Coming in to work on I-5 this morning, winds were gusting across the freeway in a pretty big way. The sailor in me longed to see some waves so I could estimate wind strength; the motorcyclist in me just despaired as the gusts pushed me about. I spent the ride crouched down over the tank, just like a Real Sportbiker(tm), trying to lessen the exposed area of my body which was serving as a sail, and dealing with the interesting lean brought on by the gusts.

By the time I got into work my arms were rather tired. I think it's safe to say that I definitely prefer riding on calm days.

I took the bike across Whidbey Island again on Sunday, for a quick afternoon ride. Rode north on I5 to Anacortes, crossed the Deception Pass bridge (shown above) onto Whidbey, and rode south to Clinton for the ferry back to the mainland. It was a quick ride, a couple of hours in the afternoon. I intended to explore the Destination Highway on the island, but in the end just rode the main highways (20 and 525, I believe) and enjoyed the nice day. Next weekend, if it's clear, I'm going to head back and look for some with better twisties; I hear there are quite a few along the coast.

As I grow accustomed to the new, sportier Zoë that the 'busa shock and Metzlers give me, I'm really starting to like it. I still haven't gotten the shock dialed in; there's a bit of chatter over rougher areas of road, but the bike handles wonderfully. Turn in is so much faster than it used to be, and yet she's solid as a rock leaned over through corners. I did spend some time on one particular easy-to-find backroad with a fair number of twisties, and it was a really exhilarating ride. I'm looking forward to more of the same in the future.

In other news, I think I've arranged for a helmet camera setup. Yay for ride movies!

Ladies and gentlemen:

This last weekend I joined a number of the sport-touring.net folks on a ride up over the Cascades to Winthrop, along scenic Highway 20. This is one of the best motorcycle roads in Washington State, and it had just been opened the previous Monday. All told, we had 10 other bikes along, all but one of which were much larger and faster than my little Zoe, but she performed like a champ and an exhilarating time was had by all. This ride was a faster one than my usual solo pace, although certainly not beyond my comfort zone. The S-T.n folks are great about riding your own ride; there were folks along who spent a lot of the ride well past the ton, and others (well, me) who set a more sedate pace. I brought the video system along and, as before, filled two tapes with footage. Sunday I edited that down to another 11-minute video, and here’s the final result:

Ride Movie Number Two

I think this flick came out a bit better than the last one; the scenery is also much more interesting, since we ranged from lowland forest to evergreen forest to the snowpack at the top of the cascades, and then down into the desert/scrubland on the eastern side. As always, though, I’d love any feedback, either positive or negative.

The total milage for this trip came out around 430 miles; all in all, a pretty long day of moderately aggressive riding, and I was tired and sore by the time I got home. Temperatures were in the 30s up in the mountains, and as the movie and pictures show, there was still plenty of snow on the ground, though the road was perfectly clear. I was very grateful for my Gerbing heated vest, up past the snowline. Descending down into eastern Washington was a startling transformation; the desert / scrub of the eastern side was warm, tremendously windy and dry, and a very sharp contrast to the overcast gray skies and occasional showers of the western side.

Hwy 20 itself is an amazing ride; great pavement and wave after wave of sweet twisties, surrounded by beautiful mountain vistas that I didn't have a chance to even glance at. The group really spread out on the way up, as the corners were challenging enough that we all took them at our own speeds. S-T.n'er mbspeed was kind enough to ride trail all the way, which has to be a bit dispiriting on a high-performance bike like his Blackbird.

We lunched in Winthrop, a strange little kitschy town that appears to be designed to look like an Old West frontier town. Regardless, the burgers were good and the waitstaff very forgiving of our large group and tremendous pile of cold-weather riding gear.

After lunch, we headed south, aiming for Blewitt Pass along Hwy 97 and the return to Seattle via I-90. This part of the trip was much less technical; open scrubland, for the most part, with long sightlines, wide slow sweepers, and plenty of room to speed it up a bit. A fairly brisk pace was maintained for the rest of the day; I spent a fair bit of the ride in mortal terror of Speed Tax Collectors, but the roads were mostly deserted in between towns and I suppose we got lucky. Some wonderful vistas were to be seen over Lake Pateros, Lake Chelan, and the Columbia River before we climbed back up into the high evergreen forest for the crossing of Blewitt Pass.

A wonderful trip. I pushed my limits a bit on this one; while I didn't ride at speeds I'd never attained before, I certainly maintained those speeds for a much longer period of time and in a moderately challenging environment. I was definitely wishing for a bit more power from Zoë, especially when it came to pass uphill at the higher elevations. I spent a lot of this ride with the throttle WFO (that's Wide Fuckin' Open, for the uninitiated) and I did feel a bit too much exposure when passing. I would really have liked to be able to whack the throttle open at 85 and have acceleration available right now, get past whatever slow car is in my way, and drop back quickly into the right lane, than sitting in the left lane sloooooowly working my way past. I didn't take any unusual risks, though, and with the exception of one terrifying crosswind-while-leaned-over-hard-in-a-turn moment, I felt very comfortable all along.

On group rides, it's very important not to get suckered into playing keep-up, to remember that dropping back 20 seconds so the other rider is out of sight only means you'll arrive at the meet-up point 20 seconds later, and to concentrate on staying within your own limits and comfort zone. This group had some amazingly skilled riders along, and I know keeping up with some of them would have put me in a very dangerous position, given my smaller bike and relative inexperience. These folks are great in terms of letting everyone ride their own ride, though, and I'm always happy to run with them.

Here's the first half of the group taking a break on the way up (in either Darrington or Marblemount, I can't remember)

Here's the first half up at the high point of Hwy 20...

and another shot, after the second half joined up. Damn oversleepers... :)

As promised, here it is, folks. Seattle to San Diego and back. My total milage for this trip, according to GPS, was 3,361 miles; I suspect the actual amount is somewhat more than that as the GPS seemed to turn itself off every so often. No tickets, and while there were a couple of distinct "oh shit!" moments, no real mishaps either. It was a hell of a trip.

Day 1, 5/18/2006: Seattle, WA to Eugene, OR
416 miles
Click here for the route map.

After all the worrying and planning and wondering what my first long motorcycle trip was going to be like, the day finally arrived. I'd spent the last few days trying to puzzle out what to bring and what to leave behind, in the very limited storage space available to me, and though time would show that I often guessed wrong in this regard, I was comfortable with my selections. Zoë was finally loaded up and ready to go, with a freshly-adjusted chain, new oil, and a new fuel filter. I had a tank-bag full of electronics; cell phone, iPod, camera, video setup, XM radio, and GPS. All my clothes were crammed into one saddlebag, while I had a pair of mesh riding pants and jacket liner in the other. My tailbag had a spare visor for my helmet, some off-the-bike shoes, a couple of books and a diary, and various personal hygiene products (with the stark absence of a toothbrush. I know, you always forget something.) A very limited selection of tools fit in one side-pocket; 10-in-1 screwdriver, needle-nose pliers, a knife, electrical tape, and a tire gauge. On top of that whole assembly I bungee-mesh'ed a sleeping bag (vital) and a Thermarest air mattress (never unrolled).

The night before departure, a bunch of the Seattle-area S-T.netters got together for a farewell BBQ. I'd still not completely figured out my southbound route, so when my good friend Colleen suggested I head south with her and the inimitable Doug (known to some as Zarly), I jumped at the chance.

We met at her lovely home on the morning on the 18th, and were on the road shortly after 9. The initial stage of the trip was a simple slab down I-5; as Colleen put it, "I can ride these roads for a daytrip any time, let's get somewhere new." We followed the 5 south until breakfast, around 10:30, at a small diner in a town that I can't seem to recall. Throwing all the conventional wisdom of moto-touring to the wind, I had a big plate of french toast covered in cinnamon and syrup, daring the carb crash that was sure to follow. That's the kind of live-life-on-the-edge person that I am, folks, and I regret nothing.

Anyway. After breakfast, we adjusted our course and headed south on a rather nice two-lane road that ran just west of I-5 along the Cowlitz River, although the river itself was rarely visible. Nothing technical here; long sightlines, easy turns, and very little traffic. The pace was great through this section; I don't tend to ride like a banshee, and though this road would have enjoyed blistering speed on occasion, I was very comfortable to smell the flowers at a more reasonable speed.

That's not to say we were under the limit, though. Far from it.

We crossed over the Washington-Oregon border at the timber port of Longview, and stopped for a couple of pictures on the other side of the river. Here's Zoë, looking back over the Columbia River, with Mt St Helens just visible in the background.

...and here's Zoë and her two riding companions, both big BMW GSs.

After crossing into Oregon, we caught Hwy 30, headed west. The tentative plan was to track down a particularly interesting-looking road which would get us out to Hwy 101 on the coast. My riding companions were excited about an apparent gravel section in the middle of this road; I'd never gone off-pavement before and the Bandit might not have been the finest mount for it, but I'll try anything once. Twice, maybe. So I gave my assent, and we headed out to find it.

Hwy 30 led to Hwy 202, and finally to a brief stint on Hwy 26. This route started out pretty relaxed, but the turns soon started to pile up, and I found myself falling well behind the others. I caught glimpses of them now and then; I may only have been 10 or 20 seconds back, but in the tight, winding curves and elevation changes, that might as well have been miles for all I saw of them. No worries, though; for me, riding even in a group ends up a solo experience. I don't carry bike-to-bike radio and I don't know if I want to. I really enjoy the solitude of riding alone, and I took this opportunity to work on looking further through the turns and focusing on my lines.

We went past an Oregon State Patrolman at one point, busily engaged in ticketing a stopped sedan, and though we were all right near the speed limit, it seemed clear to me that he'd picked us up as his next quarry. Shortly therafter we stopped for a water break in a small town, and within a minute the patrolman in question came tearing into town, stopping his cruiser at a restaraunt across the street from us. When it came time to move on, we joked as to whether he was going to follow us out of town, but apparently he wasn't stalking us. Go figure.

Finally, we located the road in question: the Lower Nehalem Road. This was a poorly-paved two-laner that ran along the Nehalam River, eventually giving way to the much-anticipated gravel, where I very quickly learned Rule One of Riding On Gravel: don't touch the front brake. Zoë (and Colleen, following me on her GS) were very patient with my fumbling attempts to figure the gravel out with my not-at-all-intended-for-offroading bike. Doug, in the lead, disappeared into the distance, standing up on the pegs and zipping away at a good clip. I held at around 25-30 mph and silently prayed to myself not to bounce over the northern edge of the road, where there was a 50' dropoff down a wooded slope into the river.

The road ran through beautiful forest, though, and was a very pleasant ride. One day, when I have a V-Strom or something more gravel-capable, I'll need to come back. I just won't bring the Bandit next time.

Here's Doug and the bikes, stopped on a bridge crossing the Nehalem River at the end of the gravel section:

Shortly after leaving the Lower Nehalem Road, we found ourselves on Hwy 101, on the edge of the continent, looking out over the Pacific Ocean. I grew up with the ocean, but it wasn't until I spent my college days in the Midwest that I realized how much I love seeing the waves and the beckoning horizon. Every time I see the ocean, I am filled with a sense of belonging, of being right where I need to be, and with a great sense of peace, and so it was a wonderful sight. We stopped at an overlook to take a quick stretch and gaze off into the West, at which point the beautiful moment was ruined when I noticed my chain guard coming loose from my bike. I hadn't brought along any zipties, but luckily Colleen was prepared and had some in her trunk. A quick ghetto repair, and we were on the road again.

We followed 101 south through a variety of quaint little towns, each of which were full of quaint little 25 mph zones. Traffic was fairly light, and so riding at the necessary pace got fairly frustrating. My companions had originally intended to push further south, at least to Florence, but the pace wasn't great and everyone was tired. They eventually decided to call it a night in Newport, and I pushed on to my friend's place in Eugene by way of Hwy 20 and I5. 20 was a fun, quick ride; no traffic and some very light curves to keep things interesting, but I was terrified of the Oregon state patrol's reputation for handing out speeding tickets like candy, and kept it slow. I rolled into Eugene around 9 that night, after getting completely lost in its warren of confusing streets all with the same name, and my other friend Colleen (no relation) welcomed me warmly and treated me to delicious Thai food and drinks. I went to bed that night happy to be on the road, and looking forward to the exciting days ahead.

Day 2, 5/19/2006: Eugene, OR to Fortuna, CA
529 miles
Click here for the route map.
or start with Day 1 here.

The next morning, I woke up at 8, fully intending to make an early start and get down to Fortuna quickly enough to meet all the other S-T.n folks. Alas, I am weak-willed, and when Colleen suggested we go out for a nice breakfast before I hit the road, I assented. After more delicious french toast piled with berries, I finished packing the bike, noticed rain moving in from the South, and switched my mesh pants for the textile ones. This was a great call, because the rain started in earnest as soon as I was clear of Eugene, and continued all day.

I followed I-5 south to Grants Pass, enjoying one of the few nice sections of interstate. I-5 in southern Oregon winds its way through the mountains, and involves some nice turns, beautiful scenery on both sides, and a speed limit that's much more satisfying than the 45 mph zones on 101. I made good time to Grants Pass, with only one sketchy moment where I kissed the outside white line with my tires on a turn. In the heavy rain, that line was slick as can be, and I felt my front tire slide to the side - only a fraction of an inch before it caught again, but a stern reminder of what happens to painted marks in the rain.

From Grants Pass, I caught Hwy 199 southbound. The easy way to Fortuna from Grants Pass involves taking 199 all the way out to the California coast at Crescent City, catching 101 there, and following 101 south, but I'd heard great things about the inland roads, and wanted to try something a little bit more creative. There's a very poorly-marked and -paved road that leads from O'Brien (on 199) to the little town of Happy Camp (on 96 in California), and I'd heard that this road was a real adventure. It leads up over the Scott Mountain summit, and my maps all said "CAUTION CLOSED IN WINTER," but I told myself that it was late May, and so I shouldn't have anything to worry about.

My climb up toward Scott Mountain was a slow one; I really didn't feel comfortable on this road above about 40 mph. The pavement was cracked and bumpy, the road surface was wet, and the turns were tight and uneven. All the same, the views were amazing; the road wound its way through northern California pine forests and had numerous overlooks into the surrounding valleys. As I started to climb the rain picked up, a heavy fog came and went and returned again, and the temperature started to drop. In addition, I saw only one car in my entire ascent. "What a wonderful lonely road," I thought to myself. "I wonder why nobody else is on it?"

As I ascended, more and more snow became apparent on the sides of the road, at first just in occasional patches but soon in a solid blanket all around. Small areas of ice on the road began to show up as well; I dropped my pace to a crawl and kept my eyes out for their telltale shimmer. Rounding a corner near the summit, I was surprised to see another group of riders in the road, wearing Aerostich suits and (surprise!) S-T.net stickers! I'd run into some other riders headed for the same meet, and the reason nobody else had been seen coming down this road was that the road was still closed due to the ice.

The other riders were two from Seattle (strange coincidence, that), Chris and Ariana, and another couple from Anaheim of all places, out for a day ride from Fortuna; Robert and Trina. They had dropped their bike in an unexpected ice patch, and though (thankfully!) nobody was hurt, there was some oil leakage, some fairing scrapes, and a missing brake caliper bolt. Before heading down, Robert and Chris tried to jury-rig a brake repair; I missed the details, as I was taking this opportunity to berate myself for not packing my heated vest or any other cold-weather gear.

Roadside caliper repair:

Zoë in the snow:

Chris and Ariana:

We started down the mountain in a tight group; Chris leading and me bringing up the rear, in case something went greviously wrong with BMW-K's bike. During the descent we passed the road-clearing crew, who had just about reached the summit; the road was slated to be officially opened later that day. There were a few patches of ice and a lot of debris on the road surface, but we took care to avoid them all and arrived in Happy Camp for a much-needed break. Robert went off to find some oil to replace what he'd lost, and the rest of us stretched a bit, had a snack, and got ready for the last bit of the ride.

Vital repairs to the fairing rash on Robert's bike:

The crew, heading down Hwy 96 toward Fortuna:

From Happy Camp, we followed Hwy 96 south to its junction with Hwy 299, and 299 carried us west to the 101. There had been plenty of rain over the last few days, and the roads were quite wet; between that and the less-than-enjoyable conditions on the road to Happy Camp, we took it relatively slow (the speed limit! oh, horrors!) on the rest of our run to the coast. Both roads are greatly enjoyable on a motorcycle; 96 twists along the path of the Trinity river, while 299 is comprised more of long sweepers and a lot of elevation change. Someday, when the road's dry, I look forward to riding these roads at a slightly more aggressive pace, but an enjoyable time was had by all.

There's not much to say about the section of Hwy 101 that carried us into Fortuna, but we eventually arrived, to find a warm welcome prepared for us. Most of the other S-T.netters had already arrived, and the Eel River Brewery was in full swing. I filled my empty belly with one of the largest burgers I'd ever seen and chatted with some interesting riders from all over the coast.

a warm welcome to Fortuna:

The day had been a tiring one, though, and I was very ready to crawl into bed within an hour or so. Dr. Gil and the lovely Beck-zuki, another pair of S-T.netters, had kindly offered me crash space on their floor, along with Colleen and Doug, so I followed the Dual GS Posse back to their place where I was made to feel right at home and allowed to sample some amazingly good rye. Mmm, rye. Folks chatted for a little bit, and then it was time to break out the sleeping bag and get some rest. Lots of miles still awaited me.

Day 3, 5/20/06: Fortuna, CA to Fortuna, CA
290 miles
Click here for the route map.
or start with Day 1 here.

The previous night, before heading to bed, Colleen had suggested that if I get a chance, I should make sure to check out Hwy 36 for a day-ride today. At breakfast I attached myself to a small group that was heading out for a ride along a fairly short loop including Hwy 36. The riders were Jim (TheExplorer) on a Yamaha FZ1, Cynthia (KitKite) on a tiny Honda Interceptor 250, Mitchell (Endo), and his son Devon, whose rides I've forgotten. Cynthia's daughter Gabie also came along, riding pillion behind Jim, as I guess the FZ1 has about a hundred horsepower more than the Interceptor.

(and as long as I'm posting horrible headshots of everyone I ride with, here's one of your humble narrator that was taken on this trip. Enjoy.)

We set out immediately after breakfast, which for me consisted of a package of horrible chocolate donuts from an AM/PM, since I missed the crowd at Denny's. Hwy 36 joins the 101 just south of Fortuna, and almost instantly gets interesting. At first it's a fairly slow jaunt through a couple of little towns, but then the road dips down into the redwood forests and the turns start coming thick and fast. Big trees literally sit right on the shoulder of the road, and the air is thick with the scent of wilderness, wet loam and moss and pine needles. The road is pretty empty, and our group immediately started to spread out. I generally found my comfortable spot to be third, behind Jim and Devon, who rides with the easy confidence of youth and insisted on tossing little power wheelies in on a regular basis. The pace was great.

In short, Hwy 36 is the best proof I've yet seen that there is a God and he wants us to be happy. Apparently, he wants us to earn it, though. As you head east on Hwy 36, the road gets more and more technical, rising up out of the lowland redwoods and into more hilly country. There are sections of this road where it falls to a single lane, twisting maddeningly around blind corners, and a number of times I'd come out of a corner to find an SUV bearing down on me, smack in the middle of the road, or a collection of fist-sized rocks from the latest slide spread across my line. Hwy 36 leaves no time for a wandering mind.

One of the pucker-moments on this trip came today, and surprisingly it had nothing to do with what I've mentioned above. It was early in the day, in the western section of 36; I got momentarily distracted entering a turn by the rider behind me, who was closer than I remembered although certainly not dangerously so, and I braked too little and too late for my comfort. I'm sure that I could have pulled through the turn if I'd really leaned through it, but for whatever reason, I lost my nerve completely, stood the bike up and braked hard, down to some stupidly low speed. I'd looked through my line first, and I knew I had space to stand up and brake, but all the same it ruined the flow of the curves, and if the rider behind hadn't been on top of his game, there could have been a real problem. A good illustration of the dangers of group riding. I need to be very clear, here, that I place no blame on anyone but myself; I made a stupid mistake, and I was lucky that it didn't bite me in the ass.

Jim, Devon, and my bikes on Hwy 36:

Zoë at the highest point on western Hwy 36:

Lunch was at a hole-in-the-wall restaraunt called The Nugget, in Weaverville, and it wasn't great, but there's something about riding that's similar to backpacking in this regard: less-than-stellar food tastes better than it would if you've just cruised up in your car. I guess it's because you've a feeling that you've somehow earned it. In any case, we finished this ride up by returning to Hwy 299 via Hwy 3, and then back into Fortuna the same way I'd come yesterday. It rained most of the day, of course; I was soaked through, so I stopped by Dr. Gil's to put my one pair of pants in the dryer for an hour and give my lovely fiance a call. Then it was back to the brewery for more beer and burgers, followed by another restful night on Dr. Gil's guest cot.

Day 4, 5/21/06: Fortuna, CA to (I guess) Cupertino, CA
324 miles
Click here for the route map.
or start with Day 1 here.

Breakfast this morning at the Samoa Cookhouse, which is an interesting sort of place. Apaprently it used to serve as the mess hall for the loggers of the region, and it's still set up inside with a bunch of long trestle tables and decorated with various logging tools and memorabilia on the walls. There aren't any menus; you pay a flat fee for each meal, and then you can have as much as you want of whatever they've decided to cook for that meal. Our breakfast was eggs, biscuits and gravy, sausage links, thick slices of toast, and juice, and there was a ton of it.

Some of the bikes at the cookhouse (a bunch had already left):

After breakfast, Carolyn (Bluepoof) was kind enough to invite me to join the southbound crew for the next leg of my trip. I assented, of course; I like riding with others, and expected that there would be plenty of solo time for me in the latter half of the trip. Shortly after breakfast we were off, after farewells to the northbound folks were said.

Our plan was to head south, with as much time as possible spent on beautiful Hwy 1 instead of horrible Hwy 101. With that goal in mind, we set off into the light rain, which would follow us on and off all day. We followed 101 south to the 1 junction, at which point a few of our number who were more interested in just getting home peeled off. The one thing in Hwy 101's favor is the much faster pace one can keep on it, as opposed to the twisting, beautiful, and slow nature of 1.

The first 20 miles of Hwy 1 descend from the higher elevation of the inland roads to the coast, and that descent is along a very twisty, often blind, wooded section. In the fog and the rain. Beautiful, as always, and yet in the rain and with wet pine needles on the road surface, a bit of a sketchy time. There were a few more moments where I felt very uncomfortable in the corners here; one of them was a simple feeling that I worked through, leaned and stayed smooth on the controls, and pulled through with nary a jitter. The other; well. I regret to say that I crossed the centerline in a left turn. I entered too hot, and I guess I didn't give enough credence to the fact that I'd been riding hard for four days, I was beginning to tire, and I wasn't at the top of my game. For whatever reason, though, I went wide. I'm aware that it's simply a matter of luck that nobody happened to be coming the other direction at that time. I'm very grateful for that. This was my first time crossing the line, and it really hit me hard. If I never do it again, it will be too soon.

Anyway. Soon the blind twisty section was at an end, and the highway spit us out along the rocky beaches of the central California coast. The trees come nearly down to the water, here, and so it was quite a surprise to turn a corner just like any other and see the grey Pacific ahead of us, long strings of breakers rolling in from the west and spending themselves on the stony shore. A beautiful sight, but then I'm always taken aback by the sea.

From here all the way down the California coast, Hwy 1 stays right near the coast, sometimes running along sheer cliffs immediately above the water, and sometimes through hills a little ways inland. Either way, though, the gusty shore breeze sweeps across the road, and like most ocean breezes, it's not messing around. The sailor in my gloried at the whitecaps, signifying 16-20 knots off the coast, but the rider in me cringed as the gusts battered my bike around. The only time I regret my rear shock replacement mod is when there's wind around; Zoë bends before the breezes, and it's on my shoulders to muscle her back on line again.

Despite all that, the ride was a great one, through the little seaside towns that are scattered all along Route 1. We stopped for lunch at a diner, where Carolyn was startled to find that her nice, theoretically-healthy "chicken salad" involved deep-frying the chicken first, and then returned to the road. As wonderful as the coast road was, we weren't making the kind of milage we needed in order to reach San Francisco before tomorrow, and so just south of Albion we turned off onto Rte 128 for the return to 101.

128 is another fun motorcycle road, through ranch-land, wineries, and the chaparral that makes up so much of central and southern California. The group began to stretch out a little bit, as people wanted to spend at least a little time at a faster pace, and soon I found myself riding alone, comfortably in the middle of the pack and taking it easy after the unpleasant moments of the morning.

Once we reached the 101, we made a final stop for gas before beginning the last push towards home. Cynthia and Jim were bound for Modesto (I think?), while Carolyn graciously offered me crash-space on her floor for the night. Carolyn, Andrew, and I headed south across the Golden Gate Bridge and into San Francisco.

I hadn't been to SF since high school, when my choir would make a road trip there every year to sing at a Giants' game and in Ghiradelli Square, and I'm sad I didn't get a chance to spend more time in town and explore. I remember loving that city greatly, and it was high in the running for my destination after college. I don't regret heading to Seattle instead, but I've always had a soft spot in my heart for the Bay Area. Alas, we tore through the city as quickly as we could, hoping to get in out of the rain, which had begun again in earnest. We parted ways with Andrew just south of the city, and I followed Carolyn as best I could through the night to eventually arrive at her house. Room was made in the garage for Zoë next to the like fifteen other bikes owned by Carolyn and her fiance Peter (well, five other bikes, but who's counting?) and we celebrated the end of the WCRM with a delicious sushi dinner and a few bottles of sake.

I was provided with a room of my very own and a surprisingly-comfortable air mattress, and slept the sleep of the dead that night.

lots of bikes, and an old Galaga machine!

Total trip distance: 771.5 miles, by GPS

first, I'm sorry about the lack of many pictures. I kept seeing nice vistas and intending to stop for a shot, but I was enjoying the ride too much. Mea culpa.

This weekend marked my first real "trip" on the new V-Strom. A number of my extended family - my mother and grandmother, my brother and his girlfriend, an aunt and uncle along with their son and his girlfriend, and yet another uncle - were all gathering this weekend to celebrate some birthdays and hang out. My aunt and uncle have part-ownership of a house on Black Butte Ranch, in central Oregon, and so I thought riding down to visit would be a great getting-to-know-you session with the bike. I haven't modified it much yet, so I figured a good long trip would give me a baseline in order to prioritize whatever I have to do to make the Strom into exactly the bike I want.

I left Friday after work and headed south on I5. Friday's ride was pretty horrible, at least for the first six hours or so; traffic on 5 was running at around 20 mph stop-and-go, and the hydraulic clutch was very tiring after two hours of that. When I finally cleared Olympia, though, it opened up quite a bit and I was able to start making up for lost time. The Strom runs very happily in 4th gear at around 75 or 80, though there is some minor weave upwards of 80 with the Givi bags on. I'm hoping using only one bag as a tail trunk, instead of both as saddlebags, can help to mitigate this; she tracks straight as an arrow with the bags removed.

Stopped for dinner in Portland before continuing on. At Salem I caught Hwy 22 eastbound, and that's where the trip started to be awesome. 22 is a beautiful 2-lane with nice new pavement, climbing up into the high forest east of Salem. Night had fallen and traffic was light; the amazing headlights on the Strom made riding at night a real pleasure, though, and I was able to start exploring just what she can do in turns. There weren't many good curves on 22, but there were enough to show me that she's actually quite a nimble creature despite her height. I rolled into Black Butte around 10 pm with a hugh grin on my face, which was quickly swept away when it was made clear to me that no bikes are allowed in the ranch and that I'd have to leave her at the welcome center. I hate rules like that, and was irrationally worried that something would happen to my shiny new bike in the time I was there. Thankfully, nothing did.

I spent Saturday hanging around with the family. I did take the Strom into town to fill her tank, in preparation for today's departure, but other than that it was a relaxing no-riding day. Was able to spend some real time with my brother and his girlfriend, which was long overdue; I don't see enough of him of late. My aunt is an excellent cook, and prepared a wonderful birthday dinner of some amazing lamb, and then the five young'uns in the group stayed up late playing drinking games.

...thankfully, that didn't impair my ability to get an early(ish) start this morning. Breakfast with the clan ended at around 10, and I was on the road shortly thereafter. Since I had plenty of time, I decided to head back a long and interesting way, rather than the direct (boring) route I'd taken on Friday - east into the town of Redmond, then following Hwys 97 and 197 north to the Oregon-Washington border. Those roads cut through the high scrub desert of eastern Oregon; the lion's share of 97/197 were arrow-straight, with the occasional area of extremely tight turns and switchbacks as they crest small hills or descent into river valleys. There was an exceptional section of twisties dropping into the town of Maupin on the Deschutes River, a hotbed of white-water rafting. These roads were mostly deserted, though I did have a fun game of leapfrog with a lady in a topless white Volvo. She was wearing a leopard-print sun visor and large white sunglasses, and though she drove fast, she couldn't match the Strom for acceleration. Score one for Req.

I crossed the Columbia River into Washington at the town of Hood River, and followed Hwy 14 westbound along the Columbia. Beautiful views out over the river and a succession of short tunnels kept this road interesting. I was aiming to head north on a series of small roads starting with Forest Service Road 30, which leads past the eastern side of Mount St Helens in the Gifford Pinchot National Forest. I managed to find that road, unlabelled though it was, and then proceeded to get quite thoroughly turned around. I probably wasted an hour backtracking and trying out different paths before finally finding the proper sequence of 30 - 90 - 25; next time, I'll bring my Destination Highways book along, rather than just the tiny-scale Washington-Oregon map I brought.

This section was almost 100% nice tight twisties through the forest, and absolutely beautiful. The heat of the Oregon desert was gone; the forest was a perfect temperature. I spent much of this route riding along with a very talented, very overweight Australian man on a Harley, who was throwing his cruiser through the turns quite adeptly. We were both trying to head to the same place, and both getting lost in the same way, and so I was glad to be in good company. It was also during this segment of the ride that I managed to touch the tip of my right boot to the ground during a turn. - one of the more surprising events I've experienced. The Strom can definitely corner quite well, and handles the twisties like a champ.

Forest Service 25 ends at Hwy 12 in the little town of Randle, where I stopped for some water before heading on. It was getting late, but I decided to avoid heading straight for I5 and instead finish my northbound run on Hwy 7, the infamous Alder Lake Twisties that I remember so fondly from my Mt St Helens ride with the S-T.n folks a year ago. And surprise - they were still fun, but no longer the amazing, incomprehensible twisties that they seemed then. Nonetheless, an enjoyable time, only slightly marred by the heavy traffic I encountered. I rejoined I5 just south of Tacoma and burned for home, arriving just before 8pm.

This was a wonderful trip. I'm very glad to report that the bike performed flawlessly; she handles the twisties much better than I was afraid she might, she holds up well on long rides, and (when I'm gentle with the throttle or cruising on the highway) she returns more than 50 mpg. The fit is almost perfect for me (though the stock seat could use some work). The windscreen will certainly need replacing with something a little bit taller; the helmet buffeting is a problem, though one I could live with. My biggest regret about this ride, though, is that I didn't have a chance to install my camera setup - the twisties east of Mt St Helens would have given me some amazing footage. I suppose I'll just have to head back down there soon.

I don't mean to speak ill of my Bandit; she taught me a lot and shepherded me though my early learning as a rider, but the new Strom is a far superior bike across the board. More power, yet smoother delivery. Far better shocks; she floats right over pavement imperfections that would have unsettled Zo�. Much better storage space, and far better manners when loaded down. Even with two-year old dual-purpose tires, she feels well planted on the road, and tracks perfectly straight. She does take a bit more muscle to get into a turn, but once there she's right at home while leaned; the Bandit always required constant correction to hold a line.

All in all, I'm very happy to have this bike, and am looking forward to many more long trips. Finally, she has been christened on this ride: the V-Strom's name is indeed Kaylee. Rejoice.

Thinking back over the National ride this month, I've decided that there's far too much to actually write a typical "ride report" - too many days and too many things for me to remember, since I slacked off on the road and didn't write in my journal.  Next trip I'll remedy that.  But for the moment, I'll be content with a few brief vignettes relating some of the more memorable experiences I had on the road.

The most memorable, of course, were the previously-alluded-to encounters with the military in the Black Hills on our day ride out of Custer.  Colleen (DantesDame), Robert and Trina (BMW-K and Mrs. BMW-K) and Jim (JimWilliamson) and I decided to spend that day playing around on the network of dirt roads stretching between Custer and Deadwood, and when discussing the trip the night before was warned to "watch out for the Army."  I thought "yeah, whatever, dude" to that warning, but it turned out to be prophetic, as the exercises that were being done in the area were on a much larger scale than I'd thought.

We hit the roads and had an amazing time.  The dirt meanders through dense woodlands, is very lightly travelled, and offers a lot of challenges to a new dirt-rider like myself.  Colleen and Jim provided a nice swift pace to match, and I had just started to get comfortable with letting the rear slide around corners on our dirt ride in Montana a few days before, so I was pushing myself up a bit and moving at a good clip, sliding tires and having a ball.

Coming into a corner I noticed a sign to the right of the road which read "Military Police Checkpoint Ahead:  SLOW DOWN NOW."  Sensing that this particular traffic sign meant serious business, I got on the brakes, scrubbed some speed, and came around the corner to be greeted by a barbed-wire fence along the left side of the road, and a gate in the fence.  Behind the gate was parked a very large and imposing vehicle painted in olive drab, and sitting in the cupola was a gunner looking straight at me down the barrel of his machine gun - I believe it was a pintel-mount M249, but Robert apparently ID'd it as an M60.  Behind the guard was a temporary field camp of some sort, and a large open field upon which were two Blackhawk transport helicopters with a couple of infantry squads arrayed in formation in front of them.

On my list of Things To See Beside The Road, this was pretty low.  Surprising at best, and quite intimidating.  Obviously no harm came to your humble narrator, but when one is prepared for deer as the day's threat, and faced instead with machineguns, it does tend to rattle.

Later on in that same ride, we found ourselves coming toward a three-way intersection.  I was ahead of the group and had stopped to take pictures of the other riders as they approached, and as I saw them coming I also saw traffic from the other direction - a convoy of military Humvees, in olive and desert tan, coming towards us.  I mounted up as the others passed, followed them through the turn-off that would take us back towards home, and then noticed that the Army had also taken the turn and was following us.

On the straightaways, we were keeping a faster pace than the Humvees, but their nice 8' width and low center of gravity meant that they never had to slow down for turns.  Not so with us riders.  I gunned it up quick and headed to the front of the line, but Trina, who was riding sweep, tells me it was quite an experience loking back over her shoulder ever turn and expecting to see the huge grill of a big truck right behind her.  On the way back to Custer we passed several big field camps.

In addition, parked at one corner on the road the Humvees were travelling on, was a small pickup truck - a Ford Ranger or something like it.  In the front seat were two men, both wearing checkered Arab keffiyeh headdresses.  Either we saw a pair of actors, dressed up as part of a training exercise for the convoy, or we saw the two most unlucky terrorists of all time, camped on a deserted dirt road in the center of a major military training operation.  I'm assuming the first is correct, but the second would be so poetic...

There were a number of other amazing experiences in this trip, but I seem to remember the times spent on the dirt better than the rest.  On the very last day of the trip, Colleen and I spent a fair bit of time on muddy dirt backroads in British Columbia.  A grey and cold day, and a wet one; big puddles stood in all the potholes, and the roads were quite slippery as well.  I'd never ridden in the mud before and it was a great time sliding around, though I must admit to some worries at times.  All well in the end, though, and the Vstrom was dirtier after that leg of the trip than it's ever been.

Overall, it was an amazing time with some really great riders.  I feel my skills, especially offroad, have really been sharpened by this trip, and I was very glad for the chance to get so far from home and see so many amazing roads.  I'm very much looking forward to the next attempt, although a trip this size doesn't come along all that often.  More's the pity.

This coming weekend (tomorrow!) I'm off to British Columbia again for another mostly-offroad ride, again with Colleen and friends (from advrider.com, this time).  Wish me luck...