BLACK-AND-WHITES ON DISPLAY IN ICELAND. PHOTO: STEVE SHANNON OPPOSITE PAGE: THE MOUNTAINS OF CHILE CALL OUT WITH PROMISES OF ADVENTURE. PHOTO: MICHNUS OLIVIER
IN 2024, PHOTOGRAPHER STEVE SHANNON TRAVELED TO ICELAND TO EXPLORE WITH THE RIDE WITH LOCALS TOUR OPERATOR, WHILE SHOOTING A PROJECT WITH LEATT. “I WOULD HIGHLY RECOMMEND THE TRIP TO ANYONE THAT ENJOYS RIDING MOTORCYCLES IN AN INCREDIBLY SCENIC AREA,” STEVE SAYS. “IT’S NOT HARD RIDING, BUT IT’S FAST, FUN AND SHOULD BE ON EVERY RIDER’S BUCKET LIST.” SEE MORE OF STEVE’S BREATHTAKING IMAGES IN THE PHOTO ESSAY AT THE END OF THIS ISSUE.
PHOTOGRAPHER STEVE SHANNON
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WHY WE WRITE ABOUT RIDING
THOUGHTS ON MOTOJOURNALISM AFTER YEARS IN THE BUSINESS
WORDS: Zac Kurylyk PHOTOS: Zac Kurylyk
If you haven’t already done so, take a good, hard look at the cover. Moving beyond Steve Shannon’s excellent-as-always photography, you’ll see we’re on Volume 10 of the ADVrider Journal, and I think that’s worth talking about.
I didn’t found the ADVrider Journal; that happened when Paul and David ran the ship. But they laid an excellent foundation, demanding high-quality writing and photography that we can share with subscribers. Now, we’re 10 issues into one of very few remaining motorcycle magazines in print in North America.
Why do it? Why print a magazine when so many others have gone out of business in the past decade, titles with generations of respect behind the masthead? I think there are a few answers, but the first one is short and trite: It’s because of bitrot. Sort of.
In the computer world, bitrot refers to data degradation, when the zeros and ones saved on your device start to jumble themselves and the digital information saved there becomes corrupted.
In the world of internet publishing, I’ve known other journos to use the same term to describe what happens to work that’s been printed online. Either intentionally or unintentionally, it starts to degrade over time, or disappear outright.
I’ve had a first-row seat to this phenomenon. Like a lot of the Journal’s readers, I grew up on printed motorcycle magazines. Cycle World, Motorcyclist, Cycle Canada. When I started in the world of motojournalism, there wasn’t a job for me at any of those titles –my first regular gig was with CMG Online (now called Canada Moto Guide), where I watched the in-print competition dwindle away in the fallout of the 2008 financial crisis. It took a while, but in 2019, Motorcyclist and Cycle Canada stopped printing. In 2020, Cycle World followed them. All these mags have an online presence now, but for how long?
As I watched the final days of the print mags online, I also saw a lot of the first-generation internet web-mags die as well. Great publications with years of history shut down quickly, or faded away as owners lost interest or financial means to continue. Very few of my contemporaries from the early 2010s are still in the game. Some of my colleagues saw years’ worth of work disappear overnight when an owner pulled the plug on a website. A lot of my earlier stories for the web now have broken links, or the photos have vanished. The internet is forever, until it isn’t.
This is even noticeable on the ADVrider forum. How many older posts are now missing their pictures, thanks to the depredations of Photobucket et. al.? While our long-standing deal with SmugMug allowed ADVrider to escape a lot of the misery of missing photos that plagued other forums over the past few years, you can still see a lot of useful advice is gone.
So, I like to work with something tangible, something printed, something that will last as long as the reader takes care of it. Most of all, something to be proud of. And maybe, just a little bit, follow in the shoes of those great print magazines that filled newsstand racks only a few years back. ADVrider’s Journal isn’t in those newsstands itself; we are still subscriber-only. But that means our work is going out to the readers that care about good stories and photos.
There’s another reason that all of us, the entire list of contributors, work on this Journal. Explaining why we write is just about as difficult as explaining why we ride; everyone has a different answer, and what it boils down to is pretty much the same in both instances: “Because I have to.”
I think there’s more to it than that trite answer. In his excellent book On Writing, Stephen King says that writing is basically mind control. He’s right; the written word can guide the reader to anything: any place, any emotion, any feeling.
And that’s why I love writing about motorcycles, and sharing my stories. I suspect it’s the same for all the other contributors. We’ve had amazing experiences on bikes, seen incredible things. We know that not everyone else can have the same experiences, but we want to share them, to entertain and even inspire. That’s my hope for you with every issue.
Sometimes, it’s fun to daydream about what you’d do if you came into big money. A million dollars, a billion dollars, whatever. I think most readers might add a few more bikes to their collection, and most would travel longer or further away from home. I’d like some of that too. But more than anything, I’d like to keep doing what I’m doing here, sharing stories with you and working on something that will last for as long as the reader takes care of it. In today’s throwaway world, with internet “content” coming out the pipe as fast as we can swallow, the chance to work on something longer-lasting has been the most enjoyable part of my career in the journalism biz, and I’m not sure anything, not even immense wealth, could change my mind on that.
“WE KNOW THAT NOT EVERYONE ELSE CAN HAVE THE SAME EXPERIENCES, BUT WE WANT TO SHARE THEM, TO ENTERTAIN AND EVEN INSPIRE. THAT’S MY HOPE FOR YOU WITH EVERY ISSUE.”
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Colombia: The Magical, the Real, and the Surreal
Riding South America’s Craziest Country
Words: Egle Gerulaityte Photos: RTWpaul
South America is a place where each country, and each region within each country, feels like a different world; and for me, Colombia has always held a special magic. Maybe it’s because my best friend from high school grew up in Medellin, or maybe it’s my obsession with Gabriel Garcia Marquez, but Colombia remains one of my favorite countries in the continent, and each time I leave its mad shores, I can’t wait to go back.
Forget G.G. Marquez’s Macondo, the imaginary village in the middle of nowhere – all of Colombia is Macondo, a place where anything is possible and everything’s just a little dreamlike. From the land-
scape and the roads to the people and the history, Colombia is South America’s most phantasmagorical country, and riding here doesn’t feel like you’re abroad but rather, like you’re on a different planet altogether.
Having crossed Colombia from Cartagena to La Hormiga and from Medellin to El Cocuy, I still feel like I barely scratched the surface. And when I come back, I hope to spend months lost in just one region, going off on little expeditions along the rocky trails and mountain passes, chatting with the locals at sundown in some dusty, forgotten village and sampling the aguardiente.
Fresh food and flowers, old world architecture and art; Colombia is a feast for the senses.
PIRATES AND THE CARIBBEAN: CARTAGENA
Whether you’re entering Colombia from Panama or shipping your motorcycle from another continent, your entry point will most likely be Cartagena. Once a target for buccaneers and pirates like the notorious Francis Drake and Henry Morgan, the Spanish Cartagena de Indias was a jewel of trade and wealth in the Caribbean; to this day, its cannons on the city walls are trained on the sea. In 1812, Cartagena was the first city to declare independence from Spain, and it’s still called “La Heroica” (“The Heroic City”) to honor Simon Bolivar, South America’s most beloved general.
Today, Cartagena is Colombia’s largest port, but the pirate ships have been replaced by glitzy private yachts lazing around in the marina, a row of shiny skyscrapers framing the port. The Old Walled City is much the same – cobblestone streets lined with colorful colonial houses and elegant courtyards, street hustlers offering snacks of hormigas culotas – fried giant-bottomed ants, a local delicacy – and the Caribbean influence adds color and flair as the brightly dressed women selling fruit pose for photos. At the same time, it’s gotten expensive and touristy; from boat tours to the paradise islands in the Caribbean Sea and cruise ships stopping by to fancy restaurants and pricey hotels, Cartagena is beautiful and seductive but increasingly overcrowded.
Still, the old legends of sieges and pirates linger, and I couldn’t help but wonder what those cobblestone streets of the Old City might have seen over the centuries. Sunsets in Cartagena remain glorious if a little nostalgic, and it’s worth spending a couple of days here just to get your bearings before you head south.
For some true Caribbean vibes, follow Ruta 90 and stop at the small fishing villages past Santa Marta; the Tayrona National Park, beautiful beaches, and a fresh catch cooked on the grill right by the water are something to experience, but ultimately, you’ll have to turn back as the road ends at the Venezuelan border.
SANTA CRUZ DE MOMPOX: WHERE TIME STANDS STILL
Instead of aiming for Medellin, I followed the sinuous trail of River Magdalena, Colombia’s largest river. It’s flat and hot out there, but there’s something mesmerizing about those forgotten backcountry roads, tiny river villages, locals paddling in wooden boats, and the muddy, slow-moving waters of Magdalena.
Somewhere past Magangue, you need to get a boat to reach Santa Cruz de Mompox, a city stranded between two branches of the river. This region of Colombia is all lowlands, spanning a 500,000-hectare maize of flooding lakes and waterways fed by River Magdalena and River Cauca – an Okavango Delta in South America – and because of the wetlands, road infrastructure here is sketchy at best.
An ancient, creaky wooden barge offers a crossing every few hours – or days, depending on how many people are waiting. There is no timetable or schedule; the ferry leaves when it fills up. The crew is in no rush, either. Snacking on arepas at the tiny riverbank coffee shacks, the crew watches as trucks, cars, bicycles, and passengers on foot board the 70-year-old barge.
The slow journey along the river is an adventure in itself. Sitting on the edge of the barge, you fall into a strange trance watching herons frolic in the greenery on the riverbanks and the turbulent waters of the river. And if you’ve got a copy of The General in His Labyrinth on hand, all the better – the story of Bolivar’s last journey along the Magdalena is a perfect read as Santa Cruz de Mompox comes into view.
Founded by Spanish conquistadors in 1540 as a river port, Mompox was once a hub for trading merchants between the Andean regions and the Caribbean. Famous for its talented silversmiths and immense wealth, Mompox, like Cartagena, was one of the first cities to
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sever its ties with colonial Spain. “If to Caracas I owe my life, it’s to Mompóx I owe my glory,” Bolivar is said to have declared as the city came to the aid of his campaign of liberation.
The heyday of Mompox ended by the late nineteenth century as the River Magdalena silted up in places, stranding the city on an island. River traders looked for other routes, and Mompox became a moored backwater in the middle; during the 1980s, the entire River Magdalena valley was overrun by guerillas and paramilitaries, and Mompox retreated into oblivion until UNESCO declared the city a World Heritage site in 1995.
Disembarking from the wooden barge onto a small pier, I felt like I was entering a forgotten town where time stood still. Here, crumbling colonial mansions and Spanish churches line the streets, old women daydream and nap in rocking chairs on their porches, and there are sounds of music and cooking smells emanating from the grand inner courtyards. Monkeys run amok on the rooftops, while iguanas lazily sun themselves by the river. In the workshops of Mompox, the ancient art of filigree jewelry lives on, the once-famous silversmiths still meticulously crafting delicate masterpieces. Cut off from the world, Mompox feels like a place where the past lingers like a gentle dream. Mompox is small, and getting there isn’t easy, but this is the place to experience Colombian magical realism in real life.
BUCAMARANGA: DIRT TRAILS AND STONING DYNAMITE
As you ride southeast towards Bucamaranga and beyond, the Colombian Andes begin rising in vertigo-inducing serpentines. The Guane people ruled these mountains before the Spanish showed up; you can still find traces of their culture in some of the remote villages. If you’re looking for dirt trails to get lost in, this is the area to explore. While San Gil now calls itself “the adventure capital of Colombia” and is bursting with backpackers, ATV riders and paragliding enthusiasts, the neighboring canyon of Chicamocha and the villages of Mogotes, Soata, and Capitanejo are untouched by tourism. Connected by mountain trails, these are the places you still get accommodation for $20 and find yourself chatting with old men sitting around the main plazas, and sharing limoncillo fruit with you.
If you happen upon a local beer hall where people throw rocks at clay targets filled with little packs of dynamite, join in. This is the game of tejo, a national sport in Boyaca. The rules are simple: You throw a smooth stone at the target and get points if you hit near the center, or if you manage to explode the little dynamite pack. No need to pay to play – you simply need to buy a crate of beer, and you’re in. Gringos are welcome, especially if you share the beers with other players.
A little eastward lies the El Cocuy National Park, a vast and rugged mountain country crisscrossed by dirt tracks
“MOMPOX IS SMALL, AND GETTING THERE ISN’T EASY, BUT THIS IS THE PLACE TO EXPERIENCE COLOMBIAN MAGICAL REALISM IN REAL LIFE.”
When you get tired of the busy city, a ride to the country will transport you into a world of switchbacks, coffee farms and epic scenery.
and dotted with snow-capped peaks. Following a dirt track from El Cocuy town, you might just catch a glimpse of the Rita Cuba glacier sitting at over five kilometers above the sea level. It’s a quiet place, and the air is clean and crisp, especially if you’ve just come out of the oppressive jungle heat of the Magdalena Valley; the nights are cold, and hostel owners make sure to leave a heap of heavy woolen blankets for weary travelers.
Beloved by local adventure riders, the region is ridiculously beautiful, and dirt riding here is nothing short of spectacular, especially if you’re in no great rush and can take your time exploring.
BOGOTA AND THE SALT CATHEDRAL
Headed to Bogota? Watch out for the crazy traffic; Colombians aren’t aggressive drivers, but the chaos in the streets is real. A massive city of nearly eight million people, Bogota is loud, sprawling, and colorful. I always feel at home sipping coffee at the Parque de Los Periodistas and admiring the street art, but, overall, Bogota is best skipped, unless you’re doing a fly-and-ride and your flight lands here.
Just a little north of Bogota, however, lies a curious little gem worth visiting: the Salt Cathedral of Zipaquira. It’s an old Roman church built in the tunnels of a salt mine, and it is both creepy and spectacular at the same time. The entire place is underground – a labyrinth of tunnels, illuminated halls, galleries, and marble sculptures with a museum of mining and geology. Is it worth it? Yes, even though it’s getting crowded; the visit takes a couple of hours, and you emerge from the Salt Cathedral grateful for the sunlight but adequately awed.
MEDELLIN AND GUATAPE
Medellin, a city pulsating with energy, welcomes travelers with bustling streets thrumming with activity, a symphony of honking horns, lively conversations, and the enticing smells of street food. You should forget what you’ve seen on Netflix’s Narcos, though. Medellin has shaken off its dark history and reinvented itself as a vibrant, modern metropolis. Sure, the legacy of Pablo Escobar is still there, but the locals are more interested in talking about the future than dwelling on the troubles of the past.
Medellin has it all: amazing food, cool bars, bustling markets, and art everywhere you look. I cruised through the streets, checking out the graffiti murals and the quirky sculptures by Fernando Botero. The energy here is electric, and you can’t help but get caught up in the excitement. Oh, and the nightlife? Let’s just say Medellin knows how to party. When you get tired of the busy city, a ride to the country will transport you into a world of switchbacks, coffee farms and epic scenery.
Medellin is a great place to hang out for a day if you’ve missed things like plumbing and good eating, and if you need anything fixed on your bike. There are entire streets in Medellin dedicated to all things motorcycling, so whether it’s basic service or whether you need specific parts, this is the place to figure out bike issues. And have fun. If you’re itching for some dirt trails and mountain routes, head over to Guatape – there are several dirt tracks of varying difficulty before you reach the town itself, and somewhere in the middle, there’s going to be a small mountain village or two for lunch and coffee with the locals.
THE COFFEE TRIANGLE: SALENTO PASS
Colombia’s Coffee Triangle, a land of rolling green hills and fragrant coffee plantations, offers a different kind of magic. It takes a while to get away from the mad Medellin traffic, but once you’re past La Ceja, hold on to your socks. The road from Guaico to Salamina is all about curves, curves, and more curves. It’s a narrow backcountry road with barely any traffic, but the switchbacks and the views will keep your eyes trained ahead; picture lush mountain greenery and tiny settlements where you can buy locally grown coffee (or, as I found out during the latest trip, even leave your broken-down bike with a local farmer until you figure out how to get it going again).
Between Manizales and Perreira, there are plenty of dirt tracks to follow, and once you get to Salento, the mountain trail via A Toche toward Ibague is easily one of the best stretches in the region. Climbing over the mountains, the trail eventually dips into the Cocora Valley – yes, the one with the freakishly tall palm trees – and runs across emerald green country where you’re more likely to see a local on horseback than a motorized vehicle. Perfect solitude, curves, waterfalls . . . that track is so scenic you might want to ride it twice.
But the Coffee Triangle isn’t just about the scenery and the twisting roads. It’s about the culture, too; take your time here. This is where Colombian coffee culture was born, and you can feel it everywhere you go. From the traditional fincas (coffee farms) where you can learn about the entire coffee-making process, to the charming towns where you can sip a perfectly brewed cup while watching the world go by, it’s an immersion into a way of life that revolves around this beloved bean.
THE TATACOA DESERT AND THE STARLIT SKIES
You wouldn’t expect to find a desert in the middle of Colombia, but that’s exactly what the Tatacoa Desert is. This bizarre landscape of red rock formations and cacti feels like something out of a sci-fi movie. It’s hot, dry, and dusty, and the silence is almost deafening.
Scientists believe the Tatacoa Desert was once a lush tropical forest, but it dried up millions of years ago. Now it’s a playground for geologists and astronomers, who come to study the unique rock formations and the incredibly clear night skies. Camping out under the stars in the Tatacoa Desert was an experience I’ll never forget.
The desert itself isn’t immense, but the dirt tracks crossing it are a pure joy to ride (unless it’s been raining heavily –watch out for deep, sticky mud). The Mars-like landscape is a striking contrast to the greenery of the Coffee Region, and it’s worth spending a couple of days ripping it up across Tatacoa. Fair warning: The road conditions might have changed since, but if your next stop is Alpujarra or Dolores, beware. The Alpujarra bridge had collapsed due to flooding, and back in 2023, I had to cross the river by way of a metal crate and a zipline. That’s right – ingenious locals have figured out a way to carry people and bikes across in a steel crate hanging on a zipline, the entire contraption powered by a motorcycle engine. The setup looked sketchy, but then again, I can now say I’ve ziplined across the Cabrera River on my bike.
THE DEVIL’S TRAMPOLINE
Heading further south, you’re entering the remote, jungle-clad Putumayo region. Dreamy and clouded in mist, this place feels like it’s been forgotten by the outside world – but it hides a gem truly worth exploring. Ruta 10 between Pasto and Mocoa, locally known as the Devil’s Trampoline, is a narrow mountain trail similar to the famed Death Road in Bolivia. Tricky, narrow, and rocky, the road clings precariously to the steep slopes, offering dizzying switchbacks and heart-stopping dropoffs as the waterfalls stream down and across. The dense jungle presses in on either side, its lush greenery a stark contrast to the raw power of the mountains, and you feel like you’ve entered a remote kingdom of pure nature taking over the narrow road and erasing all traces of human activity.
Don’t stray too far east in Putumayo, however. This is Colombia’s poorest, most unstable region, still affected by turf wars between guerillas, drug traffickers, and other nefarious characters. While the Mocoa–Pasto road is spectacular (and safe), steer clear of roads leading toward Puerto Asis and beyond; this is where the wild country begins, and foreigners have no business poking around.
THE BORDER THAT DOESN’T EXIST
If you’re continuing onto Ecuador from Mocoa, you’ve got two choices: the big, busy border crossing at Ipiales, or the small and somewhat sketchy one at La Hormiga. I chose the latter, because the route toward the border is a narrow, quiet backcountry road. In the end, it cost me an ongoing beef with Ecuadorian Customs.
La Hormiga border is tiny, and while getting out of Colombia was easy and quick, the Ecuadorian side welcomed me with oppressive heat and two shipping containers that served as the Immigration and Customs buildings. In the migraciones shack, the computers were down (“it’s been raining a lot lately,” one officer shrugged), and so, after much deliberation, the border guards offered a solution: they’d stamp our passports, take photos of the documents, and, once their systems were back online, they’d enter our details manually.
Only, they never did, so now, every time I come to Ecuador, I have to carry my old passport with me – it’s got that precious La Hormiga stamp, the proof that I left the country. Without it, in the Ecuadorian system, I haven’t “legally” left Ecuador since 2019; every time I show the infamous stamp, the border officials nod in understanding and promise to fix the error in their system.
Of course they do.
The Ipiales border is larger, so if you’re headed to Quito after leaving Colombia, this is probably a better bet – but I wouldn’t know, because in Colombia, I was forever drawn to those remote backcountry roads and places off the beaten path where the locals smile and wave at you as you pass by, where delicious street food costs you three bucks and you can watch a football game outside a local eatery in the evening as the air cools down and the townsfolk gather in the central plaza to root for Atlético Nacional and crack open a cold one or two. And, yes, you’ll still experience Colombia if you simply stick to the Pan-American – that is, the main roads from Cartagena to Cali and finally, Pasto and the Ipiales border – but if you have the time, do wander off the beaten path, hit the dirt, play a game of tejo, and get lost in the zona cafetera, the canyons of Boyacan, or the Tatacoa Desert, and, yes, do read One Hundred Years of Solitude, even if Gabriel Garcia Marquez wasn’t on your radar before.
If you have time, get off the PanAmerican Highway and explore Colombia’s backcountry.
BEST TIME TO RIDE COLOMBIA: Because of its proximity to the equator, Colombia is a country of eternal spring – it’s always warm and the weather is mild yearround. Depending on the region, October and November can be rainy, whereas the dry season starts in April.
SAFETY AND SECURITY: Colombia does have a dark past of cartel violence and civil unrest, but it has changed significantly over the years. Personally, I’ve never felt unsafe in Colombia, but there are regions that are less predictable than others – like the Putumayo. And, as anywhere else in the world, common sense is your friend; pickpockets do exist in Medellin, Bogota, and other big cities, and sauntering into a slum at night is never a good idea.
CASH: Colombia uses the Colombian peso; one US dollar equals about 4,300 pesos, and the fuel, food, and accomodations are cheap. Do carry some cash if you’re headed to the more remote regions, but generally, cards are accepted just about everywhere and ATMs are plentiful.
MOTORCYCLE RENTAL: There are a few companies in Colombia offering both guided and self-guided tours as well as motorcycle rental. American-owned Colombia Moto Adventures has a fleet of Suzuki DR650s, Honda XRE300s, and Kawasaki Versys 300s. Adrenaline Addicts, based in Bogota with offices in Santa Marta, Medellin, and San Gil, offers Honda XRE300s and XR150s.
Summer of Sixteen
It wasn’t what I expected – just exactly what I needed
Words: Neil Graham
Illustration: Jacopo Degl’innocenti
It was a perfect spring day whose perfection had nothing at all to do with the weather, (which, incidentally, was glorious) but rather with my prospects for the upcoming summer. I’d snagged a plum job making four times the minimum wage, my all-seeing mother was preoccupied with the looming wedding of my eldest brother, and my imaginatively flexible European-trained ballet dancer girlfriend had not yet collapsed into the arms of the junior geologist who would eventually fulfill the enviable task of fathering her three daughters. Mercifully, all of that was in the distant, unknowable future. In the here-and-now things were good and getting better – I was about to embark on my first summer as a road rider.
I owned a Yamaha XT500, a supposedly bulletproof motorcycle riddled with bullet holes. The previous summer, my first with the bike, started well. But as the season wore on, the XT wore me out. My kick-starting leg ballooned with alarming muscularity while my left leg remained emaciated sinew. When the Yamaha ran, it ran wonderfully, the single piston catapulting it headlong into the future with intergalactic ferocity. I’d come from a 125 cc Hodaka Combat Wombat, an obscure, brilliantly named Japanese off-brand bike that had the harrowing habit of slipping out of gear. When it did, the high-frequency vibration rendered the rider’s arms powerless and undermined the ability of the bowels to withhold their contents. But none of that with the Yamaha. Once you got it running.
My attempts to fix the Yamaha were well-intentioned, but it’s worth remembering that a 16-year-old boy cavorting with a European-trained ballet dancer does not
have the focus to be entrusted with wrenches, feeler gauges, bank accounts or ballpoint pens. On those rare moments when my mind found focus, I discovered fuel in the carburetor, spark at the plug and oil in the sump. Everything I’d been taught to look for. But as that summer turned to early fall then late fall, I’d given up and stuffed the bike in an unheated shed with a float bowl full of offbrand regular left to percolate in the carburetor.
In early April I rolled the Yamaha into the garage and kicked it over to confirm it wouldn’t run. In the way you poke a stick into roadkill to ensure it’s dead even though rigor mortis has clearly gained a foothold. What happened next was unexpected – the bike whirred to life on the first kick and settled into a rhythmic, soothing idle. Long before self-care was a marketing fad, the Yamaha, in a dank and damp shed, had self-healed. This was as welcome as it was alarming. How could I fix it if it wasn’t broken? The next-best alternative to a perfectly running machine is a machine that won’t run at all. You can troubleshoot a non-running machine, but a functioning engine that unpredictably refuses to cooperate hides its sorrows well.
In early spring I’d taken the rider training course. On a miserably cold weekend, with snow flurries drifting across the barren parking lot like sand overtop desert dunes, I struggled to find patience to complete exercises too basic to challenge. At this point I’d had years of dirt-biking experience. Officer Hall, the town motorcycle cop who administered the course, pulled me aside and asked me not to look so nonchalant while performing exercises. Whipping around the course dragging footpegs was intimidating first-time riders, he said. SUMMER
“CONCUSSION PROTOCOL IN THE ’80S WAS ESSENTIALLY NON-EXISTENT – IF YOU COULD
STAND YOU COULD SHOOT A PUCK, TACKLE A FULLBACK OR RIDE A MOTORCYCLE.”
In the midst of sheepishly conceding to officer Hall’s request while standing in the far reaches of the parking lot, we looked on in horror as a bizarre scene unfolded. A queue of students had formed, to be dispatched one-byone to the next exercise. One rider, a fellow 16-year-old, was having a devilish time manipulating the clutch. Earlier in the day, I’d found myself next to him and tried to give him guidance on the fineries of the clutch. “Use it gently,” I said, “like you’re turning the door knob at your parents’ house when you’re creeping in late.” “Stuff it, jerk,” he said, suggesting our conversation had reached its conclusion.
This same rider, oblivious to the interdependency between throttle application and clutch modulation, had been, during Mr. Hall’s address to me, working his way forward to join the lineup. From far across the parking lot he jolted onward in a series of spastic bursts, lofting the front wheel in the air and dragging his legs along the ground behind him. As he approached the rear of the queue, Officer Hall and I watched in awed silence. As he neared the last of the riders in the five-rider queue, a twist of the throttle, a dumped clutch, and a foot caught beneath the rear wheel combined to launch our wayward rider’s CB125 skyward, its front wheel striking the rider ahead straight between the shoulder blades.
On its own, this event was spectacular enough. But it was just the beginning. Due to the near impossibility of finding neutral on the old and abused Hondas in the fleet, all riders had their bikes in gear, clutches withdrawn. The carnage that followed was spectacular, a chain-reaction disaster of revving, rearing and collapsing. It was also the funniest thing I’d witnessed. Keenly aware of the inappropriateness of laughing in front of stoic Mr. Hall, I fell to my knees and between sobs muttered the word “cramps.” I stumbled off to the classroom to hyperventilate in private. The next thing I remember was opening my eyes to a very concerned Mr. Hall, who explained that I was lying on the floor because I’d passed out when I’d entered the room, possibly because of the cramps I’d been having. “Cramps?” I said, forgetting my ruse. “I don’t have cramps.” Officer Hall helped me to my feet and with rubbery legs my eyes met the rider who caused the parking lot carnage. He was holding his arm gingerly. “You OK?” I asked. “F*** you, dickhead,” he said, which prompted a stern warning from Mr. Hall that profanity had no place in the sport of motorcycling.
Concussion protocol in the ’80s was essentially non-existent – if you could stand you could shoot a puck, tackle a fullback or ride a motorcycle. Despite my week-long headache, I prepped to start my job at the cement plant on Monday. And then the worst happened. The cement, lime, and gypsum workers union called a strike and my lucrative gig vanished. My concussion was the least of my worries. I was propelled into the ruthless world of hardscrabble summer employment, of seeking jobs with pitiful wages no one wanted.
Eventually, I landed at a construction company that was anything but a company. It was one man. One very old man who had a flat, nasally, toneless voice reminiscent of beat poet William S. Burroughs. But that’s where the hipness ended. Hugh could not walk past a bar. I come from a long line of wayward men who started the day with tumblers of whisky at 6 a.m., but none of them could have dethroned Hugh as the most outstandingly out-of-control
alcoholic I’d met. I was too young for his insurance to recognize me as a driver, and since I refused to ride with him, I rode my Yamaha all summer to jobsites.
Hugh resurfaced bridges. Rather, he took on aspects of resurfacing bridges that legitimate construction companies shunned. My task was to drill two-inch diameter holes 18 inches apart that would allow rebar – sunk into concrete – to bond the old base of the bridge to a new top. It was horrifyingly repetitive work, straddling a drill-press-like contraption hour upon hour, day upon day. And all the while Hugh would be sitting directly opposite me, drilling his own set of holes 18 inches apart three feet away from me. We would stare contemptuously at each other. I would wish he’d burst into a ball of fire. At lunch we’d sit in silence beneath the bridge on a riverbank. Until one day Hugh began to talk. He told me about Europe and Africa in the Second World War. About women he’d loved and men who’d died. He spoke about BSA singles, antiaircraft guns and returning back to a town – my town – that he didn’t fit into any more.
Halfway through the summer his work dried up. Hugh found ways to keep me busy. I washed his tractors, made a pile of scrap metal as high as the eaves and repainted his shop. But mostly I kept his stout, humorless wife from finding him. In afternoons Hugh hit the Doctor’s Hotel across from the train station. Or the Marysville Tavern or Skyline Tavern east of town. She’d call the shop – many times a day – and I’d cover for him. Tell her he was out looking at jobsites. While Hugh was out drinking, I’d be at his shop, working on the Yamaha, which had begun to return to its old ways of running sporadically. I took things off, bolted them back on. I rebuilt forks, greased wheel bearings, hammered dents out of fenders. In the late afternoon Hugh would return, head down, eyes red, defeated. At the end of a day of heavy drinking near the end of a week of heavy drinking, Hugh took interest in the Yamaha. “Tomorrow,” he slurred. “Tomorrow, the bike.”
Next morning Hugh was quiet. He had shaved, poorly, with hands consumed by tremors. In a whisper he told me to tell him what happened to the bike when it died. Was the engine hot or cold when it quit? How long did it have to sit before it’d run again? On the questions went. I became irritated. I’d spent enough time around drunks. He glared at me. “The problem is the coil.” He pointed to an old snowmobile in the corner of the shop. “Take the coil off the sled and put it on the bike.” Then he went to the bar before noon, as he did every Friday. He was right. I never again had a problem with that bike.
Sunday night Hugh’s wife called and told me to come to the house the next morning and not the shop. The house, old and built from massive blocks of limestone, was not what I’d expected. Though sad and neglected, it had once been something. I knocked. His wife burst through the door in full stride and set me on my heels. She had a list of things for me to do two pages long. She methodically ran over every task. I was told I had 30 minutes for lunch and was allotted two 15-minute breaks. I was told lateness would not be tolerated. For two weeks there was no sign of Hugh.
Hugh had been put under house arrest. I was shocked when I saw him. He was pale, blue, dying from alcoholism. I didn’t know what to say. He tried to smile but couldn’t pull it off. I went back to work clearing brush, cutting waist-high grass and piling junk for the dump. I knocked an old chicken shack down with a tractor and burned the remains. And behind every other door and up on every fourth beam in the barn was a bottle of Wiser’s Deluxe whisky. Some bottles had been there for years. Some were just cracked. More than a few had been opened and forgotten.
Near the end of the summer Hugh began to appear more regularly. While it would boost the feel-good narrative of my recollection to say he was improving, I don’t know if that was true. He’d watch me work, sometimes mumble a thanks, but withdrawal from decades of abuse was traumatic to his body.
That summer was the only time in my life when my sole transportation was a motorcycle. I rode in the heat and the wet and in the cool mornings on my 10-mile ride to Hugh’s place. On weekends I’d go to the beach with my girlfriend, with a bag wedged between us full of towels and hats and bathing suits. When experience sifts down into memory, what rises back to the top is impossible to predict. My dancer was my first big melodramatic love, but thoughts of her now are distant, as if viewed through pebbled glass. But those mornings kicking the bike to life with a sandwich and a thermos in my backpack are as vibrantly present as anything that’s happened in the past year.
Hugh lived another five years. My mother clipped his obituary from the paper for me. A few years after that I drove past his house. It was abandoned. And his favorite drinking spots were gone. The Marysville Tavern burned. The Doctor’s Hotel was razed for a fire station. And I still think of what Hugh told me about his time in Europe in the War. Things he asked me not to share. And I haven’t. After all, I owe him for an ignition coil. I always meant to return it after I’d replaced the loaner with the proper part, but I just never got around to it. It’s an oversight that, even today, can haunt me.
Morocco Tackling The Trans
Trail Aboard Big Twins
A new DIY travel option in northern Africa
Words: Chris Scott
Chris Scott, Richard Fincher, Henry Barney
The three of us were cruising along a fabulous highway sweeping towards an arid valley, with huge mountains to the north and desert to the south. I knew things would get exponentially better once we swung off it and hit the dirt. We pulled over anyway for another ride-by photo and as we cats herded ourselves into position, a white Land Cruiser drew up and two keffiyeh-clad sheikhs got out. Dickie’s DesertX Rally had caught their eye.
“Salaam aleikum, brother. I have one of these beauties in my collection back home!” He might have said this to Dickie, but I was out of earshot.
You occasionally encounter Arabian sheikhs in southern Morocco, here for the falcon hunting. But they’re usually in huge convoys towing a luxury camp with high-speed sat comms and a Parisian chef. They pay well to block off an area of desert, park up and let their raptors rip.
One of the sheikhs reached into the back of his Toyota and came out with small bottles of water. Dickie got one, so did Henry. He walked up to me, sat on my CFMOTO.
“Chinese?”
“Yep.”
“No water for you.”
Who knew antipathy for Chinese products had spread as far as the Emirati elite? Or that such folk could even recognize a 450MT? He was joking of course, and handed me my water with a grin and a wagging finger. The irony was that the gadgets in their Tojo were probably assembled in China. The affront here was the unambiguous Chinese branding, not hiding behind some Anglicized name or opaque initials. Chun Feng, or Spring Breeze Moto; whisper it loud and proud.
Here in the UK I cling to plenty of my own fatuous red lines, but foreign-branded travel bikes that happen to score high on my Unicorn Index are not among them. The fact that the MT’s engine doesn’t appear to be a clone of any known motor makes the pill easier to swallow: They did it all themselves! Some speculate the MT (“Ibex” in North America) is based on KTM’s cancelled 500 twin project.
CF Moto have long collaborated with – and produce engines for – KTM. Until KTM’s recent financial woes surfaced there was even talk of the Pierer Mobility–owned GasGas spinning something off that superb twin.
Photos:
Who knows, but I’ve owned several Japanese and European branded bikes less well equipped and of inferior build quality. Evolution is never linear and with the 450MT things have jumped to another level. Amateur and pro reviews have been consistent in their praise. A paradigm has been shifted.
Late November, Dickie and Henry rode down from the UK to Marrakech – Dickie on a showroom-fresh DesertX Rally with all options ticked, Henry just back from a trans-Asia tour via Tibet on his well-used 1250GS.
Together we’d tackle a 600-mile ride along the western stages of the Trans Morocco Trail, which I’d launched a month earlier with collaborator Ed Gill. Over 2,000 miles the TMT winds from the Mediterranean to the Atlantic via southern Morocco’s Atlas mountains and Saharan fringes. It’s laid out on a free-to-all series of GPS track logs, like a BDR or the TAT.
The task was made easier by me having spent the previous two winters covering thousands of miles across southern Morocco, updating my Morocco Overland guidebook. Much of the TMT was lifted from the book’s many tracks.
By the start of 2025, the TMT map had nearly 100,000 views and the Facebook group over 13,000 members. To tap into useful feedback, I was finally forced to sign up to that detested platform – another fatuous red line obliterated!
From Marrakech the three of us set off for the Tichka Pass, the main road over the High Atlas to Ouarzazate, and one of Morocco’s best mountain roads. As you near the summit, years of widening transform the ascent into a sweeping GP track where you can scythe through the acute switchbacks without even breaking the speed limit.
On the far side we pulled over at Gas Haven, a bafflingly incongruous vintage American gas station with added zombie detailing, set in the arid Moroccan scrub. The explanation for this out-of-place site: it’s a set from the 2007 mutant schlocker, The Hills Have Eyes 2, and round the back they were working on the series’ third installment.
Next morning we left Tazenakht, bound for the Issil plain, a huge basin dotted with isolated villages and rimmed by the Anti Atlas’s northern escarpment. This is
a geologically distinct and much older formation where strata of sandstone and shale have been compressed, folded and twisted over the eons, then exposed by faults and river-carved gorges.
For millennia, humans have occupied and cultivated these fertile mountain valleys, reliably fed by High Atlas run-off to the north. Ancient canyon-bound Amazigh villages perch above lush green gardens and palm groves, and with the striking geology, the southbound transition from uplands to desert makes the Anti Atlas one of my favorite regions in Morocco.
We swung off the road and headed for the escarpment rim. On his untried Rally with a custom seat level with his navel, Dickie was understandably a bit cautious about tackling anything too gnarly.
I’d been here a fortnight earlier guiding a bunch of KTM 390s and nearly all of us had overbalanced while trying to negotiate the aftermath of the biggest floods in decades. Not wishing to throw the big twin-cylinders into the deep end, we took another route over the jebel and wound our way down the palmy ravines to the desert plain beyond.
I needn’t have worried. Henry piloted his GS with a calm assurance while Dickie was getting more excited by the mile as the realization dawned that his X Rally really was a rare thing: a wolf in wolf’s clothing.
We hit what I call “Acacia Avenue,” a wide stony track which weaves across the desert floor where camels nibble at thorn trees. It still required concentration to dodge bigger rocks and the exposed concrete lips of eroded fords. Fifty is about my limit anywhere off tarmac, where things change quicker than I can react, but Dickie hit 90 with Henry not far behind. Well, it’s one way to get the crappy surface over with.
“You gotta have a go, Chris. This thing’s just amazing!”
Dickie offered me a blast, but I wasn’t on form that day – perhaps dehydrated, and my back was playing up – so I stuck to the roads as we headed back up into the ranges via the amazing Aguinane canyon, a classic TMT stage.
The DesertX’s quickshifter was like nothing I’d ever tried, as effortless as clicking a dial on an old radio. But the machine sat five inches higher than my MT, and the
WITH THE GROUNDWORK LAID FOR A NEW CROSS-MOROCCO ROUTE, CHRIS AND FRIENDS WENT OUT TO RUN IT ON NEW TWIN-CYLINDERS.
seat took no prisoners. Getting on for 550 pounds fuelled and loaded, on the trail the X would require the sort of big-bike commitment I’ve long shied away from.
It was a quiet night in the canyon, made a bit quieter with just one bar on the phone. Next morning we saddled up and rode back out to the desert. Over lunch at the Cafe Sinbad in Akka Ighane, I outlined our options to reach Tata that night. In 50 miles the TMT hit the dirt again at Ibn Yakoub, but this section had been trashed by the worst floods in decades. Six weeks earlier, two Californians, Greg and Rick, had hacked their way across on rental 390s, taking three hours to cover less than 20 miles.
On heavy bikes, this rodeo of lurching between obstacles gets unsatisfying, and too risky. I proposed a more direct route to Tata and when the road turned to gravel we got on the pegs and negotiated the washouts, which pushed my MT’s springs to the stops.
At one point I braked hard at a concrete ford that was now smothered in 200 yards of unrideable rocks. Hopping off for a foot-recce, we staggered over the debris, eventually locating an alternative crossing. The big twins were now well into their stride, but catching one front-end slide reminded me that even at 80 pounds lighter, for me the Ibex was at my upper limit for a do-it-all traveler.
In Tata we rolled into a hotel like something out of Palm Springs – not the sort of place I normally visit but an irresistible deal on Booking.com. In Morocco, booking’s often cheaper than the walk-in rate, much as I’d prefer to put my money into the local economy. The hotel clawed it back on food and rarely-found booze. Soon the poolside table was covered in empties, with Dickie in full
flow, singing the praises of his newly discovered X life. A young Belgian couple on old 650 GS Dakars arrived, complete with 40-liter top boxes. “Are you doing the TMT?” was the first thing Sepp asked. In what I like to hope was an uncharacteristically pompous outburst, softened by a deprecating grin, I exclaimed, “I am the TMT!”
Turns out they’d ploughed into the Greg & Rick route west of Ibn Yakoub, struggling on the eroded descent to the stony riverbed where Sepp had cracked an engine casing. Remember when 650 Dakars were all the rage and the next best thing was KTM’s 640 Adventure? I was impressed to meet the next generation of adventurers riding bikes nearly as old as themselves, not as a retro stunt but because these bikes were inexpensive and had a solid reputation.
After our luxury minibreak, we set off to tackle TMT Stage V, one of the best days on the Trail. The roads and tracks spanning desert, canyon and mountain blew my mind when I first discovered it on my 660Z Ténéré, 15 years ago. Surprisingly, Greg and Rick had reported little flood damage in the narrow, V-shaped gorge.
With all our photo faffing and Sinophobic sheikh encounters, the young Belgians soon caught us up, now joined by Luca, a German riding an even-older, early’00s Suzuki DR650SE.
We all bundled into the Tazegzaoute canyon, where they’d now cut a track on the valley side, out of the stony riverbed. As I wrote in an earlier edition of my guidebook, “you’ll want eyes in the back and sides of your head to take it all in.” These days they call that an Insta360 X4, which Henry had clamped to his GS. And yet few venture this
far west of the Zagora-Todra-Merzouga triangle where the touts and hustlers are on to you before you’ve flicked down the side stand.
In the Tazegzaoute canyon, geological forces have produced a mind-boggling array of backdrops framing tiny villages. Every corner revealed another killer photo unlike anything you’d just passed or would see around the next bend.
After following the old riverbed for a couple of miles, we climbed to a scrubby, 6,500-foot plateau, crossed a watershed and dropped down into an adjacent valley of colorful mountain villages clustered around a minaret and surrounded by terraced gardens and palms.
The shadows were growing, with one more long canyon to descend. This one got hit hard in September: A year’s rain in two days clear-felled palm groves, collapsed mud-
brick dwellings, and swept away a packed bus. I thought that was a staggering statistic, but a month later Valencia in Spain was deluged by a year’s rain in just a few hours.
I’d been on the road for over a month and fatigue came sooner and sooner. Sweeping down the canyon, a couple of times the ABS hauled me up safely when my reactions were too slow to respond to yet another sketchy bend. Dickie and Henry were behind, making the most of the golden hour while I rode on, looking for a signal to pin down some lodgings, which were lean out there.
On the edge of Icht we found what looked like a deserted camp pitched at snow-birding motorhomers. As the sun set, mint tea was served, followed by a great feed and the nightly download prior to crashing out, exhausted.
I was up before sunrise, enjoying the dawn chorus. It reminded me of northern Australia and the desert’s
GO BIG OR GO HOME? THE BIGGER DUCATI AND BMW WENT ALL THE PLACES CHRIS’S SMALLER 450 WENT, AND HAD A LOT MORE JAM ON THE HIGHWAY.
appeal. Not necessarily the barren Saharan expanses where your bike is your lifeline, but the periodic verdant oases splashed against ochre crags under the sky’s reliably blue vault – and always a distant horizon drawing you to the next place.
It might be our last day to trail’s end at Cape Draa on the Atlantic, though at 220 miles it’d be a haul. By now, Dickie was addicted to his unstoppable X Rally and wanted to squeeze out every last bit of dirt before the long ride back to Marrakech. Decision time came at a village crossroads: Take the high road through the hills, or the TMT desert track from hell. Dickie wanted whatever the Trail could throw at him and Henry was up for anything. I recalled this bone-shaking track in a leaf-sprung Land Cruiser 25 years earlier and had avoided it ever since. A rerun for the TMT was well overdue.
It started off well enough, switching between the old piste and a promising new track. We turned off that and were soon traversing a vast clay pan dotted with piled black stones, markers left over from the 1995 Dakar Rally. The claypans ended too soon and we slotted back into twin sandy ruts winding among the acacias and fields of jagged stones to either side. Those stones soon colonized the track, where I didn’t have the heart to open it up, hold on and grit my teeth. In a car, even a rental, you’d barely manage walking pace. Bikes are quicker, but something will give. We heard later the Belgians’ top box-laden racks had snapped off. They’d not noticed and had to backtrack for miles.
We crossed the Draa’s channel – Morocco’s longest river, that starts way back near Gas Haven but rarely flows. By a lone plantation, drawing on the ground water, the track improved and even became a new road which swung up
“EVERY CORNER REVEALED ANOTHER KILLER PHOTO UNLIKE ANYTHING YOU’D JUST PASSED OR WOULD SEE AROUND THE NEXT BEND.” THE
over the jebel and down a series of bends – a staggering engineering feat from nowhere to nowhere. We recrossed the Draa, now a gorge of huge green pools. A couple of Saharawi nomads were filling up a 1000-liter tank on an old Santana Land Rover dating from this region’s Spanish occupation.
Just before Ighomane village we swung off onto the last stage. The other two were off like roadrunners; knowing what remained, I paced myself. The vegetation changed as we approached the bounds of ocean-borne fog and the sun dropped towards the ridge. Would we make the Atlantic before sunset?
With the finish line in sight, I was having a second wind, but just a mile from the coastal highway I noticed I was riding alone. I turned back, fearing the worst had happened, but Dickie and I were relieved to find Henry repairing a split sidewall.
It took three plugs to jam up the crack, but unlike the tread, a sidewall flexes on each rotation and the GS’s TPMS was soon back at zero. Henry limped to the N1, where we rolled south into the dusk at 25 mph, hazards flashing. Dickie had raced ahead, but weary and preoccupied, I overshot the turning for our lodgings in the coastal dunes. We turned back, to be met by Dickie, who’d already checked in, Whatsapp’d, and had come looking for us.
“Bad news, guys: the track is sketchy; loads of deep sand!”
“How far is it?”
“About four miles.”
Minutes later, even the aired-out BMW needed a shove. Paddling and puffing like a Mississippi steamboat, I followed their lights until the MT’s traction control tied
itself in knots and the bike dug in. Now was the time to try that TC/ABS kill button I’d never used. Cross-eyed with fatigue, I jabbed at the left bar in the dark until something lit up on the dash. The MT hooked up and drove onward. Soaked in sweat, we crested a rise from where the lights of Ksar Tafnidilt twinkled in the desert night.
Half an hour later we were slumped at the dining table, scoffing food and drink before either touched the table. Riding deep sand at night at the end of a 250-miler was a tough finale, but, as always, you do what needs to be done. Those four miles had more soft sand than the rest of the TMT put together. But hats off to Mitas: It covered 40 miles at effectively zero psi while only getting warm.
How did the big bikes do compared to my smaller machine? In Dickie’s hands, the X Rally looks as good as it goes. Form follows function. But I have a new admiration for the ubiquitous 1250 GS. Back in the late ’90s, a week on an 1100 put me right off the bloated tug, but the GS’s subsequent domination was down to more than the adventure-motorcycling craze and LWR Effect. Could all those big GS owners be onto something, even if most will never discover the bike’s full abilities? Either way, I’ll now have to qualify the advice in my book and the TMT FAQs about the suitability of “big bikes” on rougher trails.
Next morning it took an hour to get the tire patched in the frontier town of Tan-Tan, after which we rode out to the breezy Atlantic finish line. Even though we’d only ticked off the last quarter of the TMT, it sure felt good to see the dazzling ocean. Dickie and Henry dived into the surf and once dried off, we got on the Marrakech freeway and headed north.
Find more details on the Trans Morocco Trail at https://transmoroccotrail.org/.
Bastard Mad Rides Again
Around Lake Ontario on a Honda Africa Twin
Words & Photos: Mark Richardson
It’s a little more than 500 miles to ride around Lake Ontario, the body of water that is shared between the American state of New York and the Canadian province of Ontario. Twenty years ago, I did it on a 49 cc scooter. This time, I rode a new Honda Africa Twin Adventure Sport, a press unit tester with the dual-clutch transmission. I’m not sure which machine was less comfortable.
I live beside the lake, an hour east of Toronto on the north shore, and often wonder what’s happening on the other side. It’s too far away to see. The lake is about 40 miles across, but there’s no ferry anymore and the only way to make the journey with a motorcycle is to ride around. Take a couple of days for it. So I did.
Normally, I’d travel clockwise on a ride like this, to keep the water closest to my side of the road. That’s what I did on the scooter ride, but that was because I had to make it on time to a ferry at the east end of the lake. Miss the last ferry of the day and the rally would be over for me – there’d be no way to ride around the lake in 24 hours, which was the whole point of the Mad Bastard Scooter Rally. The only way to get around without the ferry was to take the interstate crossing a little farther to the east, and 49 cc scooters that strain to hit 30 mph aren’t allowed on the interstate, for good reason.
This time around, Toronto messed it all up. It’s one of the most populated cities in North America, jostling with Chicago for size, which
means it’s 80 miles of congestion along the lake. You don’t want to end your day fighting traffic, so I headed west and through the city to get it over with early. Somewhere on the main expressway downtown, I was craning to see the lake through the high-rise condo towers when a truck entered the highway and veered directly into my left-hand lane. Never even saw me. I hauled on the brakes just in time and stabbed at the horn button, but turned on the entertainment unit instead. There are 11 different buttons on the front of the Africa Twin’s left handlebar, the total opposite of the Yamaha BWS scooter, which had a turn signal, a high beam, and a beep-beep horn like a roadrunner.
That whole 80 miles of Toronto is best just written off on a road trip. It’s urban and suburban with restaurants and coffee shops all along the way – great on a scooter, but a slow slog if you want to make any distance. I went straight to Hamilton, at the far west end of the lake, and then started thinking about alternate routes for riding east along the southern shore.
The Niagara Escarpment curves around the lake and sits several hundred feet above the water, though it’s set back a mile or so from the shoreline and there are no views up there through the trees at the top of the slope. Some of the roads are nicely winding, past farms and orchards and vineyards, and 20 years ago, I rode them in the dark on the Yamaha B-Wiz, screaming to make the finish by 4 a.m. This time, stretching out on the Africa Twin and setting the cruise for the speed of traffic, I stayed down on the main highway toward Niagara Falls for another half hour to make some extra distance.
It’s a long reach down from the seat to the footpegs and that’s great. The big adventure twin fits my 32-inch inseam comfortably and lets me place both boots almost flat on
the ground when the saddle is set to its lowest height. My issue with the bike is in my crotch. After riding for an hour, vibration from the front of the seat turns my groin numb. It’s not painful per se, because there’s just no feeling there, but it is worrisome. A minute or two of stretching the legs gets everything back to normal.
I first noticed this when I brought the bike home from Honda Canada’s head office, a two-hour ride that incited my testosterone but turned my manhood comfortably numb. Over the next few days, on shorter rides, I changed my riding jeans, and I changed between briefs and boxers, but nothing seemed to make a difference. Ride a while, stretch a little, and repeat, was the order of the day.
Over the river into the U.S. and the land beside the lake was more sparsely populated. NY-18 runs right beside the water here for a while, before dipping inland and then returning to the shoreline on the Lake Ontario State Parkway. This is one of the old parkways built in the Roosevelt years, to encourage people to leave the cities in their vehicles and seek out the area’s parks, and the outer reaches of its 40-mile length have seen better days. It’s rarely used now – there’s a faster, more direct road that gets you into Rochester more quickly – but it’s wide and pleasant and lets you stay beside the water. That can be welcome in the stickiness of a New York summer. I stopped and checked out an abandoned gas station and store; ride a while, stretch a little, repeat. You should take your time on this sort of road.
I didn’t go down into Rochester proper but stayed near the water where the fancy homes are. I wanted to, but saw no reason to, though I’ve only visited Rochester twice in my life. The first time was as a hard-news reporter based in Ottawa, when Canada’s capital had its first-ever drive-by shooting, and I was sent to an American city of similar size to report on the experience. That was Rochester. “How many driveby shootings have you had here?” I asked a local detective. “Two,” he said. I was clearly disappointed. “Oh – I mean two this week,” he said, “and we’re not at the weekend yet.”
The second time I saw Rochester was during the Mad Bastard Scooter Rally, when we could earn “mad points” for doing dumb things. One potential assignment was to take a photograph downtown of either prostitutes or a pimp, sharing the frame with my scooter. “I’m not sure about that one,” the organizer, Rob Harris, confided in me the night before. “I hope nobody’s stupid enough to try it.”
My photograph of two friendly (and quite respectable) ladies
seated on our straining scooters with a cool young guy beside them was one of the points-winning hits of the event.
This time though, older and wiser and about halfway into the journey, the plan was to ride until I’d stumble upon a motel, preferably one with chairs outside the room and a friendly bar and restaurant next door. I didn’t want to ride at night. But after an hour of zigging and zagging east from Rochester and seeing nothing but nice houses and small, offthe-beaten-track villages, I gave up and went searching on my phone for a place. They were all back in Rochester, of course, and the next along the route were not until Oswego, another 40 miles on the main highway. I booked a room online and found my way onward to the Knights Inn; when I arrived, they told me I’d got the last of the 44 rooms, and most every place in town was also fully booked. These days, everyone reserves ahead with their phones.
Still, I was in for the night and there was a restaurant next door and plastic chairs outside my room, to sit and drink a beer. All very classic Americana road trip stuff, and pretty enjoyable, if you aren’t in a hurry. So what if a bunch of
Harley guys snickered at me when I climbed off the Africa Twin and punched for a while against my groin, to see if any sensation remained below my belt?
The next morning, when I was one of the last motel guests to leave, I remembered there is no scenic waterside ride up the southeast corner of the lake. The roads that hug the shoreline are all dead-enders, built for residential and agricultural access. Obviously, President Roosevelt wasn’t bothered about attracting Oswegans out of their homes in their motor cars. Route 3 beside the east end of the lake, which heads up to Watertown and then over into Canada at the Thousand Islands Bridge, offered only pastoral views of farmers’ fields to each side. I pulled the windscreen up to full height and set the cruise control again and enjoyed the breeze, if not the vibration from the seat.
But memories came back of that ride on the scooter years ago, and I remembered crossing between the two countries on the pair of small ferries. Memories also came back of the mad points bonus for “nudity on the ferry.” Back then, I took photos for the other dozen or so riders
of them mooning their cameras behind the back of the unaware ferry master. One guy was modest enough that he just bought a copy of Playboy magazine and snapped a photo of himself admiring the centerfold. The guy who eventually amassed the most rally points, Gary Davidson, tipped the balance by stripping completely naked except for his socks behind the innocent ferry master, holding only his helmet for modesty. It was a full-face helmet at least, tinted visor down.
At Sackett’s Harbor, I paused for a coffee and googled whether the ferry still sailed from nearby Cape Vincent to Canada’s Wolfe Island, a mile across the calm St. Lawrence River. Nothing online said it didn’t, though commenters lamented the casual disdain of the operator toward timetables.
Sure enough, when I arrived at the Horne Ferry terminal in comfortable time for the next scheduled crossing, every 100 minutes, the boat was already halfway over to Canada. Others in line just shrugged. “It’ll be another hour yet,” said Dave Vidal, waiting with his wife Mary McIntyre and their Kawasaki Concours. “Hope you’re not in a hurry.” That’s okay: Ride a while, stretch a little. It was the theme of the trip.
The usual route that avoids the ferry travels to a crossing point that’s at least an extra hour north and east of the lake, so I just shrugged and rode out to the restored 19th century Tibbetts Point lighthouse. I doubled back in time to meet the ferry and load on with Dave and Mary’s bike and the other three cars. The easy crossing cost $10, cash preferred, with no nudity this time, and we were greeted in Canada by two of the most relaxed and friendly border guards I’ve ever met.
Wolfe Island is just that, an island, with a small village and farms and a 15-minute ride to the opposite side. There was another ferry to catch there that’s much larger and more businesslike and also free, and it dropped me over into the good-sized city of Kingston about a couple of hours after catching the Horne Ferry. If I’d ridden around to the Thousand Islands Bridge, I’d have probably arrived around the same time, but I’d not have been nearly so laid back.
For ferry aficionados, there’s one more to catch if you follow the lakeshore route out of Kingston. I know it well. You ride past the imposing Kingston Penitentiary, now decommissioned but open for visitor tours, and keep on going right next to the water for an hour to the edge
of Prince Edward County. This is almost a large island in the lake, connected by a thin strip of land on the west, a couple of bridges to the north, and a 15-car ferry on the east. Bikes always get on, even when cars have to wait for the next crossing. I was waved forward to the front of the line and parked on the steel deck for the 10-minute crossing, beside a Porsche.
“Do you think you’re quicker than that guy?” the deckhand asked me.
I told him the Africa Twin can hit 60 mph in less than 4 seconds, and it’s really easy to do that with the automatic DCT. I couldn’t have said that about the Yamaha BWS.
“You’d better leave first then,” he said. Which I did. I was home an hour later, cracking a cold beer on my deck, kneading my groin back into life, and remembering my simpler and stupider salad days when I pressed on through the night for the Mad Bastard Scooter Rally.
MARK DROPPED TROU TO WIN MAD POINTS WHEN HE TOOK THE B-WHIZ ON THE FERRY; OLDER AND WISER, HE KEPT HIS PANTS UP ON THE RETURN VISIT ON THE HONDA.
of Adventure
Inconvenience The
Over-planning and FOMO are ruining your adventure – so learn to let go
This very minute, you are being robbed.
Like a splinter in the back of your mind, something is wrong – but you can’t quite articulate what it is. It is essential to your being, yet so intangible that you struggle to remember. Worse yet, you don’t know what is stealing it from you. Regardless of your beliefs about our origins, humans have been compelled to venture into the unknown since the dawn of time, seeking essential resources for survival. Whether hunting mastodons or gathering berries, leaving the safety of the cave meant confronting uncertainty head-on.
Scientific studies reinforce this idea. Humans possess a natural propensity for novelty and excitement, which plays a crucial role in our mental health and cognitive function. Engaging in new experiences, including adventurous activities, can enhance mood and reduce anxiety. Furthermore, facing uncertainty and challenges builds resilience. Adventure often requires individuals to adapt and problem-solve, fostering personal growth and a profound sense of accomplishment. Your innate need for adventure is being stolen by convenience.
Humanity’s evolution has gradually deprived us of genuine adventure. Gas furnaces, modern plumbing, and electricity all provide a lovely cocoon for our basic needs. If a weekly trip to the local produce market represents the extent of your adventures, something fundamental may be missing from your life. Technology and systems designed for convenience have gradually eliminated many of the challenges we once encountered. It’s time to challenge the notion of death by a thousand cuts and reconnect with the skills and ideas that got us to this point. In Western culture, simply riding a motorcycle positions you as
a non-conformist. To the average risk-averse citizen, motorcycle riding is seen as a departure from logic and safety. Approximately eight to nine percent of the population in the West rides motorcycles, representing a self-selecting group that inherently seeks adventure, freedom, and a willingness to accept risk.
Before the mid-1800s and the advent of combustion engines, the concept of tourism as we understand it today did not exist. World War II catalyzed a surge in motorcycle use, encouraging many young men to embark on journeys of travel and exploration. The concept of tourism in its infancy combined with a lack of modern communications and GPS technology created a golden age of ADV motorcycling.
This union of motorcycles, exploration, and adventure has since been romanticized in both literature and film. Just riding anywhere was an adventure on an old Brit bike or a Harley. Then, when Japan and Europe offered better travel bikes starting in the 1970s, the daring riders who’d already been pushing their limits on BSA Bantams or Harley-Davidson WLAs used their new Honda XLs or BMW slash-sixes to push as far as their fuel tanks allowed.
But between 1980 and the early 2000s, as the industry shifted focus, the spirit of adventurous motorcycling diminished. The rise of technology and mass production emphasized reliability and speed over spontaneity. With the increasing prevalence of structured travel experiences and commercial tourism, the connection between riders and the open road weakened. Motorcycles became viewed more as consumer products than as vehicles for adventure, leading to a disconnect from the wild spirit that once defined motorcycling.
Words: Dallas Shannon
Photo: Sean Doucet
Illustration: Anthony Kerr
Everything changed in 2004 with the release of Charley Boorman and Ewan McGregor’s Long Way Round. Building on a foundation set by Austin Vince’s Mondo Enduro, the new Long Way mini-series reawakened the moto-public’s collective need for adventure and reestablished motorcycles as a powerful medium for exploring the world. With the rise of ADV riding, the underlying craving for uncertainty was re-introduced to motorcyclists. While many modern ADV motorcyclists will instinctively reject controlled and curated experiences and balk at the idea of being a tourist, why do we keep falling into the traps of conformity? Research has never been easier. The days of hopping on your motorcycle and aimlessly heading in a direction seem to have vanished. By simply raising your hand to your face, you access the most powerful research tool ever created. Many will recall the dawn of personal computers and the immense potential they promised. The device you hold now is far more powerful, and with the integration of AI, it will only continue to grow exponentially. The temptation of using this technology to research your trip is a siren song few can resist. I have friends that plan their “adventure” so completely that they not only know where they plan to stop for food, they know what they are going to order.
This brings up the notion of scripted ADV routes. The TAT (Trans America Trail), the TCAT (Trans Canada Adventure Trail), and BDRs (Backroad Discovery Routes) – are all acronyms that ADV riders use to communicate with their brethren. Deeper still, there are routes that up your status as an ADV rider.
The Dempster, the Trans Lab, and Death Valley are but a few. The notion of pre-planned routes represents a dichotomy for me. Sure, they make it convenient (there is that word again), but does the reduction of uncertainty also remove the authenticity of the adventure? For me, this is a perplexing trade-off. Motorcycle manufacturers sell you a fantasy: that one day, you too will climb aboard a bike and circumnavigate the globe. However, for many of us, the economic realities and work-life expectations in Western society make such dreams unlikely. So, what options do dreamers with modern responsibilities have?
For me, the answer lies in local adventures on sub-500 cc bikes. Armed with a few unprepared friends and a loose plan, there’s no telling what kind of trouble we can get ourselves into. As a Canadian, I’ve been fortunate, able to spend much of my motorcycling life exploring remote riding areas. The remoteness enhances the experience, as we often rely solely on ourselves during mechanical or physical breakdowns, without the convenience of modern support. “Don’t throw stones if you live in a glass house,” they say. I must admit, I often feel like a keyboard ADV rider; like many, I wrestle with hypocrisy. While I advocate shedding convenience, I must acknowledge that my own experience is often otherwise. Having completed only one multi-day motorcycle trip using nothing but a map and no electronic devices, I am forced to confess that most of my longer rides have been meticulously planned. This careful preparation is driven by a fear of missing out and the desire to ensure against hohum experiences. Even for me, a romantic at heart, escaping convenience has proven difficult. Most of my adventures stem from poorly planned enduro rides originating from my back door.
Despite these struggles and my self-acknowledged hypocrisy, I derive satisfaction in the spontaneous adventures that occur close to home. These experiences, though modest, provide a sense of adventure that transcends convenience. Unpredictable day rides may not offer the grandeur of global escapades, but each outing becomes an opportunity to reconnect with the essence of why I ride in the first place, a love for uncertainty. We live in a world where convenience lulls us into complacency, but by consciously choosing to embrace uncertainty – whether through venturing into remote areas or simply refusing to research every detail – we can reclaim a sense of adventure. So remember, while poor planning may not always be ideal, it’s often the best life hack for an unforgettable adventure.
Teach Us to Number Our Days
A baker’s dozen places that live in my memory
Words & Photos: The Bear
Here’s my conundrum: I have happy memories of a lot of places I’ve visited, and I really would quite like to see many of them again, but at my age – well past the frequently mentioned three score and ten – I’m not sure I can do it. Still, I think I have decided to look for new places, and so before I leave the old ones, I thought I’d take you (and me) for a wander through them. These are in no particular order –and I’m sure you will know of most of them, and maybe even love some as much as I do.
Alpes-Maritimes, France
Here’s an impressive start to any story about this Department of France: its name comes from Alpes Maritimae, which was a Roman military district created by Augustus Caesar in 14 BC. I’m including it as a sort of shorthand for the entire area around it, all of which is much the same: one mountain after another, with roads running along the ridges and the rivers, and occasionally connecting by seemingly endless loops of hairpins. One of my favorite roads is here, leading from Sospel to the Col de Turini mountain pass. Apart from being a superb motorcycle road, this is a part of various car and bicycle races. Check before you go! There are many other roads here that are just as good, and many small inns that offer well-priced accommodation as well as excellent regional food. Try the locally caught trout.
Donostia / San Sebastian, Spain
While we’re on the subject of food, if you haven’t heard of pintxos (pinjoes), you need to book a trip to San Sebastian in the Basque country. While these bar snacks are available all over the place, they are best here and seem to almost be the reason for this town’s existence. The old quarter is full of bars offering them, both the traditional range and individual, house-specific ones. If you asked me how I would ideally spend an evening, it would be strolling around here with Mrs. Bear, stopping for pintxos and a beer every now and then and admiring both the street performers and the stylish locals doing the same as we. And the great thing about it all is that every route that leads to San Sebastian is a wonderful motorcycle road.
Atacama Desert, Peru & Chile
Should you be keen to have a holiday with a guarantee of no rain, I have the destination for you. It does get a bit of fog, admittedly. The Atacama covers a thousandmile stretch of the Peruvian and Chilean coast, though I only know the section between Mollendo and Puerto de Lomas. There is a good, sealed road along the water here, the Peruvian portion of the Pan-American Highway. There is not much else; this is the only true hot desert to receive less precipitation than the polar deserts, and the largest fog desert in the world. Even so, the Atacama has the most amazing range of landforms – huge sandhills, then grotesquely-shaped rocks, then swathes of gravel, apparently sorted by size by the wind, then weird lenses
1
SADLY, THERE ARE PLACES I WILL NEVER RETURN TO, NO MATTER HOW MUCH I LOVE THEM. ONE IS AFGHANISTAN.
2 VARIETY OF LANDFORMS IN THE ALPS MARITIMES IN FRANCE IS ASTOUNDING.
of rock – the variety goes on and on. A fascinating ride, and food shacks doing business along the coast will sell you delicious fresh-caught fish.
Antelope Canyon, USA
Have you ever wondered where abstract artists get their ideas? I’d like to suggest Antelope Canyon near Page in Arizona. This is not a motorcycle destination as such, although the Grand Canyon and Horseshoe Bend are nearby and many of the connecting roads offer good riding. But you cannot ride to Antelope Canyon; it is protected by Navajo Parks and Recreation and only authorized tour companies can take visitors to the canyon. Good thing, too: there is no graffiti. The stone of the canyon has been sculpted by wind and water into surreal, organic shapes that would not be out of place on the canvases of those artists. I love the place; my favorite nearby ride is the road to the Grand Canyon’s North Rim.
Paris, France
This may be a personal thing among motorcyclists, but I just love Paris. Bikes and scooters get to pretty much do what they like, including parking overnight chained to lampposts on the sidewalks, while their riders exude French cool with cigarettes between their lips and eyes out for any gap in the traffic. Even some of the cops ride 125 cc scooters, and do it without looking embarrassed. The many narrow streets and laneways are perfect for singletrack vehicles and abound in small bars, astounding art
galleries and endless voluptuous food shops. And some of your fellow riders actually look as sophisticated as the people you see in motorcycle advertisements!
Jebel Hafeet, United Arab Emirates
What a road! Purpose-built for the President of the United Arab Emirates, who clearly enjoys a challenging road, it leads up to the top of the eponymous mountain in the desert near Al Ain. Were you to ask me what my ideal motorcycling weekend away is, I would say staying in the hotel near the top of the mountain (a little worse for wear these days but still convenient), and riding up and down until I had the road down perfectly. I have done almost that, although I only had a day, and have never enjoyed a BMW K 1300 S more.
Lost Coast, USA
I know the Lost Coast is no more lost in California than the Forgotten Highway in New Zealand is forgotten, but it is very quiet. Not much car traffic, and given the highly enjoyable nature of its roads (although some are a little bumpy) there’s a surprising lack of motorcycle traffic as well. The town of Ferndale provides convenient accommodation, and the wonderfully named little settlement of Honeydew has fuel and hamburgers. Along the way, Petrolia provides history, being the first place in California where anyone drilled for oil. There are campsites all over the place. Spend a week here if you can.
Dolomites, Italy
Big vertical rocks – what’s the big deal? Well, these are seriously big vertical rocks, big enough to make you take your eyes off the road and just admire. It might seem a bit over the top to nominate an entire region this way, but I would seriously not be able to separate out one part of the Dolomites to recommend over the others. Not only are the roads wonderful to match the scenery, the hospitality matches both – you will find endless examples of “Motorcyclists Welcome” signs in one, two or three languages. The food is a mixture of Italian and German cuisine, the beer is excellent and cold and many hotels will even have workshops for you to fix your bike, should it become necessary. Stop anywhere for meals, the food is almost universally superb.
British Columbia, Canada
On the subject of nominating entire regions – here’s one of the best places in the world to ride your bike, whatever it might be. Whether it’s the astounding experience of the Icefields Parkway or the never-ending pleasure of the twisting roads following the many lakes, B.C. has hardly a kilometer of roadway that’s anything other than wonderful for motorcyclists. Add the friendly people –the owner of a motel which was fully booked rang around until she found me somewhere to stay – and the many craft breweries and you have something very close to motorcycle heaven. But don’t think you can ride to the front of queues at roadworks or ferries!
New York City, USA
What, seriously? The Big Apple as a motorcycle destination? It is for me. Manhattan alone is big enough to make a bike useful if you’re flitting from one place to another, and if you want to, say, get a look at Billy Joel’s 20th Century Cycles (which you definitely should) a motorcycle will cut the time it takes to get out to Oyster Bay by more than three quarters. And don’t underestimate the pleasure of simply cruising the streets, enjoying both the weirdness and the authenticity that New York brings to everything. Legal parking may not be easy, but everyone seems to park everywhere anyway. And who wouldn’t want a photo of their bike in that classic location in Brooklyn? Just down the way is the Time Out market with its many food choices.
La Gomera, Spain
One of the islands of the Canaries, this is almost like a definition of the phrase “volcanic plug.” La Gomera is
nearly circular with steep cliffs all around and a top that’s broken up into various peaks, flats and hills. Much of that is covered by remarkably thick rainforest, and the roads run through it like fairytale avenues. Most settlement is on the narrow strip of land at sea level, and that of course means there are roads to take you down there from the top, or up there from the port where the ferry arrives. The roads are generally good, since the Canaries skim off some of the revenue from the oil fields that are serviced from its ports. La Gomera is easy to miss because it does not have the publicized tourist attractions that most of the others do. Make sure you get the ferry over there if you can.
Cinque Terre, Italy
Wonderful scenery, lovely little settlements (five thereof, as advertised) and great roads following the steep hillsides of Cinque Terre. I don’t need to sing its praises. What I’ll do instead is warn you: vehicles, and that includes motorcycles, are banned from several of the villages. If you’re tempted to just bypass the barriers, which is easy enough to do on a bike, you will be observed by CCTV. What happens after that I don’t know, because I didn’t do it, but you may be fined. Still, this is Italy. Fined? Chissene. I love the place. Stay away on weekends because tourists arrive in their masses by train, and note that many hotels close in the off-season. Last time I visited, the hotel I thought I’d booked had no record of me, so a bloke on the street found me a room up the road. Even with the hotels shut, restaurants are open.
The Taj Mahal, India
No, you’re quite right, the Taj Mahal is not normally considered to be a motorcycle destination. But you’re getting it as a bonus, so don’t complain. The reason it is included is that I consider it to be the only one of the many “wonders of the world” that actually lives up to its reputation. It is a truly magic place. Shah Jahan, who commissioned it as a tomb for his wife, had intended to build an exact replica on the other side of the river, only in black marble, for himself. When his son Aurangzeb saw the builders’ quote for that he tossed the old man into prison and cancelled the order. I hope he got the deposit back. Shah Jahan lived out his life imprisoned in the Red Fort downriver – at least he could see the Taj Mahal from his window. If you do go and see it on your bike, just give the guards at the front entrance a few coins to look after the bike for you. They’re reliable.
Happy travels.
3 STREET PERFORMERS PROVIDE ENTERTAINMENT IN THE LANES AND ALLEYWAYS OF THE OLD CITY. 4 YEP, IT’S A DESERT ALL RIGHT, DUE TO THE HUMBOLDT CURRENT OUT AT SEA. 5 SHAPES IN ANTELOPE CANYON ARE AMAZINGLY BEAUTIFUL AND UTTERLY STRANGE. 6 YES, STYLISH FRENCHWOMEN REALLY DO RIDE SCOOTERS. 7 THAT’S ME ON ONE OF MY MANY RUNS UP AND DOWN JEBEL HAFEET. 8 THE ROAD ALONG THE COAST IS SUPERB, AND THERE IS LITTLE TRAFFIC ON THE LOST COAST. 9 I SOMETIMES THINK THE DOLOMITES WERE MADE SPECIFICALLY FOR MOTORCYCLISTS. 10 YOU COULD TAKE A LONG TIME DISCOVERING ALL OF THE SCENIC AND MANMADE WONDERS OF B.C. 11 THIS PREACHER IN NY PROMOTES THE TRINITY ON THREE WHEELS. MAKES YOU THINK, RIGHT? 12 LA GOMERA IS RELATIVELY YOUNG, SO THERE ARE STILL PLENTY OF GOOFY ROCK PILES. 13 FELINE SEAT WARMERS HAVE BEEN INVENTED IN THE CINQUE TERRE. 14 THE TAJ MAHAL MAY BE THE ONE BUILDING IN THE WORLD THAT LIVES UP TO ITS HYPE.
Ecuador Unfiltered
A STOP WITH NO EXPECTATIONS EXCEEDED ANY I MIGHT HAVE HAD
Words & Photos: Anastasia Lianiova
I was riding a Suzuki DR650, following a machetetoting stranger on a bicycle into the Ecuadorian jungle to see the Pepino Gigante, whatever that might be. I was wondering about my survival chances and what on Earth I was doing here, in a country I never expected to visit. Here’s how it all started and escalated into the most memorable motorcycle trip I’ve ever had.
I never planned to be a moto-nomad, but when armed conflict spread across eastern Europe a couple of years ago, I left my home country of Belarus and started traveling and working abroad. After spending two months in Mexico as a rally media specialist, my next planned destination was Argentina. Ecuador just happened to be along the way; I had two weeks to explore as I traveled through. I had no expectations, but ended up with more adventures than I can even pack into a single article – but I will do my best to share the highlights.
Normally, I plan my routes myself, but I had no time to prepare or even read anything about the country. I rented a motorcycle from Ecuador Bike Rental by Sleipner and asked them for some off-road tracks. The business owner, Davos, sleeps three hours a day, works tirelessly to grow his business, and gets super excited about route planning. He met me at the office; on the fly, we designed an adventure in three acts: Coast, North, and Amazon.
“You’ve never tried surfing? We’ll send you surfing,” he said, quickly drawing another line on the wall map while I listened, open-mouthed, trying to keep up. So, armed with a DR650, a phone with the maps.me app, and some DuoLingo-learned Spanish, I set off into the unknown, heading south. Here’s where the action begins.
PEPINO GIGANTE
On the way to the South Pacific coast, driving through some remote forest, I saw a sign with the inscription “Pepino Gigante” – the Giant Cucumber. I drove by, but curiosity (the same one that killed the cat) turned me back. A man with a machete came out as I stopped by the house. “How exactly gigante is your cucumber?” I asked in broken Spanish. “Can I buy one?” “No problem,” he said, “but we need to harvest it first.”
So, with him on a bicycle and me on a moto, we made our way into the jungle behind the house. There, he used the machete to cut through the leaves, revealing something that exceeded all my expectations. The monstrous, child-sized green vegetable, barely resembling a cucumber, was unlike anything I had ever seen.
“You just cut it for the salad – it’s gonna be tasty,” the man said. The pepino was obviously too big for me to take on the bike, but the farmer mentioned he had another potential client for it. So, I offered to help him transport the cucumber to the main road. Holding it between my back and the luggage, I somehow managed not to drop it.
OFF THE BEATEN PATH
I followed a gravel road into the mountains, in the middle of nowhere. First, it was warm, then foggy and miserably cold, and then it got dark. But the stony road wouldn’t end. I arrived at a hotel half alive and half sick from the cold and altitude, but some canelazo – an amazing hot sugarcane-cinnamon, slightly alcoholic beverage – helped. I was near Quilotoa, one of the most popular places for motorcycle tourists.
As I’m not one to enjoy touristy places crowded with people, I asked the hotel owner if there was a shortcut to the other side of the crater. ¡Sí!, he said, waving toward the mountain across the valley, dissected by almost vertical trails. I pointed at my bike and asked if I could take it there. He nodded.
The trek started on the lawn of an abandoned hostel, where I was attacked by three hungry, angry dogs and had to save myself as fast as I could. I asked some villagers where to head next, but another trail ended abruptly at a wooden toilet without a door. All the other trails were so steep and rough that they weren’t even rideable for hard enduro –
THE SIGN GRABBED HER ATTENTION, BUT ANASTASIA COULDN’T TAKE THIS MASSIVE VEGETABLE ON HER DR650; SPACE WAS TIGHT.
“ECUADOR JUST HAPPENED TO BE ALONG THE WAY; I HAD TWO WEEKS TO EXPLORE AS I TRAVELED THROUGH.”
AFTER THE COLD MOUNTAINS AT THE START OF THE TRIP, ECUADOR’S WARM COASTAL WATERS WERE A WELCOME CHANGE, WITH BUSTLING VILLAGE LIFE OFFERING A CHANCE TO MEET LOCALS.
unless you’re Graham Jarvis or Billy Bolt, of course. I was quite disappointed and ready to give up.
On the way back to home base, I decided to ask one last time. Pulling together all the Spanish I knew, I asked a woman on the road how I could ir a Quilotoa. She walked with me to another trail that turned into a sandy road, eventually leading me to the less-touristic side of this super-touristic place.
There, I met Maria, who was herding sheep and clearly enjoyed posing for the camera. Maria offered me cannabis tea, and we enjoyed the view together, sipping while tourists snapped selfies on the other side of the crater. It took me half a day of attempts, but every minute was worth it. If you ever go, Ecuador Bike Rental now has that route available too.
THE COAST MADNESS
Life on Ecuador’s coast is different from life in the mountains. People talk much faster, cities don’t go to sleep at 9 p.m., and you need to watch out for thieves a bit more. You can feel the energy shift as you drive toward the coast: it’s no longer freezing, you start seeing amazing fruit kiosks along the road, and towns are bustling with traffic.
When I arrived in Canoa, the locals told me to look for Kiki, the surf instructor. But how? I went to the beach and, once again, used my broken Spanish to explain what I needed to every single person I met. After meeting probably everyone in the village, I finally found someone who called the instructor to come. When a crazy, self-made vehicle arrived at the beach, sliding and overthrottling, I knew I’d made my connection.
All day long, Kiki patiently taught me to surf while I swallowed salty water and fell off the board over and over again. That evening, over an incredible seafood dinner – one of the delights of the Ecuadorian coast – a man on a dancing horse, wearing a hat and holding a bottle of whiskey, burst into the restaurant. That’s when I realized it was a town festival. In an instant, the street filled with more men on
dancing horses, stage trucks carrying bands playing music, and a crowd of people following the show.
“I can drive you around,” Kiki offered, “but you’ll need to push the car to jumpstart it.” And that’s how the night went: I was driving the satanic machine while he, or random people on the street, pushed it every time it stalled.
On top of it all, I got a sunburn in places that made further moto travel a bit challenging, but my instructor cut some aloe vera with his machete (everyone I met seemed to have a machete), and that aloe became part of my beauty routine for the next few days.
Yesterday, I was freezing; today, sunburnt.
THE RECCE
In Mindo, the rental company guys invited me to join an off-road route scouting trip. The plan was to find an offroad route from Ibarra to a hotel in the Angel Reserve, near the Colombian border. The group included company tour guide Poncho, riding a brand-new KTM 890 Adventure R, and local expert and Baja racer Diego on another DR650.
We rode along a picturesque cobblestone road that eventually turned into gravel, arriving at the mountain meeting point where we met Lucho, the fourth member of our group, and set off on a 400-kilometer off-road ride. In the Ecuadorian mountains, if the weather is nice, you can cruise along, enjoying the views and the occasional condor flying by. And so we did, for the first part. But then the rain started.
The rain itself wasn’t the problem. But on a loaded DR (mine was the only bike carrying luggage), riding on wet clay with deep wheel tracks became increasingly difficult. My MX goggles kept fogging up, so the others, more accustomed to such conditions, had to stop and wait while I wiped them clear. Sliding downhill on the clay, sometimes falling and picking up the bikes, I was grateful we weren’t trying to go up that same hill. What a ride!
The landscapes were stunning – better captured in pictures than described in words. But as night fell and we climbed higher into the mountains, the rain intensified, and we entered thick fog. I followed Diego’s light, wondering how he could see anything.
At over 3,000 meters above sea level, the temperature dropped to around 30°F. We barely managed to open our gas tanks at the final gas stop before the last stretch of gravel leading to the hotel, located in an ancient polylepis forest that allows only 60 visitors a day. When we finally arrived, frozen and soaked, we parked the bikes next to grazing llamas and rushed toward the entrance.
My fingers were too numb to unstrap my luggage, but the hotel staff brought it to my room, which was beyond exceptional. It featured a jacuzzi with a waterfall outside and a fireplace by the bed. We soaked in a hot stone tub, where they served us drinks and a delicious dinner, right in the tub.
The next morning, I woke up to the most incredible view I could have imagined. When I asked Poncho if they planned to include the route in a future tour, he replied, “We’ll probably use an easier trail and save this one for connoisseur masochists like us.”
AMAZONIA
Without even trying to keep up or understand what was going on, I rode a Royal Enfield Himalayan toward the jungle under pouring rain. At one point, I encountered a massive traffic jam where a nearby raging river had destroyed part of the road. Locals had reconstructed it with some trees, and I somehow managed to get through.
into the Amazon. You can take a boat to visit local tribes living downstream, so I did, after some bargaining with the boat driver, who promised to stay with me the entire time.
How do you like the outfit? As I was changing into traditional attire, the boat left – to my surprise – leaving me as a display item for newly arriving tourists. I joined the tribe for traditional barefoot dancing, tried their local fermented alcoholic drink, touched a snake, and was nearly ready for full assimilation when the boat returned to take me back to the beach.
Back on the shore, I hung out with a monkey, ate some grilled larvae for lunch, loaded my bike backward into a very small boat, and continued riding through gravel roads toward the unknown. Just another typical day in Ecuador.
By the end of the trip, I was overwhelmed by the contrasting chain of events, utterly exhausted, and happy. Every day felt so intense, it was like living a whole month in a single day. One day, you’re attending a presidential concert in Quito and dancing with top officials in the main square. The next, you’re battling through thick fog to reach a remote mountain village without seeing another soul for hours. Then, you’re savoring organic chocolate and coffee in an exquisite restaurant, only to end the night partying with locals in Baños and eating something grilled on a stick at 3 a.m.
Whatever you’re looking for in a trip, Ecuador has it, especially if you’re curious, open-minded, and speak at least a little Spanish to navigate your way to adventure. The people, cuisine, landscapes, and weather all change as you ride, and this colorful kaleidoscope of memories will keep you smiling long after the trip is over.
As you reach the village of Misahualli, the road ends, and the river Napo becomes the main means of transportation ABOVE: THE ADVENTURE CONTINUED WITH MORE CHANCES TO MIX WITH LOCALS ON A
SECURITY ADVICE: Avoid Guayaquil and, in general, be more cautious along the coastline. The mountain areas are normally secure. Ecuador currently has a Level 2 travel advisory from the U.S. State Department: exercise increased caution.
CLIMATE: Weather in Ecuador can change drastically, from 30°F, fog, and rain to 100°F heat with scorching sun, in just 10 kilometers. Good gear is essential. A flip-up helmet is helpful, and a Pinlock visor is a must.
BODGE REPAIRS: Duct tape in Spanish is cinta gris. I learned this the hard way after destroying a side bag during a minor low side on some curvy gravel road. In villages, only clear tape was available, but I finally found proper duct tape in a construction shop in Quevedo city.
LOCAL FOODS TO TRY: Bolón de verde, which is similar to tigrillo, is a plantain dumpling stuffed with cheese or meat. Bizcochos are crispy cookies served with dulce de leche and cheese strips, best found in Bizcocho fábricas along the road from Quito toward Cayambe. Cocadas, or coconut pastries, are another treat to try, as well as sliced green mango with lemon juice and salt. The coastline offers multiple fish dishes, and encebollado, a thick tuna and onion soup, is perfect for cold weather. Llapingachos, delicious potato pancakes, and trucha, fresh-water trout, are must-haves as well. Don’t miss the chance to try Ecuador’s unique fruits, many of which you’ve probably never seen before. My favorite was guanábana, a green, spiked fruit with deliciously sweet white pulp.
About halfway up the Mount Baker highway, the character of the ride changes. The road coils into loops and whorls like you’d see in a magnified fingerprint, the pavement is a black sheen of asphalt that could have been sprayed on with a paint gun, and some of the curves are so tight I can see the way ahead in my rearview mirrors.
We’re in a mountain forest in northern Washington state. Branches incline overhead in green tents and the road climbs aggressively, occasionally crossing a muddy turquoise stream, then switchbacking on itself like a dog with an itch. Up at the top, the air is cool and the ground is covered in snow, so after a short break we head back down, and now that I’m used to the curls, my lines are smoother, my speed more consistent.
Down in the valley we find a small-town café, where we indulge in apple pie and coffee, and Maggie is relaxing –disarmed, I think, because we still haven’t crashed. I have tried to get her used to the feeling of slamming an 800-pound motorcycle down a curving road lined with trees and big rocks.
Shortly after I picked up the Harley, I took her for a spin up a local mountain. For an hour I wrapped that Harley around curves while she sat behind me, clinging to life, tears dissipating in the wind. So bringing her on a five-day trip through Washington might not be the smartest thing I’ve ever done.
We’ve had more than one painful argument about what constitutes safe speed, and before we’d even gotten out of Canada she threatened to take the bus home. I said, “But what am I gonna have for dinner?” I should know better than to make jokes at a time like this — but I don’t, because apparently I’m “retarded.” But now, having survived the Mount Baker highway, and having dined on home-made pie and excellent coffee, we’re cool; she’s willing to keep going. She even likes the road.
The idea for this trip is simple: we’re riding the best roads in the American northwestern state of Washington, as listed by Destination Highways Washington, a guidebook by and for motorcycle riders. We have just ticked off number eight on our list.
Photos: Steve Thornton, Maggie Meekis
TOP: SIGNS ADVISE CAUTION ON BIKES. AT RIGHT: MT. ST. HELENS CRATER IS CLOUDED OVER. NOTE THE FIVE-DOLLAR RAIN PANTS. BOTTOM: NO SHORTAGE OF CURVES ON WASHINGTON ROADS.
The Electra Glide would seem an odd choice for a tour of Washington’s twisties. It is long, heavy, and underpowered. Maggie does feel some security in its plush accommodations, but Maggie thinks motorcycles should come with four wheels and a doctor. Every time we see one of the “Motorcycles Use Extreme Caution” signs that the state has sprinkled over its roads, I fear she’ll revolt.
Not to worry, the Harley is incapable of any kind of enthusiasm, and we’re loaded down with a week’s worth of gear and a Mac laptop, so knee-dragging is not on the agenda. On a tour of the best sport bike roads in Washington, I’ve brought a Harley-Davidson Electra Glide Classic and a passenger who would prefer to keep her feet on the ground. And here comes strike No. 3: In a summer burning with unremitting sunshine, we have found the missing rain.
Meanwhile, Maggie is sending email messages to her mother, via the Macbook. In one, she describes the trees that bent over our heads as we climbed Mt. Baker. –Underneath, the trunks and the broken branches were covered in a yellow-green moss that glowed in the faint light. She mentions in this message a whole pile of switchbacks, but I recall that she never once complained about scraping footboards, or fought the bike’s lean in a curve. Perhaps she is developing courage for this – unless she’s just given up on the idea of getting home in one piece.
A couple of weeks earlier, in the kitchen of our home in Kamloops, B.C., Maggie and I had prepared our trip map, looking up roads in Destination Highways, relocating them on the map, labeling them with Post-It notes: DH1, DH-2, all the way up to DH-10. These roads are given points based on criteria that matter to a motorcyclist–twistiness, scenery, pavement quality, and so on–and there are 74 highways judged worthy of inclusion. Any road in the top 10 will be thrilling.
Our route conveniently formed a large circle: after crossing into the U.S. near Vancouver, we would head east across the North Cascade mountains, then south toward Mt. Ranier National Park, down and west to the Mt. St. Helens volcano, then northwest, up to the Olympic rain forest, a short distance from the Canadian border and Vancouver. We took one saddlebag each: Maggie on the left side, me on the right. Her Macbook went into the top case, bubblewrapped, and so did our library of maps, Destination Highways Washington, and a pile of rain gear. “You have to bring rain gear, even when you’re sure it’s going to be nice,” I told Maggie. “You never know, it could get chilly.”
Day two breaks with a fine rain sifting out of gray wool. Around 9 o’clock, Maggie and I set off, wearing water resistant Joe Rocket jackets and cheap rain pants. We head inland from Sedro Woolley, a little Washington state city near the Pacific coast, not far from the border. Even though we’ve already checked off road number eight, today’s first road feels like the true start of our adventure, and it seems weird to start with the best, DH1. Everything that follows will be inferior.
The North Cascades highway is laced with curves and sudden, swinging altitude changes, and wrapped in soaring beauty. I had found it a few years earlier, on a Hayabusa, and I returned to it now with enthusiasm. I did not know it at the time, but the road has some meaning for Maggie, too. – I travelled this road about twenty years ago and had fond memories of beautiful green lakes, high mountains and generally impressive scenery, so this road had a bit to live up to. Perhaps it would have done so had it not been for the rain. It is 95.3 miles from the beginning of this highway at Rockport to its tail end at Winthrop, but long before you get that far you come to a village called Newhalem, erected by the Seattle City Light company back in the dam-building ’30s. Maggie and I need a break, so dis must be da place. – Near where the road starts to seriously climb we stopped at a tourist trap and bought fudge and trail mix and Steve bought a Christmas ornament ’cause it was cheap. In that area there are a bunch of dams on the river and they are all quite proud of their electricity-making abilities so the art in the park is made of large electricity-making parts.
We shoot photos in front of things that look like props from a ’50s science fiction film, then zip up and head out, continuing uphill until the road pauses beside a green lake called Diablo. We pull in at a viewpoint; rain filters down the backs of our jackets and mist seals off the distant views, which are probably spectacular. So now we have been introduced to a theme that will become familiar on this tour: “I bet that view is spectacular.”
As we head down the eastern slope of the Cascades, the rain fades and by the time we hit Winthrop, patches of blue sky have torn through the cloud. But destination highway number one has been a bust: cold, wet, and foggy; never have I gone so slowly around so many curves. We park and stroll along a downtown boardwalk inWinthrop, a touristy town made to look like preserved history, with a dash of commerce. – Withrop is just how the wild west would be if there were a bunch of stores selling pottery and art in the wild west.
The main street is jammed. We duck into a café, order sandwiches. The town has sold out for tourist dollars, but
it’s fun, and this food could tame weasels. Even the café’s washroom makes an impression. – The sink is a beautifully glazed bowl with brushed steel fixtures and soap dispensers on top of an immaculately clean, carved counter with burlap draped ever-so-carefully below.
Fed, and warmed by the sun, we head south from Winthrop to Chelan, where we get ice cream sandwiches and then find our next destination highway, a raveled little strip up the side of Lake Chelan that’s rated number five. Soon, it’s behind us. We continue south, then jog northwest on U.S. 97 to a place called Leavenworth. It’s a fake German village full of buses and German tourists, as phony and contrived in its oompa-band Bavarianism as Winthrop was with its Old West movie lot. At least Winthrop was fun.
We backtrack, and get lucky.
Just down the road is Peshastin, a crummy little trown with a tired motel on the bank of a river. We get a room for 50 bucks, and the clerk says we’ll have a quiet night – there’s only one other couple, also on a bike – but we’ll have to go upstairs, because the lower rooms are flooded. We hike to the second floor and find an 80-footlong balcony overlooking the Wenatchee River. We leave our gear in the room and head back to Leavenworth for some food. – After a rather good dinner in Leavenworth at a restaurant that our hotel manager referred to as “a Bavarian Denny’s,” we came back to our beautiful balcony to watch a TV show that I’d loaded on my laptop. The sound of the river made it a little difficult to hear, but how’s that for a problem?
The river sparkles in the morning as we drink coffee on the balcony. Then we cruise south. Highway 97 has earned a 55th-place spot in Destination Highways.
It’s a confection of fast sweepers and smooth, wide pavement, and the air is warm, the sun easy. Traffic is courteous: one guy flashes a peace sign as he moves over to let us pass. Somewhere north of Ellensburg we pull over for a breather. Aross the highway is a green field, a barn and some outbuildings, a few trees, the scene rimmed by a backlit, glowing pine forest. You could trade a year of life for a minute of this and come out a winner.
Two days later, we approach the volcano under a black sky, following a Corvette into the Gifford Pinchot National Forest. A drizzle filters through the trees, and the pavement is unreliable – Maggie has spotted a crack that could swallow a wheel, but I’m enjoying the ride, though I dare not proceed briskly. Three of the best roads are right here, clustered around Mt. St. Helens. We’re on
DH number four, but soon we turn onto number two and begin to climb the volcano’s flank.
I don’t know how much farther Maggie can go. Yesterday, we rode two of the destination highways on our list, numbers seven and nine at Mt. Rainier National Park, and when I pulled over late in the afternoon, Maggie was in so much pain that she wept as she climbed off the bike.
“I don’t think I can go any farther,” she said. – Soon after we entered the park we passed through an area where half the road had fallen into the abyss. The road was so bumpy that at one point a drop caused my spine to compress like a spring, but it didn’t bounce back too well. I found a motel, got her tucked into a soft bed, and later bought some blue pills and fried chicken and beer. The pills were pretty good; in the morning, she was still sore, but willing to carry on.
So now, Mt. St. Helens lies before us, and as we turn onto number two, the rain lightens. The climb begins, and soon we are in a wasteland of burned trees. There are no branches and there is little undergrowth, just spires of gray wood, like hairs on the back of a spider, and the road drapes over this faded landscape like old string that has been discarded. At the top, the view is dreary and flat, colorless and nearly formless. We head back down and ride under the bottom of the park. The next day, we’re on DH-3, which climbs up the western side of the volcano in a long series of loops and switchbacks. The road was built after the 1980 eruption and the pavement is velvet laid against cliffs of red oxide. At the top is a visitor center and the Johnston Ridge Observatory, which was named for a volcanologist who radioed in a warning just before the side of a mountain hit him at 900 miles an hour. We watch a movie that takes my breath away. When the movie ends, the screen moves aside, revealing through the windows a large cloud.
The weather has not been good, but in ways that I would not have predicted, this trip has been pleasurable. And Maggie is holding up pretty well, despite her initial fears and the pain of a hammered spine. She has not written any more emails to send to her mother; it’s as if she has traversed the emotional distance from excitement to endurance on this trip – and yet, she finds ways to be cheerful, even now, when she’s about to climb back onto a motorcycle on a burned-over mountain in the rain.
And now we have covered eight of our destination highways; in order: DH-8, -1, -5; -7 then -9; -4 and -2; and today, -3. Only DH-6 and -10 remain for us, but we are in the southwest corner of the state, and they are in the northwest corner, and the weather shows no sign of quitting. What has always been obvious, and has turned into a pleasant
reality, is that our top 10 roads are connected by others in the Destination Highways list, so as we carry on we’ll run into number 17, or 22, and the ride to our ride will itself be something to savor. If only it wasn’t for this damn weather.
After a momentary diversion into Oregon, we let U.S. 101 carry us up the coast. The afternoon darkens under an increasingly heavy sky, and as we pass through Cosmopolis and Aberdeen and head into the Olympic Rain Forest, I begin to lose confidence that there will be a warm motel in the forest, on a Saturday night, with a room for two. We pass through Humptulips and Neilton, and we’re just into Olympic National Park when the rain starts. By the time we pull into a resort at Quinalt, it’s full dark, and I can hardly see, my visor and eyeglasses wet and fogged. A shopkeeper feels so sorry for us that she makes half a dozen phone calls, trying to get us a room, but no luck. We’ll have to ride 40 miles back down the road to Aberdeen. I apologize to Maggie. Her Joe Rocket jacket is leaking, and she’s tired, and no doubt her back hurts, but she smiles and gets on the bike.
There are wallows in the road filled with water; they drag on us and the wind pushes us from one side to the other in the darkness. I begin to fear, for the first time on this trip, that we are seriously risking our lives as we motor down this night highway.
But then a light beckons: a roadside bar. Music booms, people are drunk. A skinny waitress serves us pizza. A
guy standing in the doorway tries to light his hash pipe but he’s too drunk to get the flame where it has to go. “Watch yourself on that road,” he says. An hour later, we’re opening the door to a motel room, and it feels like we’ve gone too far. Maggie takes my jeans down to the laundromat to dry, then returns to sew a loose strap back onto my rubber pants. “I’m sure glad you didn’t take the bus home,” I say. “I still might,” she warns me, but it’s with that smile.
The next day, we see some blue sky as we motor north to find number six at Port Angeles on the northwest coast. It’s an 18-mile ladder up to Hurricane Ridge, where you’ll have a lovely view of the Olympic mountains. The road climbs the mountain in tight curves, and when we pull over for a little break, the wind blows the fog away and the mouth of a tunnel is revealed. As the fog rolls back in, we get back on the bike, ride into the hole in the mountain where the fog can’t follow; it’s momentarily clear in the headlights, and then we plunge back into this gray plug of fluff on the other side.
At the top, there’s a visitor center, so we get warm, have some soup. Buy some junk. Maggie sits across from me in the cafeteria, spooning chicken soup. “This weather isn’t going to get better,” I say. “Let’s not bother with number ten. We can just say we did the top nine.”
And she agrees. “Nine out of ten ain’t bad. Let’s go home.”
LEFT: BUCOLIC SCENERY IN WASHINGTON STATE. RIGHT: MAGGIE IS ENJOYING THE RIDE.
RoughTuscany
Italy isn’t all marble chapels and art museums
Tuscany is world-renowned as a center of Renaissance art, but if you leave the cities behind, it is well worth visiting on a motorcycle.
Words & Illustrations: Mark Powell
I discovered this region as a biking paradise quite by accident. My work as a tour guide left me free time in winter, and old friends of mine owned a remote farmhouse on Mont Albano, above Prato in Tuscany, which they used for holidays, but never in the colder months. They had a problem with thieves breaking in at that season, and asked me to stay there to protect the place.
I had learned that parking a big bike outside a property put off burglars, and I was up for an adventure, so I said yes. I rode down on my R65, stopping at friends’ houses in France on the way.
If you want some challenging biking adventure in Tuscany, avoid the tourist hot spots like Florence, Pisa and Siena. I reserve those for winter. At least with a bike you can find somewhere to park, usually by squeezing into one of the ranks of parked scooters, which the locals find the most convenient for zipping around the crowded urban centers.
They can be reckless at that, as I found out one winter when I nearly ran onto a pile-up of five Vespas. No one was hurt as the riders were cocooned in puffy jackets, but it explained why so many of the bikes are scratched and dented.
There was no GPS in those days. I followed instructions on a scrap of paper, stopping to check in the light of my headlight as I puttered up narrower and narrower lanes onto the mountain. I finally arrived at the silhouette of a farmhouse in an olive grove. It was on a north-facing slope and perishingly cold – so much for the sunny Italian vineyards of our imaginations! I lit a fire in a terracotta stove and pulled a bed up to it. Later, tucked in, I fell asleep listening to the footsteps of some creature that had landed on the roof and scuttered over the tiles.
I spent the next couple of days riding around the tight bends of the olive and vine estates, but noticed the oddest thing: The locals in the fields and groves were waving at me as I passed. I had never been there before, so, puzzled, I asked one if he knew me. It turned out they thought I was an olive farmer who had an identical turquoise BMW R65 and a similar moustache.
RoughTuscany
Of course we were introduced, and I found he was also an artist, so naturally we became friends. Even better, he had a bunch of fellow biking friends and we made regular excursions together. He also knew every corner of the province and the best biking routes to get to them. As I returned year after year, I joined many of these trips, mostly on a Saturday. We would start early, stop mid morning at a caff for a cappuccino and a pastry, and take a curvy road to some country trattoria for a hearty lunch, the bikes lined up outside. I had been to the major cities by train as a student, but now I was seeing the Tuscany away from crowds of tourists and using a more flexible and exciting form of transport.
And so it was that I reached what I call “Rough Tuscany,” the secret corners that required effort in leaning into corners and deft work with clutch and brakes. Places like the mountainous Garfagnana in the north, with its tightly wound villages and lost monasteries.
Three of the bikes I’ve used in exploring Wild Tuscany, all BMWs; an R80RT, an R1100RT and, in summer, an R1100GS. Garfagnana is a mountainous zone in the north, where the roads are narrow and curvy, and nearly all are ascending or descending a mountain in zig-zags. I particularly like the old bridges.
The deep south of Tuscany is like the Wild West, with herds of stocky, long-horned cattle and real cowboys, who live on their horses the way some of us live on our bikes. In 1890 Buffalo Bill went there with his Wild West show to challenge the “butteri,” as Tuscans call their cowboys, to a series of riding tests. The locals won and Bill went off in a huff.
One winter we visited a tiny hamlet which had been built by the wealthier inhabitants of Lucca as a refuge in a time of plague. There we had tea with a classics professor of the university who had a shelf with the works of P.G. Wodehouse translated into Italian, which I thought unlikely. I remember a coffee stop in a little town in a deep ravine, with a stone bridge and a fortified gate which reminded me of a stonebuilt village in the Yorkshire Dales.
Deep in the south, I rode around the flat pastures of the Maremma, with herds of long-horned pale cattle and real cowboys on horseback.
This is in the Maremma, an unhealthy swampy area in southwest Tuscany where until the 19th century, the locals suffered from malaria. Then in the 1920s the swamp was drained by a series of canals. The building in the sketch was part of the operation, and is now a museum of the process.
RoughTuscany
There were also the three tuff towns of Pitigliano, Sorana, and Sovana, with medieval centers and forts. We rode to the quieter parts of Chianti, where Italian partisans were active in the War, and apparently still held weapons used at the time, which the kids in the 1960s used to play with. I can’t see modern Health and Safety allowing that, even if they were unloaded.
Another remarkable ride I had was to stay with a group of young agricultural “squatters” in the mountains who had taken over an abandoned farm and made it productive again with their olives and livestock. After the War many peasants had abandoned the more remote settlements where living was difficult and gone to work in new factories like Fiat’s. Such is often the case with the rougher parts of any country you visit - and this is one such place I’d very much like to visit again.
This is Pitigliano, built on a ridge in southern Tuscany. I visited it on the way to the Corsica ferry on my BMW R80/7. The close-packed, crowded houses are built of the same soft rock which makes up the outcrop. There was once a large Jewish settlement here, which gave the place the nickname of “The Tuscan Jerusalem.”
This is the port Livorno’s “Fortezza Nuova” which I saw on a ride to the coast on the RS a few years ago. Livorno was a Medici trading port with a view of Corsica. The “New Fortress” was built in 1590 by Bernado Buontalenti.
This is the “Ponte del Diavolo” or “Devil’s Bridge,” over the Serchio River in Garfagnana, north of Lucca. I think it’s the finest medieval bridge I’ve seen in Italy, and I love its multiple, lopsided stone arches. It was built by Countess Matilda around 1100, and restored in 1300 by Castruccio Castracani, a military leader and Duke of Lucca. Not many Brits will have heard of him, unless they be fans of Mary Shelley, author of Frankenstein, who wrote a novel based on his life, Valperga. It wasn’t as successful as Frankenstein
Five Jaw-Dropping ADV Routes No One’s Heard Of: Around the World
FROM BOOK SMUGGLERS TO THE ROOF OF THE WORLD
Words: Egle Gerulaityte
What comes to mind when you think of riding around the world? Ruta 40 in Argentina? The Pan-American? The Karakorum Highway in the Himalayas?
Some ADV routes around the world are standard entries on most riders’ list of dream destinations. But adventure riding is all about discovering hidden gems along the way and exploring places off the beaten path – and often, what you find is even more spectacular than the iconic, rite-of-passage roads.
Here are our five favorites around the world, routes and trails steeped in history and hidden away … unless you know where to find them.
Photo Credit: RTWpaul
The Ancient Smugglers’ Road of Ronda, Spain
Built by the Romans, the city of Ronda is easily one of the most intriguing places in Andalusia, southern Spain. Once home to Hemingway’s inter-war antics and bullfighter lore, now a destination of classic guitar festivals, local wineries, and gorgeous food, Ronda stands atop cliff edges divided by a deep gorge halving the city in two. And while most riders complete the pilgrimage to Ronda via the famous (and scenic) A-397 or A-366, there’s another route into the city: the ancient smugglers’ road of Gaucin.
Stretching for over 100 kilometers from the port of Algeciras to Ronda across lush green mountains, the Smugglers’ Road twists and turns, skirting tiny highland villages and towns where the bandoleros – smugglers and bandits – used to roam. The city of Ronda earned the name “Eagle’s Nest” thanks to its fierce stance against the invading armies of Napoleon, and later, Franco, but until the mid-twentieth century it remained somewhat isolated from the coast – and its freedom fighters became bands of guerilleros and highwaymen hiding in the mountains, smuggling goods and weapons from Gibraltar into the city, and often relieving wealthier travelers of their possessions.
This is what ultimately created the legend of Viajeros
Romanticos, or “romantic travelers”: Drawn by Ronda’s remote, secluded location and the legends of bandits, 19th century adventurers, writers, and poets flocked to Ronda to experience its rugged allure. Starting in Gibraltar along the Smugglers’ Road, spending the night in Gaucin, and arriving in Ronda in two days was the favored route for the “romantic travelers” – think Merimée, Ford, Gautier, Washington Irving, and many others – and getting robbed along the way was part of the adventure. So much so, in fact, that some English adventurers and poets are said to have complained about not being robbed along this route; the legends of outlaws, mule drivers, bandoleros, and smugglers held so much allure that an uneventful journey to Ronda was undesired. Jose Maria “El Tempranillo” and his 11 bandits were rumored to have robbed a hundred travelers in a single morning on the Smugglers’ Road; Diego Corriente, “El Badido Generoso,” was someone akin to a Spanish Robin Hood.
The legends of bullfighters, bandits, and flamenco artists still surround Ronda today. And while the Gibraltar smugglers, mule drivers, and bandits are long gone, the Smugglers’ Road to Ronda makes for an intriguing day’s ride if you find yourself in southern Spain.
“PASSING SPECTACULAR LIMESTONE ROCK FORMATIONS AND GORGES, THE MAESTERS’ ROAD CROSSES SOME OF THE MOST BEAUTIFUL AREAS OF THE VELEBIT MOUNTAINS.”
ADV COLLECTION
Minimalist chassis, fully seam-sealed with GORE-TEX waterproofing, and D3O CE level protection across the board—this gear is every bit as pure as the adventure you’re chasing.
The Maesters’ Road, Croatia
Photo Credit: Andrea Dajak, Funmoto Adventures
Built at the beginning of the 19th century, Croatia’s Maesters’ Road remains one of the most stunning routes in the country. Constructed to connect the coastal Dalmatia and continental Croatia, the Maesters’ Road was carved into the living rocks of the Velebit Mountains – a near-impossible feat, bearing in mind that the road workers had to use masonry tools rather than dynamite to hew the road through the rugged Velebit and construct the supporting structures.
Built under the orders of the Austro-Hungarian empire, the Maesters’ Road – named after the German word “meisterstück,” meaning “masterpiece” due to the skill of the masons and workers – served as a trading and postal route across the mountains where local legends of mountain fairies and dragons abound.
To this day, the Maesters’ Road remains unpaved; starting in Sveti Rok, the route crests the Mali Alan mountain pass revealing a jaw-dropping vista of the Adriatic Sea and the Zadar Archipelago below, then dips down in dizzying serpentines depositing the travelers in Obrovac from where the Dalmatian coast is just a short ride away. Passing spectacular limestone rock formations and gorges, the Maesters’ Road crosses some of the most beautiful areas of the Velebit Mountains famous for serving as a backdrop for the ’60s Winnetou films.
While Croatia is famous for its dreamy coastal roads like Route 8, often likened to the Amalfi Coast, the Maesters’ Road is a true adventure riding gem – and, for now, it remains a spectacular gravel trail worth exploring.
AS SPAIN STOOD IN FOR THE AMERICAN WEST IN SPAGHETTI WESTERN FILMS, SO DID THIS CORNER OF CROATIA FOR THE WINNETOU SERIES OF WILD WEST FLICKS.
Lithuania: A Road that Saved Europe’s
Oldest
Language
Photo Credit: Lukas Pileckas
The Baltic countries may not be world-famous for amazing mountain passes or thrilling ADV routes, but there’s one road in Lithuania that’s scenic and fascinating enough to discover.
Hugging the bank of River Nemunas, Panemune Road is a hundred-kilometer stretch connecting a network of medieval castles, 19th century mansions, and dreamy countryside towns. The most beloved – and easily the most beautiful – road in Lithuania, Panemune is a one-day drive between Jurbarkas and Kaunas revealing views of the river and the serene green countryside.
In the Middle Ages, the region of Panemune had served as the first line of defense against the invading Teutonic forces and sported a chain of castles with
beacon towers to mobilize the local barons. Later, the castles served as palatial mansions for Polish and Lithuanian nobility; now, some are converted to museums, art exhibition spaces, or luxurious hotels featuring gourmet restaurants and local wines.
But from 1865 to 1904, Panemune Road was the main artery for Lithuanian book smuggling. During this period, Lithuanian – Europe’s oldest surviving Indoeuropean language – was banned under the czarist Russian rule. Printed Lithuanian press and books in the Latin alphabet were forbidden, and occupying Russian officials hoped to eradicate the language altogether.
That’s when a vast network of Lithuanian book smugglers sprang up: Newspapers, books, school textbooks,
religious texts, and other publications were printed in the United States and East Prussia and brought into the country via contraband. More than three million books, scientific and political journals, and textbooks were printed during that time, and each year, over 40,000 Lithuanian texts and books were smuggled into the country and distributed across Lithuania, reaching cities, townships, villages, and small parishes.
River Nemunas, at the time, bordered East Prussia (now Kaliningrad), and had become one of the main entry points for book smugglers who would swim across the river at night carrying books wrapped in leather and waxed wool to keep them waterproof; once on Lithuanian soil, the books would be distributed via steamboats, merchant carriages, and traveling traders. Book smuggling carried severe consequences – from execution and deportation
to Siberia to beatings, torture, and imprisonment, book smugglers faced high risks and often had to get creative. Books were transported hidden under farmers’ haystacks, between double cart floors, and even in coffins.
The book smuggling network spanned thousands of individuals from all walks of life – priests, landowners, peasants, devout women, teachers, bankers, merchants; because it was so vast and complex, the russification of Lithuania never truly took hold, and the language ban was finally lifted in 1905.
If you find yourself in Lithuania looking for a scenic backroad, add the Panemune Route to your itinerary – and when you arrive in Kaunas, check out the Book Smugglers’ memorial in the city.
The Road of the Cursed Conquistador Silver, Peru
Photo Credit: RTWpaul
A land of towering Andes Mountains and rugged wilderness, Peru has no shortage of spectacular adventure routes crisscrossing the entire country. The road of Pallasca, however, is easily the least known – and the most awe-inspiring.
Situated in the Ancash region north of the Huascaran National Park, the Shorey–Pallasca road is a 137-kilometer route climbing and dipping down in vertigo-inducing switchbacks. Only a few tiny indigenous settlements dot the remote, rugged country here, and the road itself is one of the loneliest in Peru. Partly paved and partly gravel, the Pallasca road leads into the wild, largely undisturbed mountain country over 10,000 feet above sea level.
The history behind the road is as fascinating as the Ancash region itself. When the Spanish conquistadores arrived in the Americas, gold might have been their primary target; between 1492 and 1560, over 100 tons of gold were shipped out of South America in the Spanish treasure fleets. That number is tiny compared to the looting of silver. By the end of the 17th century, the Spanish had shipped out over 25,000 tonnes of silver –most of it from Peru, a country that remains the world’s third-largest silver producer to this day.
The Ancash region is rough and remote, but the mountains here are rich in silver, and that’s what gave birth
to Pallasca, a small town nestled in the very heart of the Andes Mountains. Its central plaza still boasts a 17th century colonial church, and although the silver mines are long closed, the town still stands – cut off from the world except for the twisty Pallasca road built by the locals in the 1970s.
The man responsible for this incredible road was Captain Orlando Bladimir Alvarez Castro, a Peruvian military official stationed in Pallasca in the ’70s. Back then, the only way into Pallasca was a mountain trail suitable for donkeys, mules, and foot traffic – but not motorized vehicles. Despite having limited resources, Captain Castro set out to work, mapping out the route and enlisting the people of Pallasca to help build the road.
“Each family was committed to building ten meters of the road, no matter what,” the Captain shared. In 1973, the road was completed, and the very first automobile rolled into Pallasca with much fanfare.
Ever since, Pallasca – and its spectacular road – have remained much the same: It’s still still remote, rugged, and hard to access. Traveling Ancash, where the air is rare and the settlements are few and far between, feels like an intrusion into an old world, one that hasn’t forgotten the curse of the Spanish silver yet – but, at the same time, it’s an extraordinary experience if you dare leave the Pan American highway behind.
A PERUVIAN MILITARY OFFICER MAPPED OUT THIS ROUTE AND ENLISTED LOCALS TO BUILD THE ROAD.
The Silk Road, Kyrgyzstan
Photo Credit: Aleksandra Trzaskowska, Motobirds
Central Asia holds a certain kind of magic when it comes to adventure travel, and Kyrgyzstan is among the countries still covered in vast swaths of wilderness. The Naryn, Songk Kul, Moldo Ashuu, Mels Pass, Tash Rabat road, a 500-kilometer stretch cutting across moon-like desert landscapes, jagged mountain passes, green plains, and lakes, is part of the ancient Silk Route. Remnants of ancient caravanserai – roadside taverns with walled courtyards where merchants and travelers would find food, shelter, and safety – still dot the route. The Tash Rabat caravanserai located at over 3,500 meters above sea level reaches back all the way to the 9th century, built by local khans to protect the Silk Road travelers carrying spice, skins, and silk from robbers and warring tribes.
On one hand, Kyrgyzstan’s Silk Route reveals raw, unspoiled nature, wild horses and camels roaming free, and its semi-nomadic dwellers that still herd animals and live in yurts. A mix of gravel, sand, and
sketchy pavement, the route isn’t for the faint of heart. On the other hand, the country’s Soviet past is still evident in Naryn and other towns. Locals joke that “Mels” in “Mels Pass” stands for Marx-Engels –Lenin – Stalin, and Kyrgyzstan seems to grapple with several clashing identities – the ancient nomadic way of life, the brutal Soviet past, and a way forward.
All this kaleidoscope unfolds as you ride Kyrgyzstan’s Silk Route section – and, perhaps, ADV riders, in a way, continue the tradition of the ancient explorers.
Some of these ADV routes are easy to find and access; others, like the road to Pallasca or the Kyrgyzstan route, require commitment and a good set of tires, but all of them offer scenery and intriguing history in equal measure. And if you stop and talk to locals along the way, chances are, you’ll be regaled with more local legends, stories, and forgotten things that should be remembered.
Around 500 BC, the Greek philosopher Heraclitus observed, “There is nothing permanent except change.” For a guy living more than 25 centuries ago, he sure knew a lot about motorcycles and me. With over 40 years in the saddle, the most permanent thing for me with motorcycles is that I love riding them.
I know I’m not alone here; my wife Kim is evidence of that, moving quickly from pillion position on my bike to her own machine. Our riding together has been an odyssey of sorts with twists and turns that resulted in many, many days of enjoyment combined, sometimes with intervals of pain. But the successes and failures that we’ve experienced from the saddle of a motorcycle continuously rekindle our two-wheeled wanderlust.
Nothing Is Permanent
Our motorcycle riding has been quite a journey; what we ride, and how we ride them, has changed significantly. Our version of the odyssey started in the early 1980s. At the time, you did not have to have a motorcycle endorsement to legally ride in my state; a written exam was enough for a learner’s permit, good for anywhere but highways. With this piece of paper in my hand, I convinced a friend to let me borrow his shiny new Honda CB750K. The result: pure ecstasy – the wind, the smells . . . the speed. As I rode, adrenaline shot through my veins. I could smell the spring flowers, feel the change in temperatures, enjoy the sunshine, and experience the joy of the wind on my face. It was sensory overload; I was hooked, and I knew I needed my own bike.
In my early twenties, money was in short supply, and I knew I’d soon be married with even more responsibilities. But with some clever thinking, I connived my way to my first bike. My soon-to-be wife had landed an RN position an hour’s drive away. My job was closer to home, only 10 minutes away. We didn’t have enough cash for two cars, and she needed one that was reliable because of the odd hours of shift work. I suggested we trade in my high-mileage car for a new economic and reliable one that she could rely on for her commute. To save money, I’d buy a motorcycle and ride to work, rain or shine. Kim agreed; soon, I was riding to my job on a new Suzuki GS750E.
At first, with 65 horsepower, it seemed like a lot of bike, but then two things happened. Kim decided she wanted her own bike, and ended up on a Suzuki GS450E. And for me, I had the typical young male’s need for speed (and horsepower), so I ended up on a Suzuki GS1100ES after much overtime and some side jobs. I’d wanted the GS1000S Wes Cooley replica; it had been dropped from the lineup, but the newer ES with the larger engine was close enough for now. The reality was, this was just the start of decades of shifting bikes for both Kim and myself, as it didn’t take her long to move up to a Suzuki GS550ES, also in colors similar to Wes Cooley’s AMA livery.
By now, motorcycles were a big part of our lives, not just commuter machines. We invested heavily in the bikes and our gear, cutting back elsewhere on our expenditures, but not really missing all
that other stuff. Everything was perfect – until pesky Heraclitus’s changes happened again as Kim and I rode to a lunch date.
About a quarter mile from our home, a 16-year-old who had just gotten his license rolled through a stop sign and struck us. Kim escaped with a concussion and some road rash, but I was stuck between the car and the bike and suffered a shattered femur, a lacerated liver, broken ribs, and a broken shoulder.
Two surgeries and more than three weeks in hospital later, I was released, my mind set on the road to recovery – but that road was long, about 18 months long. As soon as possible, I was back on Kim’s bike, riding with a crutch tied onto the back, for use after I dismounted.
As my nurse for 18 months, Kim asked me if the risk was really worth it. She’d been spooked by what the crash had done to me, and our lives together. I knew she felt it was time to leave two wheels, so I reluctantly agreed, and for a few years, our moto-career was on hold.
Time passed, but each spring, as Kim and I watched riders pass by, we began rethinking our retirement from motorcycles. After a couple of years of feeling 100 percent healthy, I worked up the courage to ask Kim whether we should get back onto two wheels. She thought long and hard, and after a while, she said OK, but only if we rode together on separate bikes. I was overjoyed, and started my research. Back then, bike technology changed quickly, and I still craved speed despite my serious crash. After doing my homework, I ended up on an Eddie Lawson Edition Kawasaki ZX-7; Kim opted for a ZX-6.
Over the next few years, we went through a few different machines, mostly sportbikes. The Kawis were later replaced with a Honda 900RR and Honda CBR600RR F2. A pair of Yamaha R1s came next; then, I picked up
a Honda RC51, and Kim chose a Honda CBR600RR F3. I had no brand allegiance; I just wanted to go faster.
Going Racing
Riding fast on the street was fun, but I realized that if I really wanted to push my limits, I needed to hit the track. I chose the Loudon Road Racing Series (LRRS) to start my road racing career, starting slowly as an amateur in the Production Twins class riding a Kawasaki EX500R, later moving up to the Junior category and a Suzuki SV650.
It was great fun, but I wasn’t as fast as I had thought, and racing was getting expensive. I decided to go back to the street and try riding off-road as well.
We already had the street bikes; now two dirt bikes entered our garage: a Kawasaki KDX 200 two-stroke for me and a KX100 for Kim. The KDX was a very easy-to-ride bike. Kim’s machine was a handful for its displacement, but she rode it well, and on more technical terrain, she often left other riders behind. We split our time between trails and streets. The more we rode offroad, the more we liked it.
I loved the character and sound of a V-twin engine. The more I rode, the more I liked them – and then the siren call of Ducati sounded.
I had a friend at a dealership that carried the Italian marque. He was very good at what he did and soon became one of the brand’s top salesmen. But the bikes were pricey and generally outside of what I was able or willing to pay for a motorcycle. Then, one day, my phone rang; my friend told me he could get me a two-year-old zero-mile Ducati 996 S for about half MSRP. It had been sitting in the office of Ducati’s North American CEO and was about to be replaced. I didn’t think about that one for terribly long.
The 996 S was a beast for its time. It had excellent power and handled well, but it was a handful to ride, even with Öhlins suspension. Still, I loved the machine and rode it whenever I could, taking it on short and long trips, holding onto its clip-ons while hunched over its fuel tank, loving every minute.
Kim saw how much I was enjoying the 996 S and soon decided she needed a Ducati Monster S1. Our love affair with Ducatis was underway. A couple of years later, Ducati released its 999 model. Once again, I was smitten, but I didn’t want to sell the 996 S. Over the years, our income had improved, so I told Kim I needed another bike, a 999 S, and she agreed.
As the years progressed, our garage filled with various Ducatis and one Aprilia Mille. At one time, there were nine bikes in there. All of the road-going machines were of Italian descent. Ducatis had become an obsession. It didn’t seem there would be any way that we’d ever buy another brand of motorcycle, but once again, changes were about to occur.
I began to think there must be more to riding than just the street and trails. Couldn’t we use our motorcycles to explore beyond the easy? Wandering around the internet one day, I found the Adventure Rider website. It was full of stories of people riding to distant parts of the world on both pavement and dirt. I was hooked. The Ducatis were fantastic, but I needed to see the world from both on and off the pavement. Suddenly, going fast wasn’t so important. Seeing the world and going places where most people didn’t became our new passion.
By 2007, we were ready to take our first long adventure ride. Gone were most of the Ducatis, replaced
by machines from a then little-known Austrian manufacturer and one from Germany. I was now riding a KTM 950 Adventure – another V-twin – and Kim was on BMW’s F650GS single.
Our first ride would be along the length of the TransLabrador Highway, which was still 100 percent gravel at the time, with the exception of a brief stretch in the extinct town of Gagnon. It was a primarily uninhabited stretch of gravel starting near Quebec’s Manic 5 hydroelectric dam and, after taking a ferry from Goose Bay to Cartwright, ended at that time in the tiny town of Blanc Sablon where you could catch another ferry to Newfoundland.
It rained for most of the trip, and at times we encountered dense fog. But the weather only made the trip seem more adventurous, so we kept going, pretty much enjoying every minute. Once again, we were hooked. Adventure riding had replaced going fast.
Seeing the world from the saddle of a motorcycle was our new passion. Since then, we have ridden to out-of-theway places in North America, South America, Europe, and Africa. Using our own bikes or renting machines has given us the opportunity to see what few people see. All of these places have left us richer in understanding and more interested in how other people live. Adventure riding now means so much more to us than going fast ever did.
With more than four decades of riding under our belts, adventure riding has become very important to us – so important that Heraclitus’s saying might not apply. We have come to think that our love of adventure is so strong that it is indeed permanent and will never change. So thank you, Heraclitus, but we think we’ve found something that is indeed permanent.
One Mindbending
Adventure
Riding Through Patagonia’s Untamed Wilderness
on the Carretera Austral in Chile
Words & Photos: Michnus Olivier
On any list of the world’s must-ride roads, the Carretera Austral in Chile would undoubtedly be near the pinnacle. The more widely known name for Chile’s Route 7, Carretera Austral means “Southern Highway” in English, and is the official name for the road. Personally, I think it sounds much more exotic and adventurous than Ruta 7.
It is one of the planet’s most captivating road trips, a thrilling combination of unpaved stretches, crater-sized potholes, and wild weather conditions of cascading rain in summer and blanketing snow in winter.
The Carretera Austral runs south from the bustling port city of Puerto Montt to Villa O’Higgins, the last town before you must cross into Argentina before going further south towards Ushuaia. This road, part of the new Ruta de los Parques (Route of the Parks), connects 17 Chilean national parks over 2,735 kilometers, and provides access to Chile’s Aysén Region and southern parts of the Los Lagos Region. It is sparsely populated, with less than one person per square kilometer. In 1976, Chile’s then-dictator Augusto Pinochet commanded the construction of a road to link these remote areas, and the Chilean Army’s Engineering Command deployed over 10,000 soldiers to tackle this monumental task.
CHILE
The road construction faced daunting challenges, including dense forests, fjords, glaciers, canals, and steep mountains that made land access incredibly difficult. Sea and air travel were no less challenging, frequently hampered by severe winter weather. Until very recently, large portions of the road were still dirt paths, not fully paved, often rendered impassable by heavy rains and winter snow.
A MAGICAL JOURNEY THROUGH ENCHANTED LANDSCAPES
The breathtaking scenery, which looks like it belongs in a magical country where hobbits and dragons live, is what really sets this road apart and keeps you hooked. Every overlander or local we met told us the southern part of Chile’s Patagonia region is one of the most awe-inspiring, jaw-dropping places they have seen. We were as excited as children setting foot in the ocean for the first time, and little did we know that this was the start of a love affair with the land that would see us taking more time than we initially planned. This is the land of massive, awe-inspire geography.
We set out from Valparaíso, the port city on Chile’s coast with its steep funiculars and colorful, clifftop homes. With bikes serviced and new tires mounted, we were ready to hit the road and tackle the 2,500-kilometer journey to Lake O’Higgins, where Ruta 7 ends. The timing was tricky; winter meant closed borders between Chile and Argentina due to snow, and we had already missed the
best part of summer. We planned to spend three to five months covering this stretch and traveling all the way south to Ushuaia. Chile is one of South America’s more expensive countries, so camping would be our standard accommodation. Even considering camping is so much more fun and in tune with travel compared to staying in smelly, miffed-up hostels and hotel rooms. Besides, many of the accommodations on this route are quite basic; there are alternatives, but that’s mostly for the wellheeled members of society.
The travel application iOverlander and some wild-camping spots solved the problem for most nights. We managed to find a variety of locations, including campsites, barns, under carports, and even in people’s backyards. The wild-camp spots were the ones we cherished the most. Waking up next to lakes with smoking volcanos in the distance and a thick cloud of fog slowly creeping over the mirror-calm water is something that burns into your brain’s memory banks.
Camping in Chile is an experience, with sites almost everywhere. However, compared to Africa or the USA, where campsites offer more privacy and personal space, personal space can be limited in Chile.
We ventured into Chile’s “Volcano Alley” before hitting Ruta 7. Chile has around 500 active volcanoes, 60 of which have erupted in the last 450 years. Roughly 700 kilometers (434 miles) before the port city of Puerto
“ULTIMATELY, THE CARRETERA IS NOT JUST A ROAD BUT AN UNFORTGETTABLE ADVENTURE”
Montt and the official start of Ruta 7, we passed a row of volcanoes and lakes along the Chilean-Argentinian border. The warm days allowed us to explore most of the roads and areas along these volcanoes while camping in stunning locations with these behemoths puffing smoke in the background.
We traveled 1,240 kilometers across Chile, from Puerto Montt to Villa O’Higgins in Patagonia. One evening, we sipped beer around a campsite with our travel friends and mused about the possibility that Augusto Pinochet, the notorious dictator, might have had a passion for motorcycles and understood what riders crave. It might sound silly, but the roads certainly left that impression. The endless sweeps, rolling hills, and graceful curves seem crafted for breathtaking landscapes, making every mile a visual feast. Even the dirt roads appeared designed for maximum enjoyment, triggering the body’s own happy chemicals of endorphin, dopamine, and serotonin. This thrilling ride and epic scenerey continued all the way, dotted with charming little towns, until we entered Argentina and joined Ruta 40.
In Hornopiren, a picturesque village, we had to catch the first of two ferries heading south, and after missing
the last one for that day, we had to spend the night. It was a Saturday, and the village was alive with a vibrant local food festival. The air was filled with the sounds of folk music, the beat of traditional dancing, and the irresistible aroma of barbecue and freshly grilled seafood. The locals welcomed us with open arms, making us feel like part of their extended family. As the night wore on, they even took it upon themselves to teach us some of their traditional dance moves, adding a magical touch to an already unforgettable evening.
REMOTE BEAUTY AND RICH HISTORY
Our last town was Puerto Río Tranquilo on the shores of Lago Gral Carrera, “Lake Buenos Aires,” one massive body of turquoise- and azure-colored water fed from mountains and surrounding glaciers. It was base camp for our visit to the marble caves, named General Carrera Lake’s Marble Chapels, a network of glacial caves veined with blue striations carved from calcium carbonate by over 6,000 years of water pressure. One of the major reasons for staying over was to rendezvous with two British motorcycle overlanders we met in Colombia, Suzie and Kelvin. The lifelong friendships developed with strangers you meet on the road make traveling even more special.
The day before we left for Argentina, we went for a hike on glacier Exploradores. A physically demanding hike that spans approximately 11 kilometers, including a section where we had to wear ice shoes, it was one of the most enthralling experiences of my life. This 29-kilometer-long glacier is about 1.5 kilometers (1 mile) deep and still advancing. But in the bigger scheme of things, it looked fragile against the menace of climate change. It was one of the most moving experiences we had during our time in South America.
SENSORY OVERLOAD
The Carretera Austral is more than just a road; it’s an adventure that winds through Patagonia’s stunning natural beauty and rich history. Every turn greets you with breathtaking vistas, the fresh scent of untouched nature, and the symphony of wildlife.
The experience of climbing to awe-inspiring lookouts, feeling the chilly spray of waterfalls, walking on cobalt-blue glaciers, and sipping whiskey with glacier-melted snow is beyond words or photos. At the end of the road lies Lake O’Higgins, the deepest lake in the Americas at 836 meters (2,743 feet). To top it all off, the area is home to the Patagonian Dragon, a unique insect that thrives in icy conditions by feeding on bacteria and algae.
There are two routes to exit Chile into Argentina; one is a road along General Carrera Lake, or Lake Buenos Aires. The other one is through the Patagonia National Park, made possible by Conservacion Patagonia, a foundation created by Kris and Doug Tompkins from Patagonia, Inc. and The North Face, to protect areas of the Patagonia region.
This route is just mind-blowing and allows some of the nicest dirt roads and vistas over snow-capped peaks in the distance.
A JOURNEY WORTH TAKING
Ultimately, the Carretera Austral is not just a road but an unforgettable adventure. It’s a journey that tests your limits, rewards your senses, and enriches your soul. From vibrant autumn foliage to snowcapped peaks, from roaring rivers to tranquil lakes, every kilometer is a testament to the raw beauty and unyielding spirit of Patagonia, and an invitation to both seasoned travelers and curious adventurers. Pack your bags, tune up your motorcycle, and set off on a journey you’ll never forget. The road abides.
CHILE
Wheels Two TwoWorlds
Big Dreams on Small and Big Machines
Words & Photos: RTWpaul
Motorcycles are more than just machines; they’re freedom on wheels, companions on the road, and sometimes even mirrors of your personality. Over the years, I’ve had the privilege of riding across continents, experiencing the highs and lows of motorcycling on multiple vastly different bikes, all the way from 125 cc to around 2000 cc; two of the standouts were the Yamaha Super Ténéré, a beast of a machine designed for conquering almost any terrain, and the Honda CT125 Postie, a humble workhorse that invites a slower, simpler adventure. These bikes don’t just shape your journey – they shape how the world treats you, how far you can go, and how deeply you immerse yourself in the adventure. Here’s what I’ve learned.
The First Impression: How People Treat You
ON THE YAMAHA SUPER TÉNÉRÉ: THE BEAST
The Yamaha Super Ténéré is impossible to ignore. With its towering presence, adventure-focused aesthetics, and throaty exhaust note, it commands attention wherever you go. People often assume you’re wealthy or highly experienced – or both. This can be a blessing or a curse. In remote areas, people are curious and intrigued, often approaching you with respect and admiration. Border crossings are smoother; customs officials seem more lenient when you’re atop a bike that looks like it belongs in a magazine, but be prepared for it to be called a BMW!
The Super Ténéré can also alienate you. In poorer regions, it screams wealth and privilege. There were moments when locals were hesitant to approach me, perhaps feeling that I was out of their league – or worse, that I didn’t belong. In some cases, I had to work harder to break down those barriers, proving I was just another traveler with a love of two wheels.
ON THE HONDA CT125: THE FRIENDLY UNDERDOG
The Postie, on the other hand, is a charm magnet. Its small size, quirky retro styling, and utilitarian nature invite curiosity and smiles. Everywhere I went, people would laugh, point, or shout, “What’s that little bike doing here?” It’s a conversation starter in the best way possible. Locals would come over to chat, fascinated by how far I’d traveled on such a modest machine. In villages, I’d
find myself drinking tea or sharing a meal with strangers who seemed to adopt me as one of their own.
The CT125’s unassuming nature makes you approachable. It levels the playing field, erasing the perceived gap between rider and local. There’s no intimidation, no pretense, just genuine human connection.
Daily Mileage: How Far Can You Go?
YAMAHA SUPER TÉNÉRÉ: THE LONG-DISTANCE CHAMP
The Super Ténéré is designed for big miles. Its 6.1-gallon tank means you can easily cover 300–500 miles in a day with only refueling once. The powerful engine eats up highway miles effortlessly, and with adjustable suspension and electronic aids like cruise control, fatigue is minimal. On smooth tarmac, I could comfortably push 500 miles in a day, though I rarely wanted to because the point of riding is to enjoy the journey.
HONDA CT125: SLOW AND STEADY
On the Postie, your world shrinks. With a top speed of around 50 mph (on a good day, downhill, with the wind at your back), you’re looking at a maximum of 150–200 miles in a day, but that’s pushing it. Realistically, 100 miles is a comfortable target, especially on rough terrain. This slower pace forces you to embrace the journey, noticing the details you’d otherwise miss. A long day on the CT125 is physically taxing, not because of speed but because of exposure. With no windscreen and minimal suspension travel, every gust and bump is felt.
Top: The Super Ténéré is clearly meant for big miles. The CT125 can get to Sturgis, but will never look right there. At left: The little Honda is a more comfortable perch than a spiny cactus, but you still feel every mile.
Comfort: Throne vs. Saddle
YAMAHA SUPER TÉNÉRÉ: LAP OF LUXURY
The Super Ténéré is like a sofa on wheels. The seat is plush, the ergonomics are adjustable, and heated grips make cold mornings a non-issue. The bike’s windscreen provides excellent protection, and the suspension soaks up imperfections in the road. Even after hours of riding, I rarely felt discomfort. It’s a bike designed for comfort; with every conceivable luxury a motorcyclist could want.
HONDA CT125: BAREBONES BASICS
The CT125 is the antithesis of luxury. Its seat is narrow and firm, and there’s no windscreen to shield you from the elements. On a long ride, your back, wrists, and rear end will remind you that this bike is built for practicality, not comfort. Yet, there’s something liberating about its simplicity. You’re fully exposed to the environment, feeling every breeze and smelling every flower. Comfort becomes less about physical ease and more about mental peace.
Cost: the Price of Adventure
YAMAHA SUPER TÉNÉRÉ: ADVENTURE AT A PREMIUM
Owning and maintaining a Super Ténéré is not for the faint of heart – or light of wallet. The initial purchase price is high, and routine maintenance can be expensive, especially on long trips. Tires, brakes, and other consumables wear faster on a heavy bike, and premium components come with premium costs. Fuel consumption, while decent for its size, is still higher than on a smaller bike.
HONDA CT125: AFFORDABLE
FREEDOM
The Postie is the epitome of budget-friendly adventure. Its purchase price is a fraction of the Super Ténéré’s, and it sips fuel at a miserly rate – 100 mpg is achievable. Maintenance is simple and cheap, often requiring just basic tools and a bit of patience. In countries where small-displacement bikes are the norm, parts are readily available and affordable. You can ride the CT125 for months on a budget that would barely cover a week on the Super Ténéré.
Storage: What Can You Bring?
YAMAHA SUPER TÉNÉRÉ: BRING THE KITCHEN SINK
With its large panniers, top case, and additional options for soft luggage, the Super Ténéré can carry an astonishing amount of gear. On long trips, I packed everything from camping equipment to a full toolkit, spare parts, and weeks’ worth of clothing. The Super Ténéré doesn’t just carry your gear – it does so without making you feel the weight.
HONDA CT125: PACK LIGHT, LIVE SIMPLE
The Postie forces you to embrace minimalism. With its smaller frame and limited cargo capacity, you can carry only the essentials. I used a small top box and occasionally a small dry bag, packing the bare minimum: a change of clothes, basic tools, and lightweight camping gear. This constraint is both a challenge and a gift. It simplifies your life, forcing you to focus on the experience rather than the stuff.
“OWNING AND MAINTAINING A SUPER TÉNÉRÉ IS NOT FOR THE FAINT OF HEART.”
Ease of Living: Day-to-Day Practicality
YAMAHA SUPER TÉNÉRÉ: A MIXED BAG
The Super Ténéré is an engineering marvel, but it’s not always easy to live with. Its size and weight make it unwieldy in tight spaces or off-road. Parking can be a chore, and if it tips over, you’ll need every ounce of strength (or a friend) to lift it. Repairs and maintenance require a level of expertise – or the funds to pay someone who has it.
HONDA CT125: EFFORTLESS SIMPLICITY
The Postie is a joy to live with. It’s light, easy to maneuver, and forgiving on rough terrain. Parking is a breeze, and if it falls, you can pick it up with one hand. Maintenance is straightforward, often requiring just basic tools and a bit of ingenuity. Its simplicity makes it reliable and easy to fix, even in the middle of nowhere.
The Verdict: Two Bikes, Two Experiences
Riding the Yamaha Super Ténéré and Honda CT125 has taught me that adventure isn’t about the bike – it’s about how the bike shapes your journey. The Super Ténéré is a luxurious, high-performance machine that lets you cover great distances in comfort and style. It’s perfect for riders who want to push boundaries without sacrificing convenience.
The CT125, on the other hand, is a humble, approachable companion that slows you down and immerses you in the world around you. It’s for those who value simplicity, connection, and the joy of slow.
Ultimately, the choice between these two bikes depends on what you’re looking for in an adventure. Are you chasing miles or moments? Comfort or connection? There’s no right or wrong answer, only the one that feels right for you. For me, the best adventures have been a mix of both worlds: the luxury of a Super Ténéré balanced by the simplicity of a Postie. Two wheels, two worlds, one shared love for the open road.
THE SUPER TÉNÉRÉ IS “FOR RIDERS WHO WANT TO PUSH BOUNDARIES.”
Yamaha’s Super Ténéré takes big and comfortable to a happy extreme. Just don’t let it fall over.
An Island Like No Other
Riding – and photographing – Iceland’s vistas
Words and Photos: Steve Shannon
In July 2024 I went to Iceland to shoot a project for Leatt, which has a partnership with the operators at Iceland Motorcycle Tours.
We rode enduro bikes, mostly KTM and Husky 350 and 450 enduro bikes, along with a few Hondas. We had local Icelandic guides to show us around the country. This trip was Iceland Motorcycle Tours’ four-day highlands tour, which covers the southern interior highlands, a volcanic region in the Icelandic interior. Each day we would cover around 150–250 kilometers, mostly on F-roads and other legal tracks since free riding off-road is strictly prohibited.
The terrain and riding surfaces varied greatly, from deep black volcanic ash (black sand) to rocky mountain tops and deep river crossings. The riding isn’t overly technical, but it was highly enjoyable. I didn’t know if the riding would be very interesting and was pleasantly surprised by how fun it was. The scenery is arguably the best in the world. The mountains aren’t overly big, but the vast and varied landscapes are truly out of this world. The guides are awesome and having locals that know the history really adds to the experience.
At night we stayed in remote mountain huts which were absolutely perfect. Skuli and his crew cooked amazing meals for us every day. As far as price goes, it’s currently priced at 4900 euros. Not cheap, but I think the price is fair as it includes the bike rental (late model KTM, Husqvarna or Honda enduro bike fitted with knobby tires and mousses), transportation from Reykjavik, and all meals and accommodation. The only thing you have to worry about is flights and hotels before and after the trip. It’s not hard riding, but it’s fast, and fun. I’m already trying to figure out how to go again.
SUPPORTING BDR HAS ITS REWARDS
SUZUKI INTELLIGENT RIDE SYSTEM (S.I.R.S.)
Advanced rider aids, including multiple power modes and adjustable Traction Control with Gravel Mode and TC OFF.
FULLY-ADJUSTABLE SUSPENSION
New KYB components improve handling for strong performance on all types of terrain.
SWITCHABLE ABS
The first Suzuki production model that lets you turn front and rear ABS OFF for varying riding surfaces.
