Day 1 (Friday, Aug. 12) Held back by loose ends and details, I got on the road about 11 a.m. It was a gloomy, gray, humid yet cool day. I rode west on I-74 into Illinois, angling up toward I-80 and running into drizzle east of Galesburg. Realizing this would be a short day, I stopped in Moline to phone ahead for a reservation at the Coralville, Iowa, Motel 6. I got there at 6:15 p.m. Early on, I noticed I was meeting a lot of Harley-Davidsons, the exodus from Sturgis.
Day 2 Coralville-Fargo: My Radio Shack weather radio warned of rain to the north and I found it on I-380 near Waterloo. I followed U.S. 218 north into the bright sunshine behind the advancing cold front and stopped for a late breakfast at Mason City. Then it was north again, into Minnesota, around the west side of Minneapolis to I-94 and the last 214 miles to Fargo and the next Motel 6.
Day 3 Fargo-Forsyth, Mont.: It was a brisk 46 degrees when I rolled out of Fargo, my Gerbing electric jacket liner and electric gloves running full blast to ward off the windchill. It felt good to be on the road early with the rising sun in my mirrors. Each rise in the road brought a new vista of acres and acres of brilliant yellow sunflowers, each turned to face the sun like a little satellite dish. I stopped for breakfast at Jamestown at a no-name restaurant next to a packed Perkins. Reading the local paper, I came across a reference a town named Gackle. Gotta remember that one. Gackle, N.D. Just inside Montana, after the terrain had turned from farms to badlands to ranches, I got to feeling a little frisky and ran a full hour at 100+ mph. I topped out at an indicated speed of 135 mph, but realized the bike had more speed left. About 3 p.m. (I had picked up an hour, crossing into the Mountain Time Zone), I was confronted with the choice of stopping at Forsyth, continuing on the interstate to Billings or taking U.S. 12 west in search of lodging farther west. The manager of the Best Western Motel (where the thermometer was reading 100 degrees) settled it for me. There were no rooms in Billings because the state fair was going on and lodging was scarce along U.S. 12. I got a $45 room and bagged it for the day.
At the motel manager's suggestion, I phoned the Four Seasons Motel in Kalispell and made a reservation for the next night.
Day 4 Forsyth-Kalispell: I rode out of Forsyth at sun-up, pausing on the bridge over the Musselshell River to photograph the sunrise. A short distance on, I watched an antelope cross the road a quarter-mile ahead of me. He loitered near the fenceline, seemingly unconcerned that I was stopped and watching him. As I continued, I saw more and more wildlife - more antelope, a deer, a wild turkey scurrying up a rise just off the road. I took to honking my horn and slowing as I approached birds on roadkill. I realized that it was chancy to travel faster than 60 mph through this countrysidewith all this wildlife about. As the sun climbed higher, however, the animals disappeared. Gassing at White Sulphur Springs, I met a Gold Wing couple from Minnesota and joined them for huevos rancheros at a local cafe. They, too, were headed for Glacier and I gave them my Montana motel guide to help them nail down a room for the night. The farther west I rode, the more I noticed smoke from forest fires. West of Helena, I saw a helicopter hauling water south after scooping it up from a lake just north of the highway. I turned north and rode through forests and lakes on U.S. 83, reaching Kalispell about 5:30 p.m. I was getting worried about finding lodging in the Banff-Jasper area, since my motel directories were weak on Canada. I turned to the BMW MOA Anonymous book and found a local BMW rider who ran a hostel. A phone call for directions and I was a Jay and Linda's house north of town. They gave me a hostel directory, but I concluded privately that it was a bit too communal for my tastes. They also gave me a flyer for a bed & breakfast at Fernie, B.C.
Day 5 Kalispell-Fernie, B.C.: Smoke from forest fires made Glacier National Park a huge disappointment. The Going to The Sun Highway up and over the mountains was my first taste of mountain riding since last summer in Colorado and I found my flatlander sensibilities a little overwhelmed as I crept up and around the switchbacks. Before entering the park, I had checked at the Alberta Information Center about the prospect of lodging in the Banff-Jasper area. They gave me the 800 number of a hotel-motel room clearinghouse which guaranteed to find me a room. They did, but starting at $150. Riding over the mountains in the smoky haze, I considered blowing off the Canadian part of the trip. But, as I descended to St. Mary's at the east edge of the park, I decided to call the Fernie bed & breakfast on the chance they had room for me. A pleasant guy named Ralph answered the phone and assured me they had a room, for only $25 Canadian. I headed north, changing $100 U.S. to $133.30 Cdn. at a bank in Pincher Creek, Alberta. Barbara Lynn's Bed & Breakfast was a modest split-level house on a side street of Fernie, a little town of about 3,000 in the Canadian Rockies. My bed was comfortable, I had the use of the laundry facilities and Ralph even let me run the channel changer when we watched TV that night.
Day 6 Fernie-Valemount: Ralph, substituting for Barbara Lynn, who was off to Jasper on a bicycle tour, whipped up a filling breakfast of porridge, juice, coffee and a spectacular chocolate chip muffin. I headed west on Hwy. 3, picking up 93 east of Cranbrook. The air was smoky and I could smell the forest burning. Around Columbia, I ran into rain and lightning and struggled into my rainsuit. I gassed at Radium Hot Springs and, minutes later, had to dig out my wallet again for the $5 admission fee to ride through Kootenay National Park to get to Banff. I was dogged by rain and low clouds all day and the weather hid the mountain peaks from me, making for a cold, drizzly ride up what is normally a spectacular valley. Maybe next year. I gassed at Jasper and rode west into clear weather, finding Brenda's Bed & Breakfast right where it was supposed to be on Hwy. 5 north of Valemount. The owners, Brenda & Ken McKenzie are great people, with accents straight out of the Great White North, saying "aboot" and ending their sentences with "eh?" so much I initially wondered if they were putting me on. Brenda has a charming wink that makes you like her instantly. Ken is a quiet, friendly utility company lineman who makes you feel right at home. He split a 6-pack of locally brewed beer with me as we chatted into the night. The other guests included a young Italian couple and a German family of mom and dad and their two high school-aged daughters. The cost of $50 Cdn. was a bargain for my room in their big log house, especially with their hospitality and Brenda's sumptuous breakfast with home-baked bread and an egg souffle.
Day 7 Valemount-Seattle: At Brenda's suggestion, I stopped at a stream in Valemount to watch huge 3-foot-long coho salmon struggling upstream to spawn, some 300 miles from the sea. Once on the road south, I was passed about 10 miles south of town by a guy on a white BMW R100RS with an Alberta plate following a Mazda pickup at speeds up to 100 mph. I fell in with them and knocked off a quick 80 miles. The BMW rider pulled off with a couple of Gold Wing riders and I followed the Mazda another 10-15 miles before dropping back to a more legal speed. I reached Kamloops about 1 p.m., took a break and jumped back onto the Coquihalla Highway ($5 Cdn. tollroad). I hooked up with a Gold Wing for the last 20 miles or so to Hope. I phoned AOL friend Jackie Dempere in Seattle and told her I'd be at her house in 2-3 hours. I crossed the border at Sumas, getting a friendly "Welcome home" from the border guard, and picked up I-5 at Bellingham. Seattle was gorgeous at sunset and the traffic was easier than I'd expected. I rode straight to Jackie's place in Tukwila on the south side of Seattle.
Day 8 Seattle-Portland: Jackie gave me a tour of Seattle in the morning, including a quick visit to Buckingham BMW and lunch down at the harbor at Ivar's Clam Shop. I left her place about 2 p.m. and headed south on I-5, stopping south of Tacoma to put on my rainsuit. I got to Portland just in time for the evening rush hour and reached my son's house at 5:10 p.m.
Day 9-11 Portland with son.
Day 12 Portland-Eureka, Calif.: I was on the road at 6:45 a.m. and got in 100 miles before breakfast. I stopped at Ashland for gas and chatted with a local BMW rider as I added a quart of oil to my engine. South again on I-5 to California Hwy. 96 and 200 miles of fabulous twisties along the Klamath River to Arcata. Riding to dinner that night without earplugs, I noticed the telltale sound of a broken weld on my exhaust. Maybe it'll hold til Denver, I thought.
Day 13 Eureka-East Palo Alto: After a motel restaurant breakfast, I rode out at 8 a.m. and wound through the redwoods for about 100 miles before getting off of U.S. 101 onto Hwy. 1. But not before I paid the obligatory visit to the Drive-Through Tree. The next several hours were spent in twisties - first through alternating dark forest and bright sunlight, then along the coast in cold fog. I stopped for a bite of lunch - clam chowder that I think came from a can - and chatted with a couple on a Wing from Seattle. Back on the road through places with familiar names - Point Arena, Mendocino, Bodega Bay, Point Reyes. Up and over Mt. Tamalpais and suddenly I was back on 101 and at the north end of the Golden Gate. I followed 101 though downtown San Francisco and down to East Palo Alto where I stopped for the night at the home of another AOL friend, Giuliana Milan.
Day 14 East Palo Alto-Morro Bay: I was on the road a little after 9 a.m., stopping at San Jose BMW for a spare headlight bulb and a saddlebag lid strap. Down to Santa Cruz and past Monterey on the freeway to where it narrows down to 2 lanes at Carmel Valley Road. Here begins the finest ride of the trip. The weather was uncharacteristically clear for this time of year and I took my time as vista after spectacular vista of mountain, cliff and blue-green sea unfolded in front of me. Twenty-nine miles south of Carmel, I stopped at Nepenthe - Orson Welles and Rita Hayworth's hideway, become a restaurant and gift shop - for coffee cake and mocha. I found myself leap-frogging a Swedish couple on a rented BMW as we rode and stopped to take pictures. On the coast south of Bailey Bridge, I found a local photographer, his tripod and camera set up beside his red Porsche. This, he said, was one of the clearest days of the entire summer he said, congratulating me on my timing. Reaching Morro Bay and my Motel 6 room, I decided my exhaust noise was definitely getting worse. Since this was the one night of the week (Thursday) when BMW Motorcycles of Indianapolis was open late, I phoned my dealer and asked for advice. Archey Shearer suggested I call BMW of California at Mountain View. He also noted that my present exhaust was still under warranty and FAXed the appropriate paperwork to me at the motel. I arranged to ride back to the Bay area the next day for a replacement exhaust system. Then I went to dinner at Bob's Seafood on the waterfront and watched the sun go down behind Morro Rock in the harbor. For some odd reason, I got the special handicapped room at the motel, but I didn't have the nerve to use the parking space that went with it.
Day 15 Morro Bay-Tracy: On the road at 8 a.m., I rode up Calif. 41, through the fire-ravaged hillside to Atascadero and caught 101 north. I was at Mountain View by noon and hung out at the dealership while they replaced my exhaust system. I was dazzled to learn that one of the mechanics - Richard Sullivan - grew up 18 miles from me in Lafayette, Ind., and went to Jefferson High School with my ex-wife's younger sisters. I got back on the road at 4:30, working my way east through Friday afternoon rush hour traffic. Frazzled, I went to ground at the Motel 6 at Tracy, resolving to get an early start tomorrow.
Day 16 Tracy-Salina, Utah: After a Denny's breakfast, I was off into the blinding rising sun, working my way east and south toward the Sierras. At Yosemite National Park, I was pleased to find admission was free today. I'd expected just a long ride in the woods, but two-thirds of the way through the vistas opened up. At one stop, I met Heinz Kunkel, service leader for BMW AG in Frankfurt-on-Main. He and his wife and another couple were traveling through the west in a van and he was very taken with my bike. We exchanged cards and I took a photo of him and his group with the bike. I gassed at Lee Vining and headed town Hwy. 120 to pick up U.S. 6 into Nevada. Along the way, I found the most amazing set of whoop-te-doos I've ever seen on a public highway. The sign says something about Dips for the next 5 miles or so. I found that any speed over 70 involved getting occasionally airborne. Once the road straightened out, I decided to wick it up and see how fast the bike would go. The road was perfectly straight and I had an unobstructed view for miles. With the tach needle deep in the redzone, going downhill, I maxed out at 146 mph. I marveled at the mile markers whipping past every 24 seconds or so, then backed off and cruised the rest of the way to Tonopah at 120. I gassed again at Tonopah and headed for Ely, again cruising well over the 100 mph mark, slowing only for the occasional oncoming car. My radar detector remained silent and I had a strong feeling that nobody really cared how fast I went as long as I didn't crash into anything. Intent on making Green River, Utah, I pressed on into the lowering darkness. But as I approached Salina, the sky ahead lit up with horizon-to-horizon lightning flashes and rain spattered my face shield. I stopped under a gas station canopy to don rain gear for the final 120-mile dash, but finally yielded to the voice of reason after two locals suggested I get a motel room in Salina. I registered at the local HoJo Inn, had a late dinner at the motel restaurant, bought a gas station 6-pack of beer and holed up for the night. I'd done 714 miles and now had 5,540 behind me for the entire trip.
Day 17 Salina-Breckenridge, Colo.: I'd gassed a short time before Salina, but decided to leave town with a full tank, so I topped off at the I-70 Shell station. After putting 98 cents worth in, I discovered all I had was $100 bills and my Shell credit card. I presented my card to the attendant, only to be berated for interrupting his breakfast to charge 98 cents worth of gas. Imagine what he would have done it I'd handed him a $100 bill. As I rode east through the Utah canyonlands, I was glad I'd saved this ride for the morning light. The angled light from the ascending sun brought out all of the vivid colors and rugged textures of the fantastic bluffs and buttes and towers shaped from the prehistoric seabed I was traversing. I found myself smiling at the spectacular beauty of the bizarre landscape. I stopped for gas at Green River and found myself across the pump island from Sam Meyer, a Harley rider from Princeton, Ill., who was headed southwest to the Grand Canyon. Sam suggested we have breakfast and I recommended Ben's Cafe down the street, a place I've dined on earlier trips. After a pleasant chat and a good meal, we went our separate ways. I ran into drizzle at Grand Junction, Colo. and was in my rainsuit all the way to Breckenridge. My Indianapolis BMW Club friends came to greet me when they heard me pull up outside the chalet and quickly responded to my plaintive cries of, "Beer! Beer!"
Day 18-22 Breckenridge: The weather in Breckenridge was the lousiest of any week I've spent there since 1987. I rode little, doing a little gold panning in the Arkansas River south of Leadville and making a trip to Fort Collins to replace my front tire which had become alarmingly smaller after the mad dash across Nevada. (It lasted a little less than 6,000 miles.) In the course of things, I gave Fred Lipucci, the owner of BMW Fort Collins one of the business cards for Brenda's B&B in Valemount, since he is a B&B fan and was headed for Jasper the next week.
Day 23 Breckenridge-Belleville, Kans.: I left the chalet early Saturday morning with friend Rich Nathan. We made relatively short work of Colorado and sped east into Kansas on U.S. 36. About halfway across the state, we discovered Rich's rear tire was showing cord in one spot and concluded it wouldn't go the distance. From our room in the Plaza Motel at Belleville, Rich phoned number after number in the BMW MOA Anonymous book, finally locating Larry Britton, who runs a little motorcycle accessory business in Manhattan, Kans. Larry had a Chen Shing that would fit Rich's bike and agreed to meet us at the shop at 9 a.m. the next morning. Pretty good for tracking down a tire on Sunday morning of Labor Day weekend in the middle of Kansas. We celebrated with Kansas prime rib at the best restaurant in town.
Day 24 Belleville-Altamont, Ill.: Nursing his dying Metzeler tire, Rich led south from Belleville in a light rain. We escaped the rain north of Manhattan and found Larry's shop easily. He was waiting and, in 90 minutes, we were back on the road, this time eastbound on I-70. We made Kansas City by 1 p.m. and settled into the ugly, brutal interstate drone across Missouri. Just west of St. Louis, we were overtaken by Mike Shannon on his 1985 K100RS headed home to Bloomington, Ind. Rich and Mike were acquainted, having been corner workers together at Indianapolis Raceway Park. Mike hooked up with us as I led through St. Louis and across the Mississippi to the land where radio station call letters start with Ws. About 20 miles east of St. Louis, we found rain. Gassing and getting into rainsuits at an Amoco station, we resolved to press on. I took the lead in the lowering darkness and, after 30 miles of pitch black night, truck spray, construction zones and insanely bright flashing lane arrows, I pulled into a motel at Altamont, spent. "You guys can go on if you like," I said, "but I'm stopping here. I'm too fatigued and I'm just not sharp enough to be safe out there." Rich and Mike seemed unnaturally glad to be off of the superslab too and we quickly agreed to split a $40 motel room.
Day 25 Altamont-Indianapolis: After a pleasant breakfast at the motel restaurant (Grits?!?), we donned rainsuits and headed off into the cold gray drizzle and fog that shrounded I-70. Mike broke off for Bloomington at the Cloverdale, Ind., exit and Rich and I stopped for a final break at a rest area just west of Indianapolis. The place was full of Amish men and boys in their black hats and slacks and suspenders and blue shirts. The sight of a half dozen of them lined up at the urinals in the men's room gave me the urge to reach for my camera, but I thought better of it. The little Amish kids seemed fascinated by my blaze orange rainsuit. The lobby of the rest area facilities had recently been gone over with some orange-scented cleaning product and Rich suggested the kids probably though that aroma was coming from me, the Orange Man. Back on the road, Rich and I parted company where I-70 meets I-465, with him heading south and me turning north toward Carmel. I got home a little after noon. Total mileage, right at 7,800. All in all, a damn fine way to spend 25 days.
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