day was this ‘Rock’n Roll Diner’ cafe in Delungra
The diner looked like the Dagwood Dog or Fairy Floss vans you see at yearly royal shows, except way cooler. I had to stop and meet the owners who were setting up for the day’s business. I chatted with Leanne and John about their business, and they shared the struggles they had faced with cancelled shows due to COVID.
I love marketing and anything that has a bit of wow factor and their business has it in truck loads. Unfortunately, I had to cut the visit short with a quick coffee, mini muffin and few photos.
Just outside of Delungra the GPS guides me towards dirt tracks and some open plains. I approach a series of farm gates and the fun of taking turns in closing and opening gates as riders begin to leap frog each other. The bike is feeling great, I’m growing in confidence, and the scenery continues to impress and amaze me.
The next few hours were some of my favourite of the trip. Blasting across open farmland through a combination of twin tracks and dirt trails. It felt like I was riding in the Australian Safari and at some level living out my youthful dreams.
Finding great backgrounds like these can be a real challenge without a great tour group…
The contrast to day one is incredible, and I’m absolutely loving the challenge of the ride. Everyone can ride at their own pace, mine slower than others but to me it’s an absolute blast. Its proof to anyone that wants to enter their first adventure rally, should just do it.
I catch up with a couple of riders and enjoy the next hour or so riding side by side, launching over cattle grids and blasting across the open plains. We even enjoyed some river crossings, one of which had a long moss covered concrete causeway. One unnamed rider attempted some on-bike yoga during the crossing in an attempt to keep their feet dry, and let say this didn’t end well. This person may have won an award which involved carrying the RideADV mascot, a stuffed wombat.
I’d forgotten that Tamworth was more than a small country town and was surprised by the amount of traffic. We navigated through what felt like peak hour and arrived at the motel where the crew and majority of riders were staying.
Multiple creek crossings also added to the fun of the day
The Mercedes Monster Truck is again awaiting our arrival, so I collect my gear and check into my room for a well earned shower. As I reflect on the day it dawns on me that tomorrow is the last day of the rally. You’d think ten days on the road would be enough, but I wasn’t ready for the rally to finish.
Tonight was going to be our last night together for dinner, and we meet at a pre-arranged pub. Such a diverse group of riders of all ages, from just about every walk of life and we all shared a passion for the mighty Tenere 700 and of course adventure riding.
I even reached out to a good friend of mine Mark Willis, whom I hadn’t seen for decade or more, but remembered he was a resident of Tamworth. Mark messaged me back that he was up for beer and would meet me and the guys at the pub.
Dinner at Tamworth with a couple of legends – Mark Willis and Stephen Gall
Let’s just say Mark is a handy rider, winning a Australian Supermoto Championship and also racing against the likes of Mick Doohan in the 500cc World Championship. Mark also offered a few tips on how to improve my adventure riding.
All too soon the night came to an end and we headed back to our rooms prior to final day of the rally. How can they possibly match the challenge and scenery of the past three days?
Day 9: 440 Total km. Highlight – Feeling like I was riding the Australian Safari. Must do – Call in and say G’day to Leanne and John at the Delungra Rock and Roll Diner.
Upstate New York is rife with bucolic scenery. (Photos by the author)
The two Northeastern stops of the 2021 Progressive IMS Outdoors tour are on consecutive weekends in September. The New York City event will be at the Brooklyn Army Terminal, September 3-5 (Labor Day is the 6th), and the Pennsylvania event will be at the Carlisle Fairgrounds, September 10-12.
This 281-mile route begins in Saratoga Springs, in the heart of upstate New York’s farm and horse country. The town is home to the Saratoga Race Course, one of the oldest horse tracks in the country, dating back to 1863. The annual meet runs from mid-July to Labor Day, but there is harness racing year-round. Saratoga is famous for its mineral springs and bath houses, and there are plenty of excellent restaurants and vibrant nightlife to enjoy.
Saratoga Springs and the surrounding area make for a great escape from the city, or a worthy destination in their own right. You’ll find arts and culture, gambling, gourmet dining, outdoor adventures, and more.
The route leaves Saratoga Springs to the south, on U.S. Route 9, and passes through Malta. It turns east onto State Route 67 and crosses the Hudson River at Mechanicville. Continuing east, Route 67 passes through Schaghticoke and follows the Hoosic River. At Eagle Bridge, the route turns south, and it picks up State Route 22 at the town of Hoosic Falls. At Lebanon Springs, it turns west on U.S. Route 20, then southwest on State Route 66. After crossing Interstate 90 and passing through Chatham, it continues on the Taconic State Parkway.
The 104-mile parkway took 40 years to build, from the mid-1920s until its completion in 1963. Parts of the road were designed by Franklin D. Roosevelt during his tenure as head of the Taconic State Park Commission, and we can thank him for insisting those sections follow the natural landscape instead of powering through in a straight line. Built in a simpler time, the Taconic has narrow lanes, minimal shoulders, and plenty of gentle curves, but do be on the lookout for accidents and state troopers.
The route ends at the George Washington Bridge in Manhattan. From there, many options are available to get to the Brooklyn Army Terminal, which is off the Belt Parkway (Interstate 287) on the edge of Upper Bay. Enjoy the show!
For more information about Progressive IMS Outdoors and to buy tickets, visit motorcycleshows.com.Rider is the media partner for the Adventure Out! area at IMS Outdoors.
