A few years ago, Rider published my article about riding Vermont Route 100 from south to north, ending at the Haskell Free Library and Opera House, which straddles the U.S./Canada border. Someone wrote a letter to the editor asking how I got back. U.S. Route 5 runs along the east side of Vermont, and it happens to be another one of my favorite rides. It has all the elements of a great motorcycle road: beautiful scenery, fine curves, light traffic, and nice places to stop along the way. For this ride, I am again starting at the Massachusetts border and heading north, but it can also be run in reverse.
I cross from Massachusetts into Vermont just south of Guilford, and the road almost immediately plunges into the woods, curling back and forth around the trees, a preview of what’s to come. First, I pass through Brattleboro. With 12,000 residents, it’s the largest town I’ll encounter today. Downtown consists of about three blocks of century-old brick buildings. It’s a little congested, but as soon as I clear the roundabout at the junction with State Route 9, everything eases up and I’m into rural Vermont in search of coffee.
Just one of the many wonderful curves on U.S. Route 5.
Putney General Store bills itself as Vermont’s oldest general store. It has creaky floors, good food, and – most importantly – good coffee. Properly caffeinated, I’m on my way, and U.S. 5 reveals its true character: rising, falling, and curving through the landscape. I lose myself in its rhythm.
These petroglyphs are believed to have been carved by the Abenaki hundreds of years ago.
In Bellows Falls, the falls don’t bellow anymore. The river was dammed in 1802 to aid with upstream navigation. Down near the river, a mysterious row of faces is carved into the rocks. The petroglyphs are believed to have been carved by the Abenaki hundreds of years ago. Curiously, a couple of the faces appear to have antennae. Evidence of an extraterrestrial visit? I ponder the question as I head out of town.
The Cornish-Windsor Covered Bridge is the longest two-span covered bridge in the world.
U.S. 5 resumes its swooping, twisting, and turning as it tunnels through the trees. Nothing is too tight or unexpected, just a wonderful ride, and I drink it all in. There is a zig and a zag in Springfield before the enjoyment continues to the American Precision Museum in Windsor. It’s housed in the Robbins and Lawrence Armory, where they developed the concept of interchangeable parts in the 1840s. One display in the museum is a belt-driven machine that turns gunstocks. As the blank for the stock spins, the cutters gracefully move in and out. The accompanying video is mesmerizing. In addition to many machine tools, they also have Bridgeport milling machine serial number 001 – if you’re a gearhead, you’ll understand its significance.
The American Precision Museum houses tools from the birthplace of modern manufacturing.
Past Windsor, the road resumes its rhythm as it carves up around a golf course. All along the way, I pass small farms with their quintessential red barns. Some have stands selling fresh veggies, and I pick up some tomatoes and sweet corn.
White River Junction, where the White River joins the Connecticut, has long been a transportation hub. The arrival of the railroad in the 19th century cemented its status. Today, it’s at the junction of Interstates 89 and 91 as well as U.S. Routes 4 and 5. All the amenities are near the highway interchange, and it’s easy to miss downtown, but with several restaurants to choose from, it’s a great spot for lunch.
One of the many small farms along U.S. 5.
A sign in the window at Dan & Whit’s General Store in Norwich declares, “If we don’t have it, you don’t need it!” Whether you are looking for an alarm clock or beer pong supplies, they have it. The paint department? It’s in a room behind the deli. Keep going and you’ll find a huge hardware section. The variety of stuff crammed into the space is remarkable, and it’s easy to get lost among the hams and hammers and hammocks.
Leaving Norwich, there is a change. The hurry is gone, and I glide effortlessly around the curves, passing by narrow valley farms and through the villages of Thetford, Fairlee, Bradford, Newbury, and Wells River. In Barnet, there is another perceptible change as U.S. 5 parts ways with the Connecticut River and starts following the smaller Passumpsic River. The curves are tighter, the hills are closer, and at one point, U.S. 5 slips between the northbound and southbound lanes of I-91 for a bit.
There is a “North Country” feel here close to the border.
In St. Johnsbury, State Route 5A splits off as it passes the St. Johnsbury Athenaeum and the Fairbanks Museum & Planetarium. Both 19th-century edifices were built by the Fairbanks family. Their Fairbanks Scales Company changed how commerce was done, and the family spent much of their fortune locally. Fine Victorian architecture lines both sides of the road here.
After Lyndonville, U.S. 5 cuts through the landscape to West Burke, where I follow State Route 5A toward Lake Willoughby. The lake is the crown jewel of this ride. Nestled between Mount Pisgah and Mount Hor, it resembles a Norwegian fjord. The road runs up the east side, perched precariously between lake and ledge.
With the border just ahead, it’s time to turn around.
Past Lake Willoughby, there is a “North Country” feel. The rivers flow north toward the St. Lawrence River, the landscape is more open, and the trees seem shorter. Route 5A reconnects with U.S. 5 in Derby Center and heads for the Canadian border at Derby Line. There, within sight of the Haskell Free Library and Opera House, not far from the border, is a sign that declares “End 5.” Just beyond is Quebec and a large sign that says “Bonjour.” It’s time to head back. Maybe I’ll take Route 100.
The number of double-track dirt roads in the Great Lakes area is countless, tempting travelers off the snaky paved highways with their promise of adventure. (Photos by the author)
I arrive in Duluth, Minnesota, in the middle of the night, welcomed by a cleansing wind blowing off Lake Superior, the largest of the Great Lakes. The West had been ablaze for weeks when I’d departed California two days before, and smoke from those massive fires had gathered, unasked, across the Plains to form a thick, murky blanket. My eyes and throat are still burning as I hobble, ass whipped, from my BMW R 1200 GS to my waiting hotel room.
I’ve just started on a 6-week ride and my first official stop is a visit to the Aerostich factory to catch up with my old friend, Andy Goldfine. Andy and I go back to the mid-80s when we were starting in the motorcycle industry, him as the founder of Aerostich and me as an associate editor at Rider. I zipped up my first Roadcrafter the day we met and have since appreciated no gear – or friendship in the business – more.
A meet-up with Aerostich founder Andy Goldfine and his riding buddy, John Grinsel.
Duluth has always charmed me with its terraced streets and historic port town vibe. Spending a day off the bike here is a joy. I’m able to hang out at Aerostich and watch as suits are cut and stitched. Some would call this a factory, but it’s much more like a workshop where skilled technicians craft riding apparel.
After enjoying a classic biker breakfast the next morning at the Duluth Grill with Andy and his “most curmudgeonly riding friend” John Grinsel, an 80-something-year-old character who rides up to 20,000 miles each year with a pipe in his mouth and a tiny pup named Moose poking out of his top box, I’m back in the saddle of the GS heading north around the edge of the world’s largest freshwater lake.
We’ve all seen the occasional pup as co-pilot, but none as adorable as John Grinsel’s 3-lb dog, Moose, who pops his head out of a modified Givi top case when he wants to check out the view.
The Greatest Lake
Behaving more like an inland sea than a lake, Superior is massive, holding 10% of the world’s fresh surface water. It and the other Great Lakes to the east are so dynamic they create their own weather patterns. Today, I’m riding through a Scotch mist I’m not sure I can blame on the lake, and it’s giving my finger squeegee a workout.
I’m riding a loaner R 1200 GS Rallye edition I’ve had for seven months. I’ll never get enough of the GS bikes, and over three decades I’ve used them to explore five continents. Having been one of BMW’s flagship models for four decades, the “big” GS was legitimately the first travel bike to be truly versatile, but what I find most endearing is the way the chatty boxer Twin feels like an old friend every time I fire one up. It’s a pleasant bike to ride anywhere, including roads like Minnesota’s super scenic State Route 61 along the North Shore.
If there’s one thing that’s undeniable about these Midwestern states, especially their more rural areas, it’s how genuinely nice the people are. Everywhere you go.
By the time I reach Grand Marais, it’s clearly storming hard to the north, and I retreat back down the highway, ducking into the famous Betty’s Pies for a slice and a coffee. I love this place, and if I weren’t on a bike, in the rain, I’d take an entire 5 Layer Chocolate Cream Pie to go.
I ate my slice of 5 Layer Chocolate Cream Pie so fast Betty’s Pies had to send me a photo.
Early the next morning, the sun is out and I’m in Wisconsin exploring the bottom edge of Superior. While I’d traveled to the top of the lake a few years back, the southern section was a mystery. I throttle the GS up Wisconsin’s Lake Superior Scenic Byway, State Route 13, connecting fishing villages to waterfalls to sandy beaches and orchards.
Exploring Northern Michigan on the venerable R 1200 GS was a delight. The people, the scenery, the roads, but also the intriguing history of spots like the town of Ironwood and the famous Leg’s Inn, which waits at the top of M-119, aka the Tunnel of Trees.
The Road to Pictured Rocks
I want to shoot up Michigan’s Keweenaw Peninsula to Copper Harbor on U.S. Route 41, and not just because the road looks amazing on the map. I’ve heard there are monks who bake delicious treats and sell preserves they make from local fruit at The Jampot bakery. But I’m short on time and even shorter on tires. The Continental TKC80s I opted for seven months back now have more than 6,500 miles on them and my replacements are waiting at a dealership 700 miles away, which means limiting side trips.
The pristine beaches near Michigan’s Pictured Rocks National Lakeshore were empty and an ideal rest stop.
So, I head from Ashland, Wisconsin, straight for Pictured Rocks National Lakeshore on the recommendation to ride County Road H-58. And wow, what a sweet road. I hear it was even more fun to ride before it was fully paved in 2010, but today the 69 miles of smooth shaded corners and flowing undulations ride like a song. And for the other senses? The beautiful lake up here is edged by colorful sandstone cliffs and unspoiled sandy coves.
When you’re on an adventure bike, another thing to love about Michigan is its more than 3,100 miles of off-road vehicle trails, proudly documented and promoted on the state government’s website, and on Pure Michigan, a site sponsored by Michigan’s lead economic development agency. How civilized for these Midwestern states to celebrate their off-roading opportunities instead of quashing them.
But you hardly need a map to find a tempting two-track here, which is the reason I’m not making good time on Michigan’s Upper Peninsula, but finally I’m at the famous Mackinac Bridge, gearing up to ride its five swaying miles to the Lower Peninsula. Yup, Big Mac is one of the longest suspension bridges in the world and it’s built to swing (apparently, up to 35 feet at its center span), and on a windy day, you can feel it, as I did when I crossed it years back on a Harley Ultra Glide Classic.
The Old Post Office Museum encapsulates the history of Grand Marais, Michigan, which visitors can explore free of charge.
Especially in Michigan
But today it’s only breezy, and purring across the impressive bridge on the GS is a joy. I don’t have time to stop in touristy Mackinaw City because I want to ride some small roads I’d missed on my last trip, starting with M-119 from Cross Village to Harbor Springs, aka the Tunnel of Trees.
Though not a fast road, Michigan’s famous Tunnel of Trees and its 137 snaky corners were high on my list of must-rides.
I approach from the north, stopping at the historic Polish-themed Legs Inn in Cross Village where you can spend hours taking in all the details of wood and stonework, or if you’re hungry, enjoy some kielbasa and pierogi. The famous 20-mile section of M-119 that kicks off from here is narrow, curvy, and truly a tunnel of foliage, and I’m sure its beauty is staggering in the fall, but it loses points as a premium motorcycle road for its 35-mph speed limit and profusion of deer and driveways. Still, those 137 corners are a lovely way to spend time.
The GS I was riding was capable and comfortable, not to mention photogenic, even when encumbered by my ugly orange tent.
After an overnight in Petoskey, I head for Traverse City and M-22. If there’s one thing that’s undeniable about these Midwestern states, especially their more rural areas, it’s how genuinely nice the people are. Everywhere you go. The M-22 is recommended to me by a new friend, and I take my time exploring Suttons Bay, Northport, and the Leelanau Peninsula’s pretty lakes, all miniatures next to a hulking Lake Michigan.
Leg’s Inn in Cross Village, Michigan
In Glen Arbor, I indulge in house-made cherry ice cream at the original Cherry Republic and slip a jar of cherry salsa in a saddlebag for later. I do not partake in the pit spitting at the establishment’s Olympic-size cherry spitting pit (the world record is 93 feet, 6.5 inches).
In addition to gorgeous views of the lake and rolling farmland, this part of Michigan has local wines to taste, dunes to explore, and apples to pick. The longer I spend on M-22, the more I realize it’s not just a road to the people in this area, M-22 represents a lifestyle. In fact, the M-22 highway signs have been stolen so often – 90 signs in three years – the Michigan DOT dropped the M on some replacements so they show only the number 22. If you missed your chance to nab a sign, there are plenty of places along the highway where you can buy a fake, as well as upscale M-22 apparel and souvenir tchotchkes.
“M-22” has come to represent a lifestyle, not just an awesome highway.
And I get it. There’s something about this area (the people? the chill vibe? the scenery?) that just makes you want to stick around and explore every corner. Sadly, I don’t have time or tread for further exploration, and chug east from Manistee to Bay City, overnighting in some basic chain motel and wishing I was back in my tent on the lakeshore. In the morning, I scoot down I-75 to get the GS serviced and shod at BMW Motorcycles of Southeast Michigan. Again, the nicest people.
Fields of sunflowers and historic landmarks dot the Great Lakes region.
Over the next five weeks I’ll ride through another 13 states, many of them bucket-list destinations for motorcyclists. And yet I’ll keep thinking about this Great Lakes area and its empty roads, slow pace, and big-hearted locals. If you’ve ridden there, you know. If you haven’t, go. I’ll be right behind you.
The highways in this region of the Great Lakes aren’t meant to be traveled fast. A slower pace rewards riders with sweeping scenery and new treasures in every small town.
Al Hotlsbury, a friend of the author, enjoying what draws motorcyclists to southeastern Ohio. Photos by the author.
Whoever said a straight line was the best way to get from Point A to Point B didn’t ride a motorcycle. Is there anyone among us who uses a freeway rather than backroads as their main source for motorcycling entertainment? Not many, I dare guess.
When President Eisenhower came up with the notion that the United States needed an Interstate Highway System, was there anyone on his staff who insisted that a few bends in the road might be a good idea? If that conversation ever took place, can there be any doubt that the person rode a motorcycle? The unnamed guy who liked the Point A to Point B straight line seems to have gotten the final word.
Dave Levingston on I-64 in Alta, West Virginia, which was used for Rider’s April 1981 cover.
Back during the advent of the motorcycle and the automobile, the earth set the agenda for where roads were constructed. Pick any of the older highways, and there’s every probability that it wound around a hill or paralleled a river. Over time, with more potent explosives and bigger and better earth-moving equipment, the scales were altered, and it became easier to make the good earth bend to every highway engineer’s wishes.
Dave Levingston riding in West Virginia.
Over millennia, glaciers and the earth’s upheaval created the glorious hills and majestic mountains we all enjoy. Over a few decades, the big Ukes (that’s what we called the Euclid earthmovers when I was a kid) scraped up tons of hillside to fill in deep valleys, creating what the highway people knew we needed – a quicker way to get from here to there. Okay, I admit, some of it worked.
Riding beneath an overpass on the Blue Ridge Parkway.
When you step down a rung or two from the freeways and turnpikes to the more basic highways, you quickly find where they have been remade for a more effortless trip to get us to grandma’s house or church in the next city. Filter down even further to where the true old highways are, to where there’s a rawer feel, more of the essence of when the old roads were created, many have an ebb and flow where what’s around the next turn is still a mystery to be enjoyed. That’s where I aim my motorcycle, where there is still an unknown, where those bends in the highway invite me back again and again.
Dave Levingston and the author in Ohio.
Certainly, there are exceptions. Straight-as-an-arrow U.S. Route 2 across the northern U.S. is an exceptional ride, so much so that I once saw it on a Top 10 Highways list. Even so, it was better 40 years ago when it was only two lanes. There are stretches of I-70 in Colorado and Utah where it’s a wonderful ride, a rarity when one considers how interstate highways are traditionally perceived.
Given a choice, we all know where to aim our motorcycles – somewhere in the spirit that William Least Heat-Moon wrote of in Blue Highways and Jack Kerouac in his epic On the Road, where the roadway has a soul, a vibrancy, a purpose beyond being a simple means to get to somewhere distant.
Dave on a Midwest highway.
The original National Road, U.S. Route 40, called the Main Street of America, still has a romantic ring to it, at least to me. That highway actually is Main Street in my hometown of Zanesville, Ohio, home of the famous (at least to those of us who know it well) Y-Bridge, a part of that highway’s mystique.
But that title – Main Street of America – is also claimed by U.S. Route 66, the almost mythical highway known by other famous names, such as the Will Rogers Highway and the Mother Road. To those of a generation long ago, Route 66 represented a way to leave behind pain and despair, the highway itself a lifeline to a place where life would have purpose. At its inception in1926, it was called the Great Diagonal Way, but that same year the U.S. set forth the numbering system for federal highways that’s still used today.
A couple riding their Harley in southeastern Ohio.
From that original numerical foundation there have been other designations for our well-known and lesser-known highways. U.S. Route 6, which stretches from Massachusetts to California, is called the Grand Army of the Republic Highway; part of U.S. 20 through Nebraska is known as the Bridges to Buttes Scenic Byway; U.S. 12 across Montana is the Lewis and Clark Highway. The Buffalo Bill Cody Scenic Byway is in Wyoming, the Schoodic National Scenic Byway is a part of U.S. 1 in Maine, and the Catskill Mountains Scenic Byway is in New York State.
The author in Monument Valley, Utah.
U.S. Route 23 in Kentucky is called the Country Music Highway, claiming to be the home of many country music icons, including Loretta Lynn, The Judds, Billy Ray Cyrus, Dwight Yoakam, and Tom T. Hall. A six-mile stretch of U.S. 129 near Robbinsville, North Carolina, is known for its favorite son – the Ronnie Milsap Highway.
The list goes on and on. At the time of this writing, there are 184 nationally designated scenic byways. If you travel almost anywhere, you’ll find our nation’s history in the names assigned to our highways.
Tom Brandt and the author in Zion National Park, Utah.
Then there are other highways offering a different experience: the highway itself. When the letters PCH come up, is there any doubt what they refer to? For those of us who travel on motorcycles, there are blacktopped magnets we are attracted to. We’re drawn to special places by what the pavement has come to represent. The Tail of the Dragon and the Cherohala Skyway, both winding through the Appalachian Mountains of North Carolina and Tennessee. The Million Dollar Highway in the Colorado Rockies. The Great River Road along the Mississippi River. The old Lincoln Highway, where some stretches can still be found. And for many, the Natchez Trace and Blue Ridge Parkway. Or maybe not. Sorry, beautiful or not, a 45-mph speed limit is not for me.
The author in western Iowa.
Other state highways take on a more specific meaning. Twenty memorials mark the 54-mile Selma to Montgomery March Byway, the route taken by Martin Luther King, Jr. and other civil rights activists, chronicling their march and its results. For those who pursue history of another era, the 180-mile Journey Through Hallowed Ground Byway, spanning Maryland, Pennsylvania, and Virginia, is said to contain more historic sites than any other in America. Then there is the John D. Rockefeller, Jr. Memorial Parkway, which connects Grand Teton and Yellowstone national parks. It’s named for the late conservationist and philanthropist who was so disturbed by the condition of the highway, he paid to have it brought up to the standards of the day.
A couple on the Tail of the Dragon.
For those with a need to know or who are curious, as of 2019 there were 4.2 million miles of roadway in America, according to the U.S. Department of Transportation. There were approximately 48,482 miles of interstate highways; although such highways account for just 1.2% of roadway miles, they account for nearly a quarter of all vehicular traffic. Of the 4.2 million miles of roadway in this country, 2.9 million miles are rural roadways and 1.2 million miles are unpaved. No matter how you crunch the numbers, there are lots of roads to explore.
Two Harley riders in southeastern Ohio.
Every state does its best to help, identifying scenic routes with signs and official designations, with every road map marking them in a special way so they’re easy to recognize. They are generally where I aim my motorcycle. Let me trust the state to point me to a highway it considers special, the smaller its fame, the better.
The photographs on these pages represent some of the special places I’ve found. They are a part of my nearly six-decade personal history of riding motorcycles, chronicling the changes in my life, both in terms of the motorcycles I’ve ridden and in how I perceive the wonderful places along my many miles of riding.
Dave Levingston exiting the Philippi Covered Bridge in West Virginia.
Most appeared out of nowhere, a stunning place before me, something that I needed to record for myself, and now share with you. In all but a few places they were surprises, riding around a turn in the highway or over a hilltop and there it was, a special stretch I’d never seen before. Sometimes, in that instant, it was only me; other times unknown people on their motorcycles happened by. I hope some who are in this collection, should they ever see these images, find themselves being transported back to the time our paths crossed.
Mac Swinford on Ohio State Route 555.
Some are from so long ago I have only a general idea of where they were found. But, thinking back, their location isn’t what was important. It’s what that stretch of highway represented to me at the time and where it still lingers in my mind. What I knew, then as I do now, is that there is another great memory, another beautiful stretch of highway soon to be enjoyed. Now to go out and find it.
Behind our bikes is Seneca Rocks, a crag that towers 900 feet above the North Fork River and is one of the best-known natural features in West Virginia. Photos by the author.
It’s not until we exit Interstate 81, run through some gears on U.S. Route 48, and catch a whiff of dew-covered fields that I feel like we’ve arrived. Craig, a friend from college who lives in the suburbs of Philadelphia, has a pass for the weekend, so he came down for a ride with me to Seneca Rocks through “Wild and Wonderful” West Virginia. He’s on his 2000 Harley Road King and I’m on my 2011 Triumph Sprint GT.
Our starting point is Manassas, in northern Virginia, and the fastest route west to the Appalachians is Interstate 66, followed by a three-mile hop on I-81 before we exit and turn onto U.S. 48.
Once off the interstate, everything changes. Time – and our speed – slows down, giving us the opportunity to notice our surroundings. Simple houses have cinder-block foundations and detached garages. Folks out here don’t walk behind wimpy electric mowers, and they don’t put grass clippings in bags. Out here they proudly ride large gas-powered mowers, with clippings flung far and wide across expansive yards. We take in that unmistakable smell of freshly cut grass – it smells like summertime.
Nestled in the Appalachians, Seneca Rocks is part of Monongahela National Forest.
U.S. 48 is two-lane road with farmland on both sides for about five miles before ascending through the forest and over the ridgeline that serves as the border between Virginia and West Virginia. It’s a quick descent on a 9% grade to Wardensville, where 48 gets a major makeover and becomes a four-lane divided highway. Before the superhighway starts, we divert to Old Route 55 (McCauley Road) and wind our way through the shaded Lost River valley.
Old West Virginia Route 55 (McCauley Road), which winds along the forested course of the Lost River, is a more enjoyable ride than the straighter, faster U.S. Route 48.
We hop back on 48 just before Baker and make our way to Moorefield, where we head south on Main Street (U.S. Route 220). The road flattens out through more farmland, but mountains on all sides feed our anticipation of future switchbacks. At Petersburg, we continue west on State Route 28 and follow the North Fork South Branch Potomac River, which carved one of the many gaps through the mountains.
Heading south, we catch glimpses of Champe Rocks, a pair of vertical crags that emerge from the Champe Knobs in the Allegheny Mountains. Roughly 230 million years ago, rock that was once at the bottom of the sea was pushed up until it became vertical. Softer rock eventually eroded, but the quartzite that makes up the fin-looking outcroppings is much harder and still stands today. The rocks are within the Spruce Knob-Seneca Rocks National Recreation Area in the Monongahela National Forest. Cabin rental advertisements along the road speak to the great fishing, canoeing, hiking, and camping to be found nearby.
After cresting High Knob and crossing back into Virginia, we descended through a cathedral-like canopy of forest.
Before long, the Seneca Rocks formation – a well-known scenic destination in the Mountain State – emerges from the dense forest of the River Knobs range. The rock walls are popular among climbers, but after our 150-mile morning ride, Craig and I are more interested in eating. We kick out our stands at Yokum’s Vacationland, at the junction of Route 28 and U.S. Route 33. In business since 1923, Yokum’s has a general store, a deli, a motel, cabins, and a campground.
Yokum’s has been serving visitors to Seneca Rocks since 1923. It has a general store, restaurant, motel, cabins, and camping.
The short-order grill is in the back of the store, so Craig and I walk past all manner of local goods (Traffic Jam catches my eye) and order lunch. Being from Philadelphia, Craig surprises me by ordering a Philly cheesesteak, but the result looks even better than my cheeseburger, which hits the spot. After our meal, we ride a couple hundred yards down the road, park the bikes in a lot along Roy Gap Road, and walk to the river, our eyes focused on the climbers high above on the rocks. We agree that Yokum’s would make a great hub for riding some of the more adventurous routes through the eastern part of the state.
Downtown Elkins, West Virginia.
A curvy 35-mile ride west through the Alleghenies on U.S. 33 brings us to Elkins, a classic American town with restaurants, bars, hotels, and shops. In the center of town is the West Virginia Railroad Museum and a historic train depot that’s one of the stops on the Durbin & Greenbrier Valley Railroad, a tourist train that travels through rugged mountain scenery.
The Durbin & Greenbrier Valley Railroad is a scenic train that connects three historic depots in West Virginia.
After returning to Seneca Rocks, we continue south on U.S. 33, which makes a sharp turn to the east at Judy Gap. On the ascending turns I’m tempted to open up the throttle, but I check my urge so as not to miss Germany Valley overlook – a great view of the valley and the River Knobs range just before the crest of North Fork Mountain. Thirty miles later we crest High Knob and cross back into Virginia. On the descent, where the road is straight and the old growth creates a canopy a hundred feet above, it feels like riding through a cathedral.
Settled by German farmers in the mid-18th century, West Virginia’s Germany Valley was the site of a frontier fort during the American Revolution.
We brave the stoplights and traffic of Harrisonburg before again ascending to Swift Run Gap, where Shenandoah National Park’s Skyline Drive intersects with U.S. 33. Two monuments give a bit of history of the pass, where in 1716 Lieutenant Governor Spotswood and a group of rangers, Native Americans, and government officials set out to prove that an easy path over the Blue Ridge Mountains existed.
Monuments at Swift Run Gap, where Skyline Drive intersects with U.S. Route 33.
At Stanardsville, we take Business Route 33 through the historic district. We turn north on State Route 230, which eventually ends at U.S. Route 29, where we again turn north. Less than half a mile later we stop at a brightly colored Tastee-Freez to escape the summer heat and wolf down hot fudge sundaes. A local informs us it’s the oldest continuously operated, privately owned Tastee-Freez in America.
Nothing takes the edge off a hot summer ride better than ice cream, and this classic Tastee-Freez near Madison, Virginia, didn’t disappoint.
The mountains fade from our mirrors as we continue northeast toward our starting point. We’ve only scratched the surface of what we can discover in West Virginia, and we’re eager to return.
Wide lanes and stunning views make the Arthur Ravenel Jr. Bridge over the Cooper River a rider’s dream.
Charleston, South Carolina, is a true Southern belle. She turns 352 years old this year and has quite a past. In America’s early days, her importance rivaled New York and Boston. Shipping, as well as rice and cotton production, created extreme wealth. Hurricanes, wars, and bondage brought great despair. Like Scarlet O’Hara, Charleston has persevered, and today she wins “Best City” awards for her food, culture, and history.
One of the best ways to experience Charleston is from the seat of a motorcycle, flying over her many bridges. Charleston’s bridges link more than land and water. They link past and present, problems and answers, people and places. These days, twisting the throttle over Charleston’s bridges provides reflection and hope.
Since Charleston is located an hour off the I-95 superslab, many riders miss her charms. That’s a shame, as Charleston hits the redline on the motorcycle smile-to-mile dial. For you Northern bikers on a Florida run, this is a fantastic stop-over spot. I’ll bet you a flounder sandwich it will be a highlight of your journey. Lodging is plentiful at all price levels, and the local cuisine is world renowned, bringing together farm, ocean, Southern, and soul.
This ride can be done any time of year, but beware: Charleston is in the Deep South. Summers can be stifling and rainstorms can be intense. Wearing mesh apparel, keeping raingear handy, and avoiding afternoon traffic are highly recommended during summer months.
The author and his son, Luke, on a hot dog quest in Mount Pleasant.
From I-95, head southeast on I-26 for an hour. Take the ramp for I-526 East to Mount Pleasant. Cruising high above the salty marsh, in the first 15 minutes you’ll glide over two major bridges – the Don N. Holt over the Cooper River, and the James B. Edwards over the Wando River. You’re riding over the Lowcountry, a sprawling coastal region that’s just above sea level. With the tides shifting four times a day, much of the marshy terrain spends half its time under water.
Take the exit for Hungry Neck Boulevard, then turn right onto the Isle of Palms Connector (State Route 517). Cruising over the estuary, flip up your visor and enjoy the salty air and coastal views. At low tide, you’ll see mounds of “rocks” in the marsh, which are actually wild oysters. Raw, roasted, or in a Bloody Mary shot, they’re delicious.
Nattily dressed motorcyclists cruise down King Street during the Distinguished Gentleman’s Ride.
You’ll cross two more bridges before reaching Isle of Palms. When the Connector ends, keep going straight to Front Beach. Biker law says you can’t get this close and not get in the ocean, so this is a great place to kick off your boots and get your toes wet.
Continue southwest on Palm Boulevard (State Route 703). Ride with the breeze along the Intracoastal Waterway until you cross Breach Inlet on the H.L. Hunley Bridge, named after the first submarine to sink a ship in battle. In 1864, the hand-cranked Hunley sank a Yankee ship but then disappeared off the coast of Sullivan’s Island, along with its crew of eight men. It wasn’t found until 1995. Stop at Thomson Park to enjoy the views and learn more about this historic location.
The Ben Sawyer swing bridge rotates to allow tall boats to pass on the Intracoastal Waterway.
From the park, hang a left on Middle Street. You’re now riding through “shabby chic” Sullivan’s Island, South Carolina’s wealthiest zip code, and you’ll see bars and restaurants. All are good, but the crispy/spicy Bangin’ Shrimp tacos at Mex 1 Coastal Cantina are my go-to. Salt in the air, beach on your boots, shrimp tacos in your hand, and your faithful steed parked under a palmetto tree. Life is good!
Continuing southwest on Middle Street takes you to Fort Moultrie National Historical Park. This high ground has a long history as a military post, going as far back as the Revolutionary War. The self-guided tour and harbor views are interesting, inspiring, and a great way to stretch your legs.
Colonial-era homes along the Battery, a seawall and promenade near downtown Charleston.
Backtrack to where Route 703 turns north and becomes Ben Sawyer Boulevard, a causeway that cuts back across the marsh. Take in the scent of salt, oysters, and tidal “pluff” mud. The Ben Sawyer Bridge is a swing bridge that rotates to allow tall boats to pass through. First opened to traffic in 1945, it was heavily damaged by Hurricane Hugo in 1989. When the islands evacuated, the tender left the bridge unlocked. When hurricane-force winds hit the bridge, it spun like a top, and one end plunged into the water.
Crossing the Ben Sawyer takes you into Mount Pleasant. Traffic increases through this vibrant area, with plenty of good restaurants and bars attracting the hungry and thirsty. Another bridge on Route 703 crosses over Shem Creek, with boats, kayaks, and bars below jammed with folks having a good time. Fresh local seafood is sold right on the docks. For a closer look, make a left and visit Shem Creek Park.
The party never ends on Shem Creek.
Continuing west on Route 703 (Coleman Boulevard), the road merges with U.S. Route 17 before crossing Charleston’s most prominent span, the Arthur Ravenel Jr. Bridge over the Cooper River. Riding over the Ravenel, you’re at the highest point in the Lowcountry, with inspiring views of Charleston Harbor and the USS Yorktown, a WW2-era aircraft carrier anchored near Patriots Point. The Yorktown is now part of the Patriots Point Naval & Maritime Museum, and military buffs can easily spend a full day touring the ship, imagining or remembering the challenging days of our Greatest Generation.
The USS Yorktown aircraft carrier and USS Laffey destroyer are part of the Patriots Point Naval & Maritime Museum.
After crossing the Ravenel, follow signs for U.S. 17 South to Savannah and take the King Street exit. Turn right onto King Street for a fun, sweeping ride through history, from modern hipster hotels to perfectly preserved colonial-era homes. It’s a great time to reflect on our nation’s past, present, and potential.
Take King Street until it ends at Oyster Point overlooking the harbor. The views are spectacular, but Charleston is more than just her pretty petticoat and parasol. She’s beautiful and strong, old and new, happy and sad. Like America, she’s not perfect, but she’s authentic and awesome. This ride makes me proud, and hopeful for what’s over the next bridge.
A gathering of bikes at Oyster Point overlooking Charleston Harbor.
Eric Trow and Ron Washabaugh face off on the same clay their grandfathers raced on more than 70 years earlier (below). Contemporary photos by Hal Deily, archival photos courtesy of the author.
At a time when American riders were fighting the Harley and Indian wars, Gene Townsend and Floyd “Washie” Washabaugh were unflinchingly Indian men. It was rumored their blood flowed a bit more maroon than the rest of us, having the distinct deep shade of the brand’s signature Indian Red color.
Over the years, the two men defended the Indian brand on dirt tracks across Pennsylvania, Maryland, and Virginia. Gene, my grandfather, born in 1908, spent most of his racing years on an Indian 101 Scout sporting the #9 plate. He was a top regional amateur racer from the mid-1920s on into the war years, only to retire when a brush with a #6 bike sent them both through a fence.
Gene Townsend before a race on his highly tuned Indian 101 Scout.
The radio announcer covering the event mistook the upside down #6 machine as the #9 and mistakenly reported that Gene Townsend had been rushed to the hospital with serious injuries. My grandmother and her young daughter (my mother) were beside themselves when they heard the broadcast. Gene promised to never worry them again and quit racing on the spot. Washie, five years his junior, competed successfully on Indian Sport Scouts through the mid-1950s, and even had a short stint as a professional racer with Gene’s backing.
Parker, Eric, and Ron leaf through a period racing program along the road to Winchester.
By 1948, Gene had owned his southwestern Pennsylvania Indian agency (what dealerships were called back then) for about 20 years. He had built his reputation as an exceptional rider and racer as well as an expert tuner. If Indian riders wanted the hot setup, Gene was the guy to see. Washie was granddad’s close friend, a fellow racer, and a fixture at the old shop. They shared a passion for three things: Indian motorcycles, racing, and storytelling.
Floyd “Washie” Washabaugh aboard his #64U Indian Sport Scout racer in 1948.
I only knew Washie as an older man who rode his flashy old Indian Chief to my granddad’s shop. But I envisioned him and Gene as the vibrant and courageous young dirt-track racers in the old, dog-eared photographs taken in their racing days. The deep connection I developed with these older men was something I thought only my brother and I knew. Then I heard about Washie’s grandson, Ron.
We may have met at some point at the shop when we were kids, but Ron Washabaugh and I didn’t know each other. About three years ago, we met while attending the American Flat Track races at Williams Grove near Harrisburg. We immediately hit it off and began swapping stories of that magical old motorcycle shop and the deep appreciation and fondness we had for our grandfathers.
Some sections of the old National Pike haven’t changed much since Gene and Washie rode them.
The most powerful memories for Ron and me were the racing tales told so passionately by old Gene and Washie. Through their words they painted vivid pictures of handlebar-to-handlebar racing adventures aboard their Indians on myriad local dirt tracks, as well as more distant venues such as Cumberland, Maryland, and Winchester, Virginia. They would either stuff a bike into the back of a sedan or ride their Indian Scouts to a track, remove the headlights and fenders to race, and then reassemble everything for the ride back home afterward. If they weren’t racing, they were organizing rides to watch others compete, like legendary AMA Hall of Famer “Iron Man” Ed Kretz at the Langhorne, Pennsylvania, track where he dominated the mile oval.
Stepping away from the digital GPS and iPhones, a vintage paper roadmap is used to chart the path the way their grandfathers (and great-grandfathers) would have done (below). It was a bit easier for the two older guys in the group.
Ron and I decided to retrace Gene and Washie’s path to one of the legendary tracks they rode to back in the late 1940s and early 1950s.
Ron and his son, Steven, and me and my son, Parker, conspired to chase Gene and Washie into the past on a journey to the old Winchester Speedway. As grandsons and great-grandsons, we would emulate the experience the two elders had back in the day. We would ride the National Road (U.S. Route 40) and other two-lane roads, stop where they might have stopped, eat at family-owned diners along the way, and find classic roadside motor lodges where they might have stayed. At every opportunity, we would celebrate their story and, at the same time, get to know each other and forge another generation of bonding around a common passion for motorcycles.
After a sprint up the mountain, the overlook atop Summit Mountain on Route 40 was a popular stop for the old boys.
Ron and I both have vintage Indians, but for this excursion Ron was aboard his modern Indian Roadmaster, and I piloted my Indian FTR 1200 S Race Replica. Stephen rode his new FTR 1200 as well, complete with a number plate bearing his great-grandfather’s racing number, #64U. Parker rode a 2018 Harley, just for a little tension in the spirit of that old brand rivalry. (The H-D Heritage 114 is mine, and so is the kid; both are terrific, and any ribbing was in good-spirited fun.)
Eric shows the kids proper tuck technique for flat track.
Last October, the Washabaugh boys met my son and me at a diner not far from the old shop. We ordered breakfast and gobbled up the vintage photo albums Ron brought with him. Although the food and conversation were delicious, we needed to get our planned adventure rolling. There would be more time to talk along the road, so we paid the tab and headed to the old Townsend cycle shop. The unexceptional building still stands (barely) just off the National Road, three miles east of Brownsville, Pennsylvania.
Washie straddles a sidecar-mounted drum of fuel used as a rolling gas station.
The modest shop was a hub of activity in its day, a gathering place where riders regularly came and went. Some visited to see what new machines and accessories had arrived. Others stopped by for a set of points, a condenser, and maybe a pair of spark plugs on their way through town. Most wheeled in for the conversation and the stories.
It was also the headquarters and ride origination point for members of Gene’s Scouts Motorcycle Club, an AMA-sanctioned club that served as the local riders’ social group and the sponsoring organization for motorcycle competitions. Washie raced as an AMA pro for one year under the Gene’s Scouts M.C. banner. Unfortunately, after just one season, the cost proved to be too steep, and he returned to amateur racing. Some things never change for aspiring racers.
Racing at Winchester included flat track and this TT race with hills and a jump.
Soon, the engines of our Indians (and Harley) fired to life in front of the old shop, echoing the hundreds of Indians that had gone before from that same spot.
We rolled out of the parking lot and onto Route 40. The first planned stop was just up the road at LaFayette Memorial Park, where we paid our respects at Gene’s and Washie’s family plots. We thanked them for the tremendous influence they had on our lives, saluted their adventures, and invited them to ride along with us inspirit as we retraced the path they took seven decades earlier.
Gene’s Indian agency in the early 1940s.
Back on the road and heading east on the National Road, we approached Uniontown. I thought of the story Gene told me about a board-track motordrome speedway that was built there for motorcycle racing in the late teens of the last century. As a boy, he would climb a tall tree outside the grounds just to catch a glimpse of the racers flying by on the large, steeply banked wood-plank track.
Indians gather once again in front of the old Indian shop (apologies to the author’s son on the Harley).
Although the multilane highway now bypasses the towns, we took the old route that Gene and Washie would have followed through downtown Uniontown and Hopwood. We rejoined the highway on the other side where the pavement abruptly angled skyward, ascending Summit Mountain. Back in the day, this was a narrow two-lane ribbon that wound tightly up the steep hill – a rider’s dream. This stretch was the subject of many of the old timers’ stories as they recounted how they raced each other up the steep, twisting curves to the crest of the hill. They heeled their Scouts and Chiefs over so far into these corners that the frames would drag, levering the rear wheels off the ground momentarily. The trick, they said, was to hold the throttle open and let the bike reestablish traction without upsetting the chassis. Easier said than done!
Members of Gene’s Scouts M.C. at a gas stop during one of their organized rides.
Today, the road is a four-lane divided highway tracing the original circuitous path. Ron, me, and our boys turned up the wick on our machines as we ascended the hill. It was a hoot to drop down a gear and put ourselves, at least mentally, alongside our grandfathers and great-grandfathers on a spirited sprint up the mountain.
The old crew would have likely crossed this stone arched bridge along Route 40 on their way to Winchester.
As we approached the summit, I signaled and the four of us wheeled off I-40 into the lookout at the peak of Summit Mountain. This was a spot where Gene, Washie, and the rest of their crowd regrouped countless times over the years. Summit Mountain was not just a road they took on the way to somewhere else, it was their local destination for sport riding. It’s where the guys tested their latest tuning and hop-up tricks. It’s where local Indian and Harley riders found out whose machine had the “soup” to capture the king-of-the-hill title for that week.
A typical overnight stay for the boys back in the day.
Ron and I used this pull-off to tell our sons stories we’d heard about this road and their great-grandfathers’ motorcycling adventures. We took turns contributing our own recollections, helping each other connect the dots where there had been gaps in our individual knowledge. Parker and Stephen stood by, soaking it all in.
Surely Gene and Washie would have stopped for the overlook at Town Hill.
Back on the road, we imagined the roadside stops the men might have made along their way. We proposed where they may have paused to stretch their legs, consult a map, check chain tension, or maybe add a quart of oil. Then we’d stop too. We took advantage of those roadside breaks to look through collections of old racing photos, racing publications, and pictures our grandfathers and their pals had taken along the road to different racing venues.
The Clarysville Motel in Frostburg, Maryland, has been operating for 100 years.
On occasion, we saw a turnoff to Old Route 40, most often a short spur of narrow two-lane that soon rejoined the newer main road. It was fun to ride a few of these old sections to capture the ride experience Gene and Washie had, but it was impractical to take each little detour. Other times we saw sections of Old Route 40 that were no longer accessible, including an area where an old stone arched bridge was once the path of the old National Pike. Gene and Washie probably traveled that same old stone bridge on their way to Winchester. We could only view it from the main road.
We paused at the old Clarysville Motel that looked like it might have been there when our grandfathers rode through. As it turns out, the place has been serving travelers for nearly 100 years. Other than the modern vehicles in the parking lot, it would be hard to distinguish 2021 from 1948 or earlier. Certainly, Gene and Washie rode by here many times, and may have even stayed on occasion when daylight expired.
The inn at Town Hill, Maryland, would have likely looked the same for the Gene’s Scouts crew in the 1940s.
In Maryland, the old highway began to rise, fall, and twist dramatically. This was the kind of road on which the boys surely had the old Indians dancing. They would have been intimately familiar with this fun section of road, knowing what lay ahead and anticipating it well in advance. After navigating a particularly enjoyable stretch, we crested a hill to discover the historic Town Hill Inn and overlook. This was a likely rest stop for Gene and Washie along their ride. It was a natural place to take a breather, check over the bikes, and enjoy the spectacular view across the wide valley below.
When not on the track, Gene’s Scouts were in the stands to watch their buddies race.
In Hancock, Maryland, we picked up Route 522 south and rode through quaint, historic Berkeley Springs, West Virginia, and on south into Virginia to our destination of Winchester.
Once in downtown Winchester, Ron led us to an iconic spot for a hot dog. Whether Gene and Washie ever stopped at this historic stand for a dog when they were in town, we’ll never know. But just in case, we thought we’d better have one since we were trying to capture the experience.
Grandsons and great-grandsons pause at the Winchester track to reflect on two diehard old racers.
Since the Winchester Speedway is sometimes referred to as the old airport speedway, we meandered through the town following directional signs for the airport. After working our way along narrow roads that wound around the airport property, we came to the end of the road and were unexpectedly at the back side of the racetrack. No big sign. No grand entrance. As a lot of these rural speedways were, it was simply a venue where people gathered. The raceway was probably not much different than it was when Gene and Washie were last here together, except now the old wooden grandstands are gone, replaced with concrete and metal.
Gene carves up the clay on an Indian Scout.
The beauty of these local facilities is how approachable the track personnel can be. We arrived midweek in the middle of the day and told our story. Hoping to have a picture taken outside the track at the speedway sign, our plan was thwarted when we realized there was no such sign and no suitable backdrop. Fortunately, the track folks invited us to bring the bikes onto the track and position them in front of the wall on the back straight where “Winchester Speedway” was painted in bold lettering. It was perfect. Ron couldn’t resist the temptation to ride around the dirt track just to run tires on the same clay that his grandfather once tore up on the #64U Indian Sport Scout.
A lineage of Indian men chased their ancestors Gene and Washie to Winchester Speedway to rev up their legacy for another generation.
We were all having a great time and didn’t want the adventure to end, but the autumn sun was already sinking low in the sky. With our mission completed and an abundance of pictures taken to commemorate our expedition, it was time to say our goodbyes. Ron and Stephen had about a two-hour ride east to get back home. Parker and I needed a bit longer for our westward trek on modern interstate highways back toward Pittsburgh.
On the way home through the darkness, I replayed the ride over again. In my mind, I overlayed images of Gene and Washie from 70 years ago on today’s images of Ron, Stephen, Parker, and me riding the same roads to Winchester. It felt good to ride with other descendants. It felt even better to be together, chasing Gene and Washie.
The ride began with a visit to the resting places of Gene and Washie. They were then invited to ride along in spirit.
POSTSCRIPT
As much as the Indian boys would love to hear that the Harley broke down so often that we were forced to abandon our plans (or abandon Parker), the Heritage 114 did just fine. While it’s fun for us to see the old Harley and Indian wars heating up once again in this modern era (we can hear Gene and Washie piping in from the great beyond), the real benefit of that rivalry has been the development of better motorcycles from both brands. A little competition is a good thing, though Gene and Washie would still give Indian a slight edge. After all, it’s in their blood.
Winding around one of the many hairpins on the descent from Naut Aran, a town high in the Pyrenees that’s home to the Baqueira-Beret ski resort.
My husband, Steve, was facing a landmark birthday last August. He decided to celebrate on a motorcycle, and IMTBike had a Pyrenees tour that coincided with the date. The Pyrenees is a rugged mountain range that straddles the border of northern Spain and southern France, and it’s known for well-maintained but challenging roads and twisty mountain passes. The tour covers 900 miles over eight days and seven nights, with six riding days and one rest day.
IMTBike is a motorcycle tour and rental company based in Madrid with office locations in Barcelona, Bilbao, Málaga, and Lisbon. Steve contacted IMTBike’s managing director, an American ex-pat named Scott Moreno (listen to our podcast interview with Scott), who happily answered questions during several conversations. We wanted to know about weather in Barcelona (where the Perfect Pyrenees tour begins and ends) and in the mountains, what type of clothing we should wear, and what types of motorcycles are available. As an official partner of BMW Motorrad, IMTBike offers BMW models ranging from the G 310 R up to the K 1600 GT.
Steve shared with Scott that I was hesitant about riding in the Pyrenees. I’d gotten my motorcycle license only two years prior, and I was worried the tour would be too advanced for my limited riding experience. This tour was the first since Covid-19 shut everything down around the world, and Scott said he was joining the tour to make sure accommodations and everything else was in order after such a long hiatus. He also said he’d look out for me and not to worry. “Just come,” Scott said with his characteristic enthusiasm and charm. “You’ll love it.”
A sunset view from one the Paradors. Scattered throughout Spain, these luxury hotels are in converted castles, monasteries, and other historic buildings, and they showcase local cuisine.
Day 1: Arrival in Barcelona
IMTBike staff picked us up at the airport and drove us to a nice hotel in central Barcelona. The night before the tour started, everyone met in the hotel lobby for a briefing. Introductions were made, thorough handbooks were issued, and Spanish driving laws and road signs were reviewed. Our fearless guides, David and Mikel, described the quality of the roads, the increased amount of traffic in some areas due to tourism, and the daily fueling of our bikes. Then we enjoyed one of the late-evening dinners Spain is known for, with plenty of local specialties and vino tinto.
Enjoying a sweet treat and café con leche during one of our coffee stops.
Day 2: Barcelona to La Seu d’Urgell
On the morning of the tour’s first day, we shuttled over to IMTBike’s Barcelona office, and everyone familiarized themselves with their bikes of choice. I’d booked a BMW F 750 GS, which I’d ridden before, but it felt top-heavy and unwieldy, so I opted for a smaller, lighter G 310 R instead.
Steve and California Joe, who has 40 years of riding experience and was on his third IMTBike tour, rode R 1250 GSs. Bill and Ruth, a young Midwest couple who rode two-up, were on an F 800 GT. Completing our all-American group were Jerry and her wife GiGi, experienced riders from Long Island who are frequent IMTBike tour participants. At 79 years of age, Jerry is an inspiration and still serves as a motorcycle safety instructor. She rode a G 310 R and GiGi rode an F 750 GS. Scott rode an F 750 GS, while David and Mikel alternated between driving the van and leading our pack on an R 1250 GS. The support van accompanied us the entire trip. It transported everyone’s luggage, provided a secure place to store our helmets and jackets during coffee and lunch stops, and carried a spare F 750 GS in case one of our bikes had an issue.
Rounding another hairpin on the climb up to Port de la Bonaigua (6,798 ft).
Our departure from Barcelona was the only time we rode on an autovía (freeway), and the mountains in the distance were beautiful and inviting. Before long we began to climb into the Pyrenees on twisty curves and sweepers with beautiful vistas. Steve and I had helmet communicators, allowing us to share our excitement, continuously exclaiming “Spectacular!”
Spain is known for its Paradors, historic buildings converted into hotels that are administered by the government. The Parador in La Seu d’Urgell is a former convent. It had a small swimming pool, which cooled us off after riding in peak summer heat.
Climbing up to Col du Tourmalet (6,939 ft), one of the highest passes on the Pyrenees section of the Tour de France.
Before dinner our group met for a briefing about the next day’s ride. With drinks and maps covering the table, David and Mikel explained the coffee breaks, where and how to park for lunch, and stops at scenic points for photos. This was a ritual repeated nightly at each Parador. We would be riding portions of the Tour de France route (though not during the race itself), so they warned us about hairpins or narrow roads where we might encounter groups of cyclists.
Day 3: La Seu d’Urgell to Ordesa and Monte Perdido National Park
The roads on this tour were selected for optimum riding pleasure. There were plenty of challenging segments, and it was clear this was going to be an exciting adventure. After exhausting our use of “Spectacular!” Steve and I added “Magnificent!” and “Fantastic!” to our bike-to-bike exclamations.
I liked not worrying about navigation; David and Mikel took care of that. During every coffee break and lunch stop, our bikes were repositioned for ease of departure. I really liked that. At other times, one of the guides would stand in the street and direct traffic so we could cross lanes safely. I liked that too and felt spoiled.
The giant teeth of the Sierra de Montserrat tower over the Montserrat Monastery.
After visiting the Baqueira-Beret ski resort high in the Pyrenees, on our descent we encountered horses trotting alongside us, as free and unfettered as we were. Our travel through tunnels and over mountain passes brought us into France and back into Spain, where we arrived at a Parador surrounded by mountains with a lovely view of a waterfall.
During our nightly briefing, Scott confessed that, yes, he needed to connect with the Paradors and restaurants, but like all of us following the lockdown, he wanted to get back out in the world and enjoy the ride. Scott is passionate about motorcycles, as are David and Mikel, and the latter has been a tour guide for IMTBike for 16 years. Stoke makes all the difference.
In our helmet communicators, Steve and I repeated, “Don’t look down!”
Day 4: Ordesa to Valle de Tena
The morning coffee break occurred in France, so naturally, everyone ordered crepes. On steep, narrow roads, we passed cyclists who impressed us with their strength and endurance, but pedaling uphill didn’t look to be as much fun as I was having. We reached Col du Tourmalet (6,939 ft), one of the highest passes on the Pyrenees section of the Tour de France, and it offered spectacular views.
Late in the afternoon, we traveled through the beautiful Pyrenees National Park. Spectacular twisties brought us to Col d’Aubisque (5,607 ft), another mecca for cyclists. During a short break, a burst of applause brought our attention to another group of motorcyclists circled around Jerry. They found out she’s a 79-year-old rider and displayed their admiration.
We met some fluffy locals on our ride down from Col d’Aubisque.
We mounted our bikes in dense fog. The descent was on a narrow road with no shoulders or guardrails, with one side of the road edged by a vertical cliff. There was no margin for error. It was scary. Steve and I kept saying to each other, “Don’t look down.” We couldn’t look down if we wanted to because the fog was so thick. That was a blessing, but also a curse because the fog filled our faceshields.
Our group formed a slow conga line. The taillight on the bike in front of me was my only guide. On tight turns, the red light in front of me would disappear until I rounded the bend. Finally, we dropped below the fog, only to encounter a herd of sheep crossing the road, forcing us to stop. They kept coming and coming, making us laugh. I also laughed with relief.
Tour guide David asks, “Fog? What fog?”
By the time we checked into our lovely Parador tucked in the mountains, I was exhausted yet exhilarated. On Day 1, our guides said if we needed, for any reason, to put our bike into the van and ride shotgun next to the driver, it was always an option. As scared as I was, I trusted Scott, David, and Mikel to get us down safely, and they maintained a careful pace and conservative lines. We all tackled the trying conditions. I did it! And the sense of accomplishment felt good.
Day 5: Valle de Tena (Rest Day)
Everyone decided to explore beautiful Tramacastilla on the rest day, while David and Mikel offered to guide a loop ride. Steve and I wanted to stroll and relax too, but I wanted to test ride the F 750 GS. We asked David and Mikel if a shorter jaunt was possible, and without hesitation, they reorganized the route. California Joe joined us.
It was fun to watch David and Mikel ride together so joyfully. And it was contagious; we had so much fun we decided to extend the route. We had lunch outside with tables overlooking a lovely ski area, and we shared laughs and stories. It was another great riding day, and I gained enough confidence on the F 750 GS to ride it the rest of the tour.
We lost count of the spectacular mountain passes on this tour. Our crew at Col du Tourmalet.
Day 6: Valle de Tena to Cardona
Another day of excellent riding. More twisties, more sweepers, more landscapes, and more exclamations between Steve and me. “Bonito!” was our new favorite.
The Parador de Cardona is a converted castle, which was fortuitous because it was Steve’s birthday. Before dinner, I asked David and Mikel to take the little birthday candles I’d brought to the kitchen for Steve’s dessert. They paused and then said, “Okay, we’ll tell you. A bottle of wine and snacks are being sent to your room, and we already have candles for the cake we arranged.” I was very touched.
Steve enjoys his birthday celebration at the Parador de Cardona, a converted castle.
Dinner was in a grand, vaulted banquet hall. The food was terrific, and dessert was even better. A birthday cake was ceremoniously set in front of Steve and luckily our motley chorus singing “Happy Birthday” was drowned out by Scott’s phone blasting the Beatles’ “Birthday.” Steve was embarrassed but delighted. Everyone, especially David, Mikel, and Scott, made Steve’s birthday fun, memorable, and just so damn cool.
Day 7: Cardona to Barcelona
The last day brought us more excellent roads, and another exclamation: “Awesome!” Less than two hours from Barcelona are the Sierra de Montserrat, distinctive saw-toothed mountains that are visible from far away. As we got closer, each peak became a thick, pointy finger jutting upwards. A steep, winding road brought us to the Montserrat Monastery. Wandering through the monastery complex is well worth the visit.
Watching a funicular climb to the top of the Sierra de Montserrat.
Then, reluctantly, we returned to Barcelona. Don’t get me wrong, Barcelona is a lovely city. But our fantastic trip was over, and it was time to say goodbye to new friends. My initial reluctance to ride the difficult roads the Pyrenees are famous for was replaced with miles of joy, laughs, and confidence thanks to Scott, David, and Mikel. They’re very good at what they do, and they’re new friends too. Steve and I have since done two self-guided tours with IMTBike, and we look forward to our next guided tour with them.
The Perfect Pyrenees tour runs in August and September, and pricing starts at 2,850 euros (about $3,200). For more information about IMTBike’s tours, visit imtbike.com.
Though rarely on my bike these days, Hannah’s always along for the ride. Photo by Tristan Willey; other photos by the author.
The room is dirt cheap and smells it. I’ve been on the road for five weeks now, mostly camping to save money, and as I lay on the squeaky bed counting flies on the ceiling, I’m suddenly sick for fresh air. But nothing feels fresh in this part of Philly. The only thing I can think to do is pack up the bike and ride.
Though it’s not even 4 a.m., I find a young guy in work clothes sitting on the curb between our rooms, undoubtedly waiting to be picked up for some ass-kicking shift. He watches as I load up my BMW R 1200 RT test bike. Beyond “Hi” we don’t share a language, and it’s clear he’s baffled by the middle-aged lady with the big motorcycle, but I get a double thumbs up as I throttle away.
The Gold Wing Tour DCT devours backroads as eagerly as it does interstates.
My first task of the day is riding 200 miles north to swap the RT for a Honda Gold Wing Tour DCT. I’ve been testing bikes as I slowly crawl around America searching for its best roads. I tell people that when I return to the West Coast, I’ll write a book about what I’ve found, but really, it’s all an excuse to run. And yeah, we all know it’s not always the answer, but if you’re on the right bike, it sure can put some distance between you and dissatisfaction.
I’ve just returned from New Hampshire, Vermont, and Maine on the RT, and am not quite sure where to point the Gold Wing. The one thing I know for certain is I want to be somewhere memorable on my birthday, and I have just one day to get there.
THE KEYS TO A PLAN
Pancakes embody my love of the road. I never eat them at home, but boy how I love to tuck into a full stack with a side of bacon when I’m traveling by bike.
Does anything say road trip better than a hot breakfast in an old-school diner?
As I wait in a kitschy diner in upstate New York for a Honda rep and the fob to my fresh ride, I surf my notes, woven like a fragile net intended to encase what’s been meaningful about my trip so far. Everything is about the roads: their surface quality, the number of twists and undulations, surrounding scenery, traffic density, the character of the towns on either end. I feel taxed. Like rating so many roads has taken the fun out of riding.
I zoom in and out on my map, frustrated. Where to splurge on a birthday layover? And then I feel that familiar tickle. A wild hair. This time in the shape of the Florida Keys, with Key West a formidable 1,502 miles from my current location, and the start of my birthday just 36 hours away.
The Honda Gold Wing is brilliant on long, straight roads and tight, twisty ones.
Just before noon, I’m shooting onto I-95 South aboard a candy red Gold Wing Tour. The bike, one of my perennial favorites, feels familiar, even in its modern, more lean and athletic form. The first time I tested a Gold Wing, it was a 1987 GL1500SE for Rider. I remember being transfixed by the way its enormity disappeared once it was moving. That sleight of hand has only become more pronounced over the years as Honda oh-so-slowly refined its Wing, especially in this sporty sixth-generation version, with its state-of-the-art rider aids and electronics.
CAT’S IN THE CRADLE
As the afternoon air thickens, I remember the poison ivy. Both of my ankles and shins are covered in an angry rash, punishment for getting a peek through the window of an overgrown church near Chesterhill, Ohio, a couple weeks back while I was checking out the famous Triple Nickel, Highway 555.
The price for a quick peek inside this abandoned church was a raging case of poison ivy that lasted for weeks. Luckily, my Facebook friends have lots of advice on curatives. The most popular suggestion is ocean water. The one that actually works is a steroid injection.
While trying to curb thoughts of ramming a hairbrush down my Sidi boots, I notice I’m buzzing New York City for the second time today. So close to the most important person in my life, my adult daughter, Hannah, who’s living in Brooklyn. You’d think I’d spend my birthday there, but the hard truth is, my kid just moved into a one-bedroom with a guy she’s super serious about, and I’ve already popped in and out too many times over the last couple weeks. It makes me feel all “Cat’s in the Cradle,” but I get it, and it feels right to give her space.
As a huge thunderhead slowly walks its way across the horizon, I shuffle through memories of rides a younger Hannah had taken behind me. Countless trips in the U.S., but also adventures to places like Namibia, Greece, Scotland, and South Africa. A couple days ago, I did manage to get her on the back of the RT for a little run up into the Catskills. Once away from the city, I felt her relax against the top case and sink into her love of being on the bike.
How satisfying it is to have someone in your life who understands the deeper value of motorcycles, who gets what it means to be called to the road. Because it’s not just about machines and transportation. A motorcycle is an open window, a free ticket to a fully immersive experience. Not a lifestyle. A way of living.
GOOD NIGHT
It’s pouring rain all the way from D.C. to Richmond, and I’m happy for the stability of the big Wing. I’ve signaled to the Tour model’s electronic suspension that I’m one-up with luggage and toggled to Rain mode in case there’s a slow down or emergency, but generally, the gyroscopic effect is the science I trust, and despite occasional hydroplaning and people in cars staring like I’m a wack job, I’m finding this part of the ride weirdly relaxing. Concentration and meditation are the same thing, after all, and as the day fades into a long, dark night, I realize I’m no longer ruminating over negative crap. Not even the itch of poison ivy is breaking through.
Once traffic lightens, it’s time to hit up a playlist via the Honda’s Apple CarPlay app. The intuitive infotainment system on the Gen 6 GL is easy to navigate, and smart features like LED lighting, multiple ride modes, traction control, walking reverse, and hill-start assist prove worthy accoutrements. It’s not my first tour with Honda’s automatic Dual Clutch Transmission, however, and it has yet to grow on me. Even in manual mode, I just don’t find it as satisfying as letting my highly trained left hand work its muscle memory magic.
My ride from Upstate New York to Key West takes exactly 36 hours, an accidental Iron Butt Bun Burner, complete with gas station junk food (thanks Honda, for the built-in cup holders) and emergency roadside pit stops.
My buzz flickers around 1 a.m. and I duck into a brightly lit Best Western in Florence, South Carolina. I don’t bother to unpack the bike. So far, I’ve knocked only 700 miles off my quest for Key West, but that’s on top of 200 pre-dawn miles to get the Wing and that sad, sleepless night in the dirty motel. I hit the pillow hard, my head empty for the first time in weeks. No route to choose for tomorrow, just jump back on the asphalt river and row south until the road ends.
THE ONLY ROAD THAT MATTERS
In the morning, I’m greeted by an unusual cotton-ball-strewn sky of mammatus clouds that warn me to get a move on. Georgia flies by, and with it goes any chance of riding twisty roads today. I take solace in knowing I have two weeks to ride and rank the mountain roads of Georgia, both Carolinas, and Virginia on my way to return the GL in New York.
In South Carolina, soft mammatus clouds hint at more unsettled weather, not a huge concern thanks to the Gold Wing’s inherent stability and available electronic interventions.
And besides, it’s all too apparent this is exactly what I need right now. Tedium. Just a straight road, an empty head, and a comfortable motorcycle.
It’s just past 9 p.m. when I finally touch down on the famous Overseas Highway with 122 miles to go. It’s dark, but I’ve ridden this unique road and its 42 bridges so many times I can sense the bright color gradations of the surrounding waters. There is a familiar smell, too, a penetrating humidity that lingers in these islands like a briny musk.
While the straight, miles-long bridges of Florida’s Overseas Highway provide a unique and pleasurable experience, two days later I’m jonesing for the tight corners and less crowded spaces to the north.
Instead of feeling wrung out from the long ride, I’m wide awake. The miles from Big Pine Key to Key West are quiet and slow: dreamlike. Forgotten are complaints about the flies in my room in Philly, the rash on my ankles, my disillusionments back home, the baby girl who grew up.
Finally, at midnight, I arrive at The Paradise Inn feeling deeply tired yet completely cleansed by the long hours in the saddle.
In fact, I get a text from Hannah at 11:47 p.m., just as I’m crunching into the gravel parking lot of the historic inn I booked from a rest stop in Virginia. “Is this where you’re staying?” she asks. I’m moved that she’s followed my ride online, and I’ll cry tomorrow when balloons and a bouquet of birthday flowers arrive at my room.
It’s an awesome day of celebration. I ride a bicycle to a swimming beach, see my first six-toed Hemingway cat, eat seafood stew, and take in the sunset from Mallory Square. There’s a burlesque show, and finally, cake from a dimly lit dessert shop called Better Than Sex.
I laugh every time I see this photo of me posing at the Southernmost Point marker. We’ve all been there: intangibly compelled to secure “must-have” touristy keepsakes, often at great cost. For this one, it is a 45-minute queue in sweltering humidity in a black Aerostich while surrounded by inquisitive tourists in beachwear. Who can relate?
But the real gift of being in Key West is feeling cleansed by the long miles that brought me here. A reminder that an awesome ride isn’t always about a curvy road, scenery, or even the people with whom you share the ride.
Sometimes the best ride is as close as the seat of your motorcycle. And as far as a fast road will take you.
Key West is a treasure that must be experienced to be understood. Sure, it’s blessed to be surrounded by inviting Gulf waters and typically pleasant weather, but the island is so much more about a vibe – about history and food and music and doing whatever feels right, at whatever time of day.
In my favor, I do not spend money on fancy tropical drinks or conch shells.
Looking down on the road that brought us up to Col du Galibier, an 8,668-foot pass in the French Alps just west of the Italian border. On Day 8 we summited many alpine passes that challenge competitors in the Tour de France bicycle race.
Sunshine, wine, good food, and savoir vivre (knowing how to live) – these are just a few reasons why the Côte d’Azur and the Provence region of southern France are so captivating. But for motorcyclists, the real draw of this region near the western border of northern Italy are the roads threaded throughout the Maritime Alps. The Edelweiss Bike Travel Best of Southern France Tour gives motorcyclists a taste of the good life in this enchanting part of Europe.
Riding high above the Gorges de la Nesque on one of its many “balcony” roads carved into the canyon walls.
The tour begins and ends in Saint-Paul-de-Vence, a medieval village tucked into the mountains with views of the picturesque Mediterranean coast. The town is not far from iconic French Riviera cities like Cannes and Nice (which has the closest major airport), as well as the casinos and Formula 1 course in Monte Carlo, Monaco.
The tour covers approximately 1,300 miles over nine days, with a rest day in Mostuéjouls. A wide range of motorcycles are available for this tour, from small bikes like the BMW G 310 R to mid-sized bikes like the Honda NC750X and Ducati Monster 821 to liter-class bikes like the Suzuki V-Strom 1050XT, BMW R 1250 GS/RT, and Harley-Davidson Pan America. Prices start at $6,550 and vary based on choice of motorcycle and single vs. double room. Lodging and most meals are included as part of the tour price.
A pair of sportbikers make the climb to an alpine pass on a perfect riding day.
Like so many cities, towns, and villages in southern France, Saint-Paul-de-Vence is full of history and character. The picturesque walled city was initially a fortified medieval defense post and played a significant role in the French Revolution. For centuries it has been a lodestone for tourists, travelers, and artisans, as well as a significant center for the Impressionist and Expressionist art movements of the 20th century. Recently it was home to, and is the final resting place of, modern artist Marc Chagall, who bequeathed to the city some of his most significant works.
Part of what draws one here is the magical blend of tranquility and brilliance. For artists it’s the light, for others it’s the mild climate and rustic setting. For many it is simply the nearness and yet quiet respite from the hustle and bustle of France’s more famous Mediterranean cities.
Col du Galibier is one of several alpine passes we summited on Day 8.
Seven guests have arrived, coming from the United States, Brazil, and Germany, and all have chosen to ride adventure bikes: BMW R 1250 GSs and S 1000 XRs and a KTM 1290 Super Adventure. The bikes are parked next to the pool, ready to ride. For all but two of the tour participants, this is their first time in this region. For some, this is their first time in France. The evening before the tour we met for a briefing, followed by camaraderie over a delicious meal of good wine and poisson à la provençale. Marlene and Klaus, a couple from Germany, received a special recognition for having completed many Edelweiss tours already.
On our first riding day, from Saint-Paul-de-Vence to Saint-Michel-l’Observatoire, we visited Gorges du Verdon, one of the most iconic canyon landscapes in Europe. The limestone walls, which are thousands of feet high, attract many rock climbers.
Day 2: Saint-Paul-de-Vence to Saint-Michel-l’Observatoire
Our day begins with a nip in the air and long shadows stretching across the lawn. There’s not a cloud in the sky, yet the sweltering heat of summer is behind us and it’s a pleasure to don some warmer riding gear for a picture-perfect autumn day. It’s in the mid-40s now, but by the afternoon it will be in the mid-60s. Our route takes us along the Gorges du Loup, to the medieval walled city of Gourdon, and ultimately the spectacular Gorges du Verdon – one of the most iconic canyon landscapes in Europe. Moustiers-Sainte-Marie is our last stop of the day, right at the foot of an ancient monastery, for a coffee before reaching our lodging for the night. This ancient town was first settled in the 5th century, and with its 12th-century Romanesque church, it is considered one of France’s plus belle ville de pays (most beautiful country towns).
Taking a break to enjoy the view of Gorges du Verdon.
After a full day of riding, the day ends with a respectful appreciation of the amazing scenery, stunning vistas, extensive history, and relaxed simplicity that is typical of Provence. Our group is getting into the swing of things as the cares of their lives back home begin melting away. Can it get any better?
Day 3: Saint-Michel-l’Observatoire to Avignon
We’re on our way to Avignon, and it’s a gorgeous day, with blue skies dotted with fluffy white clouds, creating the perfect backdrop for the charming villages we visit. After a short warm-up ride, we stop in the beautiful village of Roussillon for coffee. With its ancient buildings seeming to tumble down the mountainside, we find our lunch stop in Sault even more enchanting.
On Day 3, during our ride from Saint-Michel-l’Observatoire to Avignon, we had lunch in the beautiful village of Sault.
After lunch, we follow part of the famous Tour de France route over 6,263-foot Mont Ventoux, where the blue skies give way to thick, gray fog. We pause to allow a herd of sheep to pass and keep a keen eye out for bicyclists. They’re everywhere! We must be cautious, as some of the bicyclists descend the mountain faster than our motorcycles. We’re amazed, and the fearless cyclists command our respect.
Upon arriving in Avignon, we enjoy a little tailgate party with snacks and post-ride “boot” beers served from the back of the chase van. The night’s accommodations are in an old palace in the center of the city, and we’ve arrived early enough for a visit to the spa or to explore the beautiful city perched on the bank of the Rhône River, which is a veritable jewel of provincial culture and heritage. We’re rewarded with another delicious dinner, and afterward we all linger to chat about what we’ve seen and experienced so far. The anticipation of the next day’s ride is palpable.
Day 4: Avignon to Mostuéjouls
The Côtes du Rhône region is renowned for its red cuvée wines made from a blend of Grenache, Syrah, and Mourvèdre grapes. We visit La Chartreuse-de-Valbonne, a monastery founded in 1203, where Carthusian monks first cultivated the grapes and fermented the juices to produce the wine that made this region world famous.
La Chartreuse-de-Valbonne is a monastery in the Côtes du Rhône region that is famous for wine.
The day continues with a major highlight: a thrilling roller-coaster ride on narrow, heavily shaded forest roads, over a 3,000-foot pass, and into Grands Causses Regional Natural Park. Within the park is Gorges de la Jonte, a jagged, plunging canyon up to 1,500 feet deep where vultures can be seen circling in the thermic winds high above the rugged terrain. After another thrilling day of riding, we arrive in Mostuéjouls, where we spend the next two nights and a rest day at a first-class hotel with a pool.
Day 5: Rest Day in Mostuéjouls
This picturesque alpine village on the Tarn River is popular with climbers, kayakers, bicyclists, and motorcyclists. Some took the opportunity to squeeze in another day of riding on the fantastic local roads, while others explored or relaxed. One of the area’s highlights is located nearby in Cévennes National Park – an enormous limestone cave called Aven Armand that’s filled with intricate stalagmites and stalactites. Another is Viaduc de Millau, an 8,000-foot-long multi-span cable-stayed bridge that’s the tallest in the world, with a structural height of just over 1,100 feet.
A few of us visited Aven Armand, an enormous limestone cave, during a rest day in Mostuéjouls.
Day 6: Mostuéjouls to Chabrillan
We continue our triangular, clockwise loop route, riding through the Gorges du Tarn and Gorges de l’Ardèche, where we stop at Pont d’Arc, an enormous natural stone bridge that was formed when the Ardèche River broke through a narrow escarpment of soft limestone. The arch is nearly 200 feet wide and more than 100 feet tall, and a nearby beach makes it popular with swimmers and sunbathers. It’s another beautiful day, and we take the opportunity to stop and enjoy the view down into canyons and across to distant mountains carpeted in rich green vegetation.
Pont d’Arc is natural stone bridge that was formed when the Ardèche River broke through a narrow escarpment of limestone.
Day 7: Chabrillan to Chambéry
As we travel northeast, we’re making our way into the foothills of the French Alps. The scenery gets more rugged and the mountains soar higher. We summit Col de la Machine, a breathtaking 3,316-foot pass, followed by another gorge. We’ll spend the next two riding days at higher elevations, mostly above 6,000 feet. Days like this are why we go on alpine motorcycle tours. The vistas, the undulating pavement, and the surprises around every unfamiliar corner. This is riding heaven – we all know it and enjoy sharing it with each other.
Rounding hairpins on the descent from Col de l’Iseran. At 9,068 feet, it is the highest paved pass in the Alps.
Day 8: Chambéry to Arvieux
More alpine passes today. Col du Télégraphe (5,138 feet). Col du Galibier (8,668 feet). Col du Lautaret (6,752 feet). Col d’Izoard (7,743 feet). Each is legendary in its own right. They are rites of passage for bicyclists – challenges on the grueling Tour de France race. We are grateful for throttles!
Col du Télégraphe (5,138 feet), a pass that is often used during the ascent to Col du Galibier in the Tour de France.
Being high in the Alps made for an ideal location to enjoy one of Edelweiss’ famous picnic lunches. One of the tour guides bought a variety of local delicacies, and the chase van was stocked with tables, chairs, and everything needed for a nicely catered buffet. With the sun shining and beautiful mountain views, we relaxed and enjoyed having this little part of paradise all to ourselves.
Enjoying one of Edelweiss’ famous picnic lunches on a beautiful day in the Alps.
Day 8: Arvieux to Jausiers
We wake up in Arvieux to cold rain and fog, our only inclement weather of the trip. After riding briefly into and out of Italy (ciao!), we ride back into France and find that a landslide on the route to Col de la Bonette has blocked our passage. With torrential rain and temperatures just above freezing, our hands are soaked and our spirits are numbed. We detour back to Vinadio, Italy, and assuage our disappointment with hot beverages and perhaps the best pizza we’ve ever eaten. We backtrack and follow a clear route to Jausiers, where we all welcome a hot shower, a warm dinner, and a soft, dry bed.
This was our view as we rode up to Col de la Bonette on a clear morning after the previous day’s heavy rain.
Day 9: Jausiers to Saint-Paul-de-Vence
Since we missed Col de la Bonette (8,907 feet) yesterday, on our last riding day we do an early-morning up-and-back ride to the monumental pass. We squeeze in more mountain riding on our way back to Saint-Paul-de-Vence, where we put down our kickstands for the last time.
After a landslide blocked our access to Col de la Bonette from the south, we summited the pass the next day from the north.
Our international group shares a mix of elation and disappointment. We’ve had a wonderful tour and even faced a few challenges, and we don’t want it to end. Over our final dinner together, Edemar from Brazil says, “The end of a dream is the birth of new plans!”
We all were at a loss for words to describe how stunning the trip had been. Great food, amazing riding, impressive historical sites, exploration of new places, and a soul-warming group experience. A wonderful adventure that made us ready for more!
We passed through this idyllic valley on the ride up to Col du Télégraphe.
Edelweiss Bike Travel’s Best of Southern France tour is scheduled to run in June and September of 2022 and 2023. Prices start at $6,550. Visit edelweissbike.com for more details.
The author and his BMW R 1200 RT at Ledges State Park.
There are some great roads in central Iowa around the town of Boone, which is about 45 miles north of Des Moines. This ride crisscrosses the Des Moines River on a series of county highways and backroads, offering a nice selection of curves and scenery. I’m on a BMW R 1200 RT today, but these roads are friendly for just about any kind of motorcycle. This 124-mile loop minimizes straight sections and takes a few hours, so let’s go!
First things first: this ride is in rural farm country, so be alert for deer, farm equipment, and debris on the road. Our starting point is in downtown Boone. We follow Mamie Eisenhower Avenue (the former First Lady was born here) east to the junction with Highway R27, where we turn south and ride along the west side of Boone Municipal Airport. Like all the roads on this ride, the pavement is in good condition and meanders easily; you can see through the curves, so they’re fun to ride at any pace.
Ledges State Park is named after the sandstone bluffs that run along the Des Moines River. Photo courtesy of Iowa Tourism Office.
We cross U.S. Route 30 and continue south to Highway E52 (250th Street). Turning right (west), we continue to the upper entrance of Ledges State Park, where sandstone ledges tower 100 feet above the Des Moines River. The scenic park offers hiking, picnicking, and camping, and we’ll return to it at the end of the ride.
We backtrack to R27, turn right, and head south again until R27 ends at the junction with Highway E57 (270th Street). We turn right (west) and cross the Des Moines River, enjoying the first of many scenic river views. Past the river is a sign for Camp Mitigwa, and we turn left (south) on R26, also known as Magnolia Road. We follow the twists and turns on excellent pavement down into the Des Moines River valley, and then turn left (east) on Highway E62 (325th Street) and soon arrive at the junction with State Highway 210.
The Des Moines River is a 525-mile tributary of the Mississippi that runs through the heart of Iowa and its namesake city. Crossing and riding along the river gives this ride a curvy character most people don’t associate with the Hawkeye State.
Looking straight ahead, you’ll see the High Trestle Trail Bridge, a former railroad bridge over the Des Moines River that’s now a biking and walking trail. After enjoying the view, we turn around and ride E62 and R26 north again to E57. We turn left (west) on E57, then right (north) on R18 (L Avenue) toward the small town of Moingona.
We cross U.S. Route 30 and turn right (east) on Highway E41 (216th Drive), which is part of the Lincoln Highway Heritage Byway and crosses the Des Moines River. After a twisting climb out of the river valley, we see a strange-looking shale mound on the left, a reminder of Iowa’s once-booming coal industry. We enter Boone again from the west, picking up Mamie Eisenhower Avenue and then turning north on Marion Street.
Part of the route follows the Lincoln Highway Heritage Byway.
After crossing the train tracks, we turn left on Highway E26 (12th Street) and make a few more turns as we follow E26 along curvy pavement and cross back over the Des Moines River. We exit the river valley on a wonderfully smooth and winding stretch of road followed by a short straight section.
We turn right (north) on Highway P70 (H Avenue), which runs along the western edge of Don Williams Recreation Area, which has a lake, camping facilities, and a golf course. We continue north to the junction with Highway E18 (130th Street), and turn right (east) toward Pilot Mound, a small town with a sense of humor that you’ll notice as you ride by. We cross the Des Moines River once again on E18, and then turn left (north) on Highway R21 (Nature Road).
In addition to the scenic, wooded areas along the Des Moines River, there are several nice parks on this route that offer recreational opportunities.
We pass through another very small town, Ridgeport, which isn’t on most maps. We stay on R21, which twists and turns a few times until it becomes first Chase Avenue, then Stagecoach Road, and arrive in Stratford. We turn left (west) on State Highway 175, and quickly turn right (north) onto Highway D54 (Bellville Road), a real treat that heads steeply down into – you guessed it – the Des Moines River valley. There can be a lot of gravel at the bottom of this road, so stay sharp.
A Boone and Scenic Valley Railroad locomotive painted in old Chicago North Western livery. This excursion train and museum is a must-see for railway buffs.
Exiting the river area, the road straightens (and becomes 330th Street) until we take a sweeping left (onto Racine Avenue) into Dayton, a small town with fuel, eateries, and rodeo grounds we see on our right as we leave town heading south. We’re back on Highway 175, which curves to the east and takes us over the Des Moines River, our sixth crossing! When Highway 175 curves north, we continue straight ahead and turn right (south) on Washington Avenue. After an interesting set of curves, we return to R21 (Chase Avenue/Nature Road) and continue south to Boone on Division Street.
A trail bridge in McHose Park on the south side of Boone.
At 10th Street, you can turn left (east) to visit the Boone and Scenic Valley Railroad. This excursion train was started by volunteers and has grown into a fine attraction with an excellent museum. We continue south on Division Street, crossing 3rd Street (Lincoln Highway) and coming to a four-way stop at Park Avenue.
We turn left (east) on Park Avenue and ride through the Honey Creek ravine and enter McHose Park, a great place to stop and stretch your legs. We turn right on Francis Mason Drive and wind our way south through the park, exiting near U.S. Route 30.
A stone bridge built by the Civilian Conservation Corps in Ledges State Park. Photo courtesy of Iowa Tourism Office.
We head east briefly on U.S. 30, then turn right (south) on Oriole Road toward the Boone Speedway. Oriole Road meanders its way toward the Des Moines River and the lower entrance of Ledges State Park. The road is smooth and deceptively fast because, before you know it, the speed limit drops and there’s a chicane to slow you down before entering the park. Check out the sandstone ledges, enjoy the park, and then head back to Boone for fuel, food, or a hotel room. Me? I’m ready to gas up and ride another 120 miles to get back home.
