Category: BMW

Lobo

I recently posted a Wayback Machine blog on riding in the rain, and Carl Bennett (a new friend from the UK) added a comment about one of his rain rides.  Carl’s input was interesting on several levels, one of which was the included web address.  I poked around a bit on Carl’s site and found a blog post titled “Lobo.”  Well, one thing led to another, with the result being Carl’s permission to publish “Lobo” here on ExNotes.  I enjoyed reading it and I think you will, too.

– Joe Berk

By Carl Bennett

As a name for a motorcycle it’s okay. It means timber wolf, in Spanish, but maybe that means Mexican. Oooops, I meant Microsoft Spanish, for whom Spanish means Old Spanish. Obviously in global internet land, Microsoft’s 14-year-old-in-Ohio sensibilities reign supreme. Which is a whole other story. And this one is about me. Like all my others, as yours are all about you and Charles Dickens’ were about him. And especially Martin Amis’s were all about him. God, were they about him. I don’t know if he ever had a motorcycle. Hunter Thompson definitely had several, but as he wrote himself, Mister Kurz, he dead.

Lobo was the name of the band that sang A Dog Named Boo, so long ago that I can’t even admit I know the tune. I heard it during my formative years, the ones still a-forming.

Like Arlo Guthrie on his motorcycle I don’t want to die. Despite drinking kettle de-scaler yesterday morning, calling NHS 111 and having a not-great day thinking I might actually die of this, which wasn’t helped by eating a whole packet of spicy beetroot. I love that stuff, except they really ought to put a reminder on the packet of what happens when you look in the toilet bowl, to tell you that you almost certainly will live more than another three days and if you don’t, it won’t be anything to do with beetroots, unless a beetroot lorry runs you over. The gist being that I’d quite like to stay alive for the foreseeable future.

So obviously, I bought myself a motorcycle for Christmas. Unlike the song, although I’ve got my motor running, first time every time, but hey, it’s a BMW. On which I have no intention of hitting the highway like a battering ram, nor like anything else.  What did you expect? I’ve absolutely no wish to hit the highway because I know from past experience it bloody hurts. Thankfully, my off-bike excursions were few and decidedly minor, but I remember spending an afternoon in Gene Fleck’s Meadow Inn bar in Wisconsin with the road closed while an emergency crew searched against the clock to find someone’s foot. I’d seen him and his girl earlier in the day on a Harley, riding like an accident looking for somewhere to happen, which it duly did.

I wasn’t prepared for the change. And no, that wasn’t why I got a motorcycle again. I did it because life is short. I did it because I wanted to smell the grass and the trees and the fields I passed through. I did it because I wanted to do it again before I die.

Where I began the process I laughingly call growing-up, there wasn’t any public transport to speak of. There were infrequent busses, taxis weren’t a thing for a 16 or 17-year-old in a Wiltshire town and even if being chauffeured to places by my Mummy was an option the way it seems to be for kids today, I’d have died of self-loathing to ask. Probably. After I had the lift, obviously. All of which meant that at 16 I did what was the fairly normal thing and bought a Yamaha FS1-E. It wasn’t just me. Look at the sales figures. Back then, you had a moped only as long as it took to get a motorcycle, which was your 17th birthday. Thanks to some bureaucratic insanity, or more likely in England, nobody could be bothered to check the sense of the rules, or read them properly, a 17-year-old could perfectly legally if predictably briefly stick a sidecar on a Kawasaki Z1, stick L-plates on it and set off for the obituary column of their local paper, when there were such things.

Not me, baby. I bought a Honda CB 175. I had an Army surplus shiny PVC button-up coat. It felt like, it looked like, it probably was something a dustman on a motorcycle would look like, as a friend of mine thoughtfully pointed out in case it was something I’d overlooked. It had to go, even though it didn’t very fast. I put it in the Wiltshire Times. Nobody even rang the phone number. I put the price up 30% the next week and got about 20 calls. I sold it to the first one who came to see it, even though he asked for a discount. Which he didn’t get. I didn’t bother to tell him about the 30% discount he could have had the week before.

Then it was probably my favourite bike, the Triumph T25, the kind of thing that now sells for over £4,000 any day of the week and which then you felt lucky if you could raise £200 on it. It was fun, and I learned some good lessons on it. One of them being that if you ignore that little triangular sign warning you there’s a junction ahead then you’ll go about three-quarters of the way across it before the twin-shoe Triumph brake stops you. Nothing came. Nothing did on back lanes around Tellisford in those days.

The Triumph got swapped for a Norton 500 that ran for two weeks out of the two years I had it. It sent me spinning down the road like a dead fly in Cardiff one black ice night, after I’d left the electric fire warmth of some girl’s flat (nothing doing there; never was, with anybody), lost the bike out from under me at about 5 mph, came to a halt against a parked car and had some Welshman peer down at me to tell me “Duh, it’s icy mind.” I left Wales as soon as I could and bought another Triumph, a real 1970s post-Easy-Rider identity crisis machine. It was a 650cc Tiger engine, shoehorned into a chrome-plated Norton Slimline frame. Instead of the rocker clip-ons you’d expect, it had highish handlebars and cut-off exhausts. Just header pipes in fact, but with Volkswagen Beetle mufflers smacked into them in a Bath carpark, with Halford’s slash-cut trim bolted on the ends. I wasn’t a rocker, but I thought it rocked.

It took two weeks to get the petrol tank the way I wanted it, a deep, deep black you could lose your soul in, sprayed on then sanded, sprayed on then sanded, sprayed on then sanded about fifteen times in the kitchen of my definitively smelly Southampton student flat, the kind of place that gave Ian McEwan the idea for The Cement Garden, only a bit less appealing. On the first trip out on that gloriously glossy bike I rode up to Salisbury, escorted by a girlfriend whose parents purported to believe that she had her own spare room at my university halls of residence, the ones I’d left months before. We got to her parents’ newish house in the summer sunlight, said hello, put the bike in the driveway. Then decided we’d go to a local pub because a) Wiltshire, b) nothing much else to do until her parents went out, or c) that’s what people did.

I started the bike, but it didn’t fire first time, so I tickled the Amal carburetor and tried again. There was no air filter on the carb – there often wasn’t in those days – so when it backfired the spurt of flame came straight out into the open air and set light to the petrol that had trickled down the outside of the carb float bowl. I appreciate that these are words that younger readers won’t even recognise, but we had to.   I had my leather jacket on, a full-face Cromwell ACU gold-rated helmet, and long leather gloves, so I just reached down nonchalantly to switch the fuel tap to Off. No petrol, no fry, as Bob Marley didn’t sing. Except I didn’t turn the petrol off. I managed to pull the rubber petrol feed line off instead. The flames came up to chest level.

My first thought was to run for it, but my second was that I’d just put three gallons in the tank and I seriously doubted I could run faster than that. All I could think of to do was reach into the flames and turn the petrol tap off, so that’s what I did. I couldn’t see past my elbow in the flames, but it worked or I wouldn’t be telling this story. The insulation on the electrics had burned off so the horn was fused on until I got out my trusty Buck knife (something else we took entirely as normal in the West Country) and cut what was left of the wires. My girlfriend’s mother saw the whole thing from the kitchen. She waited until the flames had gone out before she came out to tell me I’d dropped oil on her driveway.

There was a break after that, for university and unhappily London then Aylesbury and Bath until luck and an unusual skillset saw me in Chicago, on a 650 Yamaha that might or might not have been technically stolen, blasting around Lakeshore Drive and the blue lights area, under half the city, overlooking some huge American river, me and an Italian buddy from summer camp on his bike, living if not the dream then certainly some kind of alternative reality. To this day I don’t know why I did that. No insurance, no clear provenance to the bike, certainly no observance of the speed limits, and only my trusty grey cardboard AA international driving licence that didn’t mention motorcycles. But nothing happened. Back then that was all that mattered.

A gap of some years and then a BMW R1000, a bike that vibrated so much that a trip from London to Wiltshire left me literally unable to make a sentence for about fifteen minutes. It felt good though, that lumpy, dumpy, so-solid bike. I traded that one for a Harley-Davidson Sportster which is what I thought was the ultimate motorcycle ought to be before I found out that I needed to spend £200 a month pretty much every month to get it the way it ought to have left the factory before their accountants had a say in the recommended retail price. It got stolen, we recovered it and instead of putting it back in showroom metal flake purple turned it jet black, bored it out to 1200, and put Brembo four-pot brakes and a fuel-injector on it before it transmogrified into a laptop and a laser printer, when laser printers were a long way from the couple of hundred a good one is now.

And somehow that was 30 years ago. This time the iron horse is a BMW F650, almost as old as when I stopped riding for a while, but with a documented 13,000 miles on it. My idea of common sense says changing the oil and the filter and swapping out the original brake lines and replacing them with stainless steel would first of all look cool but possibly more importantly, be quite a sensible way of not relying on thirty year old rubber. I mean, would you? On any Saturday night?

In the intervening coughty years I’ve either sold or given away my original Schott jacket, the gloves, the Rukka, the Ashman Metropolitan Police long boots and the Belstaff scrambler boots. The Cromwell helmet and the Bell 500 open-face are long gone. I need everything, from the toes upwards and I find that most of the names I grew up with such as Ashman or Cromwell just don’t exist any more. I bought another Bell, but a full-face ACU gold Sharp 5-rated lid this time. I got some gloves, some chain lube and a tube of Solvol Autosol to keep the chrome shiny. I found some leather jeans and my old not-Schott jacket that I bought in Spain and after only three applications of neatsfoot oil and old-fashioned dubbin and hanging it over a radiator it’s now soft enough to be wearable and looks, I think, pretty darned good, even if it doesn’t have a single CE rating to its name. I’ve skipped the red Hermetite that used to decorate every pseudo-serious biker’s jeans.

Of the kids I knew that got in Bad Trouble on a bike, one was drunk and showing off. He died. My cousin lost his job and an inch off one leg when he was swiped by a car that ignored him on a roundabout. One in Wiltshire rode his bike under a combine harvester. He died too. It wasn’t really funny and I try not to think of him looking like SpongeBob SquarePants, with his arms and legs sticking out of the straw. He’d had a 20-year break from bikes and had just picked up an early retirement pension payoff. He didn’t read the T&Cs that said you still can’t ride like an arse. The American guy I didn’t ride around Chicago with lost his foot and they didn’t find it in time to put it back on. For all I know it’s still in a field in Wisconsin.

CE-rated armour wouldn’t have helped a single one of them. I’m certainly not saying safety gear isn’t worth the effort, or I wouldn’t have specced out my new helmet so carefully. But motorcycles aren’t the safest thing. You have to watch your sides, your front and what’s underneath you, as well as your back.

Like what you read hear?  Check out (and subscribe to) Carl Bennett’s blog at Writer-Insighter.com!

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The Top Five Southern Colorado Motorcycle Roads

By Mike Huber

As an avid motorcyclist it’s easy to appreciate the beauty in each state and for many riders discovering amazing roads that many would overlook can become second nature to us.  Some might even say it’s an art form.  Throughout this vast and beautiful country called the United States of America we are fortunate enough to have a plethora of both paved and dirt roads that are meant to be sought out like the Ark of the Covenant.  These roads are meant to be experienced intimately the only way they can be, on two wheels. Experiencing them on a motorcycle can become a thirst that is never quenched, and although each state has its own unique characteristics, ultimately some will stand out more than others. One state that has that effect for me is Colorado.

Colorado is one of those states that as soon as you ride past the “Welcome to Colorful Colorado” sign the roads seem to present themselves to you like a feast on a golden platter with an endless amount of wine.   The rides we will review can each be completed in one or two days and are best ridden between late April and early October.  To help with prioritization since there are so many incredible rides we have developed a very complex mathematical rating system of 1 to 5 wheelies (5 being the highest).  The rating uses the following criteria:

    • Road conditions
    • Diversity of riding options
    • Activities along the route
    • Abilities to disperse camp/hotel access
    • Scenery

Route 550:  The Million Dollar Highway

Rated 5 Wheelies

Road Description.  This loop may be one of the greatest roads in all of North America. The road is paved and in immaculate condition.  It combines some of the tightest switchbacks one can expect to experience on a motorcycle. The full route per the map is ~355 miles and can be done in 1 day, but highly recommend taking at least 2-4 to fully experience and immerse yourself in this beautiful part of the country.  There are endless forest roads off 550 to get your fill of dirt riding littered with an infinite amount of beautiful dispersed campsites. Also some wonderful old mining towns rich with history, hiking, restaurants, hotels, and hot springs.

Points of Interest.  There’s no shortage of amazing places to stop along this road.  Below is a small list of the places you should not miss along this route.

    • Silverton is a great little mining town with wonderful people.  It’s a perfect place to load up on supplies if you are camping.  You can warm up after getting some miles in at the Brown Bear Café.
    • Ouray is a beautiful mountain town with several hikes to waterfalls, hot springs, and some wonderful restaurants. My favorite is the Ouray Brewery.
    • Rico is a really tiny town which consists of a great hotel and bar called the Enterprise Bar and Grill, with wonderful people, great food and cold beer.

Where to Stay/Camp.  There is an immense amount of national forest land that can be used to camp on along this loop.  Really any dirt road you ride down will guide you to an epic campsite next to a creek. This makes for a relaxing post ride time to wind down in a hammock, while having a refreshing beverage. The towns of Silverton and Ouray have several hotels that are right in the heart of the town and a short walk to tourist activities and restaurants.

Off-Roading.  There is an endless amount of dirt roads to find here, this goes from flat well-groomed forest roads to find a campsite to the technical challenging mountain passes like Engineer or Imogene Pass (which I have not done due to the size of my GS1200 and conservative riding style).

Out of so many outstanding rides in the state of Colorado, the Million Dollar Highway should be on the top of any list.  This road and area really earn that 5 Wheelie rating due to exceeding each standard for riders of all ability levels. There are so many sights to see along this route that you will never tire of absorbing the beauty that surrounds you in this part of the state. If you are fortunate enough to have the time, doing the loop in reverse can be a great way to add a few more days to your adventure.

Mesa Verde National Park

Rated 5 Wheelies

Road Description.  As soon as you enter Mesa Verde National Park the road begins screaming up in elevation with some incredible views overlooking the valley below you will almost have a sense of vertigo overcome you.  What is wonderful about this feeling as it goes on and on as you travel through the park.  Although the distance from the park entrance to the furthest point is only 28 miles, those miles are filled with numerous overlooks and pullouts that can make this seemingly short ride take 2-3 days.  This is especially true if you are taking in the hikes along the way.  The only piece of concern for this ride is the numerous road snakes in some areas of this ride. Otherwise its full enjoyment as you have a 360 view of the valleys below that outstretch clear into Utah, New Mexico, and Arizona.

Points of Interest.  Since this is a National Park there are ample amounts of short hikes and tours to break up the day(s) you spend in this magical location. A few of the more popular ones are outlined below:

    • The Cliff Palace requires purchasing a tour ticket at Park Visitor Center, but even without one you can walk to the overlook to get a spectacular view of the houses the Hopi built into the cliffs which are all but hidden except from this vantage point.
    • The Balcony House also requires a tour ticket but is well worth it as you can walk through the ruins and really get a sense of the
    • The Knife’s Edge Hike is a great 2-mile hike with little elevation next to Morefield Campground that has incredible sunset views, which enable the rocks to really light up and glow.

Where to Stay/Camp.  Morefield Campground- This is the only campground in the park so making reservations ahead of time is recommended. It is one of the better National Park campgrounds I have stayed at and includes free showers, great Wi-Fi from most campsites (antennas are off the bathrooms), and a launderette, gas, and fully stocked store for all your camping and souvenir needs. There are also several wonderful hiking trails right next to the campground.

Off-Roading.  This is one of the drawbacks of a National Park, as there is no off-roading permitted within the park boundaries.  The beauty and activities from hiking and riding makes up for this shortcoming.

Route 65: Grand Mesa Scenic Byway

Rated 5 Wheelies

Road Description.  Yet another beautiful Colorado mountain road filled with switchbacks that rise in elevation and bring you to over 10,000 feet up and onto the World’s largest Mesa. There are several pullouts along this route to take in the views, but no gas stations from Cedaredge to Mesa (50 miles, but can be close to 100 miles if you are doing the off-road portion) plan accordingly.

Points of Interest. The main point of interest the mesa itself and the amazing views, alpine lakes, dispersed camping, and off-roading.

Where to Stay/Camp. Dispersed camping is plentiful along Rte125 where you can get a lakeside campsite with little issue and make it your own paradise for the evening as you watch the sunset glistening off one of the many alpine lakes. There are also plenty of campgrounds along this way if you are looking for less primitive camping.  Hotels are scattered along this route in the towns of Delta, Mesa, or driving to up Grand Junction for a greater variety of lodging.

Off-Roading.  Route 125 Surface Creek Road is a great 15-mile loop.  This road has you experience the mesa while passing crystal clear alpine lakes with numerous dispersed camping areas.  There is also a 10-mile dirt road in great condition to visit the Lands’ End Observatory. The views off the mesa looking down on the plateau can allow you to see into Utah on a clear day with awe inspiring views.

Route 141: Grand Junction to Naturita

Rated 4.5 Wheelies

Road Description.  This is a low elevation beautifully paved road that is 105 miles long.  This road will have you leaning your ride until you feel the mist kissing your windshield from Dolores River as you pass amazing rust colored mesas that stretch into the sky and rival that of Monument Valley. The road has very little traffic which will allow you to enjoy some solitude as you embrace the scenery you ride through. The only reason this route is rated as 4.5 is the lack of amenities.

Points of Interest.  This road is in quite a desolate area, outside the tiny town of Gateway.  Gateway Canyons General Store is owned and run by the preacher of the church next door to it.  This is the only place to gas up between Grand Junction and Naturita so be sure to check your fuel levels.

Where to Stay/Camp.  Dispersed camping here is plentiful but mainly in one area just south of Grand Junction, Divide Road. This road is a steep switchback dirt road that connects to numerous other roads which are great fun exploring for campsites to settle down in.  There are numerous dispersed sites with beautiful views over the canyon in which you can see the Dolores River running far beneath you.

Off-Roading.  Divide Road also encompasses numerous off-roading opportunities that sprawl out across this mesa.  This is a perfect place to explore for that unique dispersed campsite while hitting some fun dirt to enhance your day.  There are however areas of slippery clay, so if it is raining it can become slick in portions of this road.

Routes 160 and 149: Pagosa Springs to Lake City

Rated 4 Wheelies

Road Description.  This route consists of 45 miles of a four-lane highway on Route 160 that will have you summit at over 10,000 feet.  The road will then drop you into South Fork, Colorado.  This is where you will turn left onto Route 149.  Route 149 will quickly whittle down to a tighter and quieter road for the next 75 miles, which are filled with mountain passes. South Fork is the only town between these areas so make sure you gas up and grab lunch before heading onto the second part of this amazing road.  The next portion will have you speeding across lower elevation prairies and then climbing high into the mountain tundra that will resemble something from another planet before descending into Lake City.

Points of Interest.  I specifically wanted this trip to begin (or end) in Pagosa Springs so you have an opportunity to experience the hot springs in Pagosa.

Where to Stay/Camp. Throughout the ride there is no shortage of camping in both dispersed and paid locations. In Pagosa there are numerous hotels. I prefer the hotel directly across the street from the spa as it is much more affordable then the spa and in a great location.  For Lake City, the Matterhorn is a beautiful Swiss style motel which will allow you a solid night’s sleep at a great price. It’s a perfect spot to recharge if you are going to take on some of the more challenging off-road portions in Colorado the following day.

Off-Roading.  Lake City is the starting point for some of the more serious off-roading mountain passes, such as a few of the most popular passes including Cinnamon and Engineer.  Both of these passes surpass 12,000 feet.  If you crave technical off-roading challenges with views that can’t be beat, these are the two passes I recommend.

Conclusions

Southern Colorado is a rider’s paradise, and a region that should not be missed for riders of all experience levels. Other avid motorcyclists have also recommended these roads to me, which reinforces my approval for these routes and motivated me to write this comprehensive layout to help others. I hope this breakout has been helpful and serves as a reason to visit Southern Colorado and have the riding experience of a lifetime.

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My New Home

By Mike Huber

Traveling and living mostly off my BMW GS1250 for the past six years has really taught me how to live in a minimalistic way, but travel with enough to be comfortable.  It is a rarity that I need anything more than what I have.  My organizational skills are honed to the point that I know where everything I own is at all times. Everything has a specific place and keeping items consistent with their location is key to organization.  I can get out of my tent at 2:00 a.m. and know not only which pannier any given item is located, but the exact location within that pannier.  It’s an art form that I take pride in. So you can imagine if things are flipped upside down and I am pushed into a new packing routine how it would take time to readjust my mindset to a new format.

This is exactly the place I have found myself in now.  Beginning January 10th I am converting from a motorcyclist to a backpacker as I begin a trip to Oceania for an unknown period of time.  Auckland, New Zealand will be my starting point and a 50 Litre Osprey Backpack will become my new home.  Relearning organizational skills as a backpacker will include a learning curve, albeit a fast one.  With a little bit of discipline my organization as a backpacker will become just as honed as my previous life was on the motorcycle.

Here’s my packing list:

Although this seems minimalistic it will be summer in the southern hemisphere so going light on clothing was an easy decision to make.  I am sure if I am missing anything it will be easier to pick it up along the way rather than carry the weight and bulk of unneeded items.  Being new to backpacking I am fully open to criticism and suggestions on anything I am missing or have over packed.  Let me know your feedback and items that you cannot live without that should be added to this list.

Read the Mike Huber New Zealand posts here:

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ExNotes Book Review: Lone Rider by Elspeth Beard

By Joe Berk

I recently purchased a copy of Elspeth Beard’s Lone Rider, the story of a woman riding her BMW around the world in the early 1980s.  To give you the bottom line up front:  You need to buy and read this book.  It’s that good.

I first became a fan of around the world motorcycle stories back in the early 1990s when I read Dave Barr’s Riding the Edge (another excellent read).  I think I’ve read all or nearly all of the books in this genre, and I’ve written reviews on several (I’ll provide a set of links at the end of this blog).  Some are these books are outstanding, others are truly terrible, and most are somewhere in between.  Lone Rider firmly belongs in the outstanding category.

Picture this:  A young British woman in her early 20s decides to ride her 600cc BMW around the world, and with no sponsors and nothing in the way of a support network, she does so.   By herself.  On some of the worst roads, most hostile regions, and least friendly environments on the planet.  On a street bike, for which she fashioned her own panniers and top case.  This was before you could buy a ready-made ADV bike.

It took Ms. Beard a couple of years to complete the journey, partly because she had to stop and work to fund the trip.   I was captivated by her story, appalled by the way she was treated in a couple of places, and saddened by what I would describe as a surprise discovery decades after the ride ended.

Lone Rider is well written and well organized.  The chapters are about the right length (I read one or two chapters each night before lights out), the photos are good, and the writing is superior. Prior to reading Lone Rider, I always thought I wanted to visit and photograph India; the book disabused me of that notion.  I never had any desire to own a BMW motorcycle; the book convinced me that I had that one right.

At 336 pages, Lone Rider is substantive and I found it hard to put down.  It really is a masterpiece of motoliterature.  If you’re looking for your next good motorcycle book, Lone Rider is it.  Trust me on this one.

Here’s that set of links I promised:

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Sonora, Mexico

By Bobbie Surber

When is the perfect time to ride Sonora, Mexico? Any chance you get!

Fresh off a ride in Ecuador, I was itching to hop back on my Triumph Tiger GT Pro 900, fondly named Tippi, when my pal Destini (an ace adventure rider) suggested we hit up a rider’s event in Banamichi, Mexico. I did not hesitate for a second.  Hell yeah, I’m in!

The first stop on our adventure was a pre-trip visit to Destini’s home in Bisbee, Arizona, an old mining town. Tombstone, a nearby a wine district, and plenty of riding were nearby to keep us busy.  Our plan included riding to Agua Prieta, a quick ride from Bisbee, to sort out the next day’s border crossing. With our paperwork ready, we were back on the road aiming for the best tacos in Bisbee!

After enjoying a delicious meal of epic tacos, we gathered in front of the impressive motorcycle shrine at Destini’s (and her husband Jim’s) Moto Chapel.  We officially christened Tippi by adding her name to the tank. The Moto Chapel, a vision brought to life by Jim, never fails to catch the attention of visitors. It is a small garage with a pitched roof, complete with air conditioning and even a bathroom. It’s a true paradise for gearheads and motorcycle enthusiasts alike.

On the road again, with Destini leading the charge on her GS 800 named Gracie, we breezed towards the border. Or should I say, Destini and Gracie breezed through, leaving Tippi and me oblivious to the inspection signal, which led to a comical episode of me doing my best to charm the officers while trying to avoid a bureaucratic whirlwind between the US and Mexico. With a little acting (okay, a touch of exaggerated age and frailty), we were back on the road and free as the wind.

We savored every moment— zooming down the desert open roads of Mexico’s Highway 17, enjoying the breathtaking mountain vistas and sweet tight twisties along Sonora Highway 89.  That is, until we faced a water crossing. Destini, cool as ever, told me to keep my eyes up and just go for it. Turns out it was a breeze, but then she casually dropped a story about moss and a rider wipeout on a previous ride! Thanks for the heads-up, Destini…you did well telling me afterward!

Our destination was Banamichi, a charming town steeped in Opata indigenous culture and Spanish colonial history. Banamichi was a bustling trading hub, attracting merchants from far and wide.  We strolled through its charming streets, greeted by well-preserved adobe houses adorned with vibrant colors and traditional architectural elements. The town’s rich cultural is evident in its festivals, art exhibitions, and handicrafts that highlight its residents’ talent and creativity.

We settled in at the Los Arcos Hotel, hosted by Tom and his lovely wife Linda.   Their hospitality matched the hotel’s enchanting courtyard and old-world charm. The weekend whisked by in a blur of exhilarating rider tales, mingling with the aroma of delectable food and more than a few Mexican beers to ease the heat. The morning included a tour by the mayor, including the town square’s church.

Lunch that day included a visit to a small local ranchero for Bacanora tasting.  Bacanora is akin to Mezcal, a beverage to enjoy while being careful about how much you are willing to partake! The tasting and lunch were a leisurely affair. We savored the flavors of this year’s Bacanora harvest while enjoying a laid-back lunch with regional dishes that appeared abundantly and effortlessly.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, evenings were a symphony of vibrant hues, margaritas, and captivating rhythms of Folklorico dance.  Each of the dancers’s steps told a story—a mesmerizing tribute to Sonora’s rich cultural tapestry.

And as the second night ended, my mind buzzed with the tales of fellow riders and the warmth of the Bacanora nestled in my belly. The air hummed with laughter and camaraderie, each story adding another layer of adventure to the weekend’s memories.

Sunday morning heralded a poignant end to our short escapade—a bike blessing conducted by a local priest. It felt like a closing ceremony, encapsulating the spirit of our epic weekend. As we bid farewell to fellow riders, we reluctantly rode out of Banamichi.  Its charms lingered, a reminder of the joy found exploring quaint towns. It was a weekend filled with epic riding, new friendships, and a gentle nudge to continue seeking such delightful adventures.

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A Drought While Surrounded By Water

By Mike Huber

This year I decided to expand my hobbies while traveling across the United States by motorcycle.  I enjoyed camping and riding but felt with the long summer days I needed something to do once I arrived in camp (other than drink beer around a beautiful campfire, which will still happen no matter how many hobbies I take up).  Fishing seemed to be a perfect way to spend early evenings once my campsite was set up. I was going to become a successful motorcycle fisherman.

OK, well the successful part ended rather quickly.  I started off just crushing it and catching fish almost every time I went camping.  I was fishing lakes around Arizona and thought that once I was in California it would only improve.  It didn’t.  In fact, I didn’t catch a single fish from July to the end of August.  In my own defense, I was fishing rivers where most were fly fishing and not using lures or worms.  But still, to be skunked day after day for a few months was demoralizing, especially one day when fishing in Lassen National Park.  There was a couple next to me, literally right next to me, using the exact same power bait and reeling in bass after bass.  As soon as he landed a fish his wife would clean and cook them on the spot. Meanwhile, I wasn’t even getting a bite.  I may have cried that night in my tent a little (or a lot).  I kept a positive outlook, as I was just starting my trip and had so many states to visit that my luck would surely turn around.

My luck did not turn around.  It got to where the fish were mocking me jumping all around my lures.  Even when I changed from power bait to spinners to gummy worms every 30 minutes or so, it just wasn’t happening.  This is where my friend said to me “That’s why they call it fishing, not catching.”  Ugh.  I clearly need better friends.

As my travels (and my fishing drought) continued, I camped and fished in 14 states without a bite (AZ, CA, OR, WA, ID, MN, PA, NY, VT, NH, ME, NJ, VA and MD).  Talk about a drought. This was awful.  I think what made it worse was my BMW GS1200 was so loaded down that I had the pole visible on the bike held by ROK Straps which invited people to come up and talk with me about my fishing success and comment “oh, you will definitely catch something here…I’ve never been skunked there.”  Well, I didn’t and  I was skunked.  Repeatedly.

On November 1st my BMW was stolen.  The steering column was cracked open like a lobster and it was pushed into an alley where the thieves pried open my panniers and took only a few items.  One of them happened to be my trusty $40 Walmart collapsible fishing pole. This was the ultimate insult to wrap up an unsuccessful fishing year.

Not being one to give up, the first thing I bought after the BMW was recovered was another fishing pole.  Over the winter months my plans are to start watching YouTube videos and reading how to improve my chances on the waters I travel along next spring throughout this great country.  2024 is my year to catch fish!

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Digital Nomad: Returning to the USA

By Mike Huber

I had been living and working on the beautiful rain forest island town of Victoria, British Columbia, but I had noticed the past couple of times returning from my work trips to Seattle that the Canadian Immigration people started to take notice of me and were more than aware that the stories I was feeding them weren’t true (they could see my entry/exit dates and they did NOT track with what I was telling them).   During one of the last times I crossed the border I was pulled aside.  They ran my Massachusetts driver’s license and the agent quickly stated “You’re a long way from home, son.”  To which I provided my normal reply by pointing at my backpack:  No, sir. My home is right there.  He didn’t find it funny (they never do).  He returned my IDs and had me move through Customs without further issue.

It was definitely time to return to the United States.  It didn’t take too long over the next week to pack up, deflate the leaky air mattress I had been sleeping on for 8 months, and place the Good Will furniture on the corner (the furniture and I shared the same situation; we were both looking for our next home). Loading everything into the car was the final step before getting on the Tsawwassen Ferry, which would bring me to Vancouver.  It was a short and uneventful 3-hour drive to my new residence in Seattle, Washington.

Victoria was one of the very few places that made me cry when I left.  I had a beautiful eight months living there and felt so fortunate that I was not only able to experience this island and the great people who live there, but that I was able to stay for so long.  It is one of the few places I have lived that I proudly called my home.

I was back in the United States after a year and a half.  It was time to get an actual apartment and furniture that wasn’t from Good Will.  Belltown in Seattle seemed to be a no brainer as far as a location.  There were tons of bars and restaurants, it was next to the Olympic Sculpture Park, and the Victoria Clipper was right there (if I felt the urge to jump back to Victoria on the high-speed catamaran).  Maybe the coolest part of Belltown was that my apartment was in the shadow of the Space Needle, which is one of my favorite buildings.

The one big lesson I learned in my vagabond, digital nomad travels is it is much easier to get back on the wheel than it is to exit it. Getting an apartment and having my furniture sent from Boston was easy.  Leaving the wheel required a ton of planning and preparation.  It took months to downsize, find a storage for my vehicles, rent my condo, etc.  The tasks seemed to never end when I prepared to leave the wheel, and as I completed each task I found myself constantly questioning my decision as I counted down to Day 0.

I was now a Seattle resident.  Over the past 18 months I left from the start of I-90 near Fenway Park to the end of the same road at Safeco Field.  It would have only been a three-thousand-mile trip on I-90, but I took the longest route possible by meandering through five countries.  I was anxious to meet new friends and see how being back on the wheel would treat me, and more importantly, how I would adjust to this old lifestyle I had left 18 months ago.

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Bangkok Part 6: Bangkok bikes

By Joe Berk

So what’s today’s blog all about?   I promised I would tell you a bit about the different kinds of motorcycles and motor scooters in Bangkok, and this is that story.

Scooters, Cubs, motorcycles…they are everywhere. Every traffic light is the start of a drag race to the next light by all the bikes.

Bikes dominate Bangkok’s urban landscape.  I know that sounds like a catchy thing to say (snappy writing, perhaps), but it wasn’t intended to be literary lavishness.  It’s just the way it is.  Two-wheeled transportation is everywhere.  In traffic, the bikes filter by on the left and on the right.  In front of any business or in any parking area, there are hundreds of bikes.  And at every stop light, dozens of bikes filter to the head of the line.  The excitement builds as the countdown stop light nears green (they tell you how many seconds until the light changes over here), and in the last few seconds before the red goes away, a zillion motorcycle engines start revving.  The word “glorious” seems appropriate.

Filter to the front of the line, start revving as the lights nears turning green. The pink autos are taxis (taxis are either pink or metallic green in Bangkok).

There are few big bikes in Bangkok.  Oh, you’ll see one now and then, but they are a rarity.  Over here anything over 200cc or 250cc is just wasted displacement.   I’ve been to Bangkok several times and of the tens of thousands of motorcycles I’ve seen (and those are not exaggerated figures), there were exactly two big bikes.  One was a Harley Sportster and the other was a Triumph Bonneville.  There’s just no need for more displacement.

A lone Triumph Bonneville, tucked away in a Bangkok parking spot.
A Ninja.   Honda, Kawasaki, and Yamaha are popular over here.  Surprisingly, I didn’t see too many Suzuki motorcycles.  We did see more than a few Suzuki automobiles, though.

One moto thing that’s noticeable right away are the orange vests.   When you see a rider with an orange vest, that means they are using their bike as a taxi.  They give short rides (the folks here tell me typically under 2 kilometers).  The riders have to wear the government-sanctioned orange vests and a helmet; passengers don’t wear any safety gear.   A lot of the female passengers wear skirts and ride side-saddle (I’ll show more of that in the next blog).  I’d say roughly 10 percent of all the bikes are being used as taxis.  Most of the drivers are men, but you do see women riders occasionally.

Thai taxi men, and one woman.
A mototaxi, a rider, and a food delivery bike.

Surprisingly, it’s rare to see more than two people on a bike.   You do see it, but not like I have seen in China or Colombia (I once grabbed a photo in Colombia of a motorcycle carrying six people).

A Thai Freightliner.

Bikes are working vehicles over here.   I mentioned the taxi thing; it’s also very common to see bikes weighed down with all kinds of freight.

There are scooters (you know, the things that are styled like Vespas), step-through motorcycles (like the old Honda Cub), small sport bikes (small displacement CBR or Ninja type bikes), plain old motorcycles, and (surprisingly) a lot of Grom-styled bikes.

Another rare sighting…a Vespa in Bangkok. Most of the scooters are of Chinese origin. But this Vespa?  If you’re thinking it’s from Italy, you’d probably be wrong.  Zongshen (in China) produces these for Vespa.
Here’s a guy on one that looks a little like a Ducati.   I’m pretty sure these are made in China, as Gresh and I also saw them for sale on our ride across China.  If you were wondering, the clutches don’t rattle on these.

When I was last in Bangkok 6 or 7 years ago, I saw a few Kawasaki motorcycles that looked a little like the Honda Grom.   Today, the Grom style is very popular in Thailand, with motorcycles of this style from several manufacturers.

I’ll close this blog with a three photos of a bike I spotted yesterday that I thought was pretty cool.  It’s a CG-clone-based motorcycle, and its owner has a sense of humor.

A little Beemer. Well, a Beemer wannabe. Unlike modern Beemers, this one has a rational seat height.
I wonder if the Cafe Racer decals are factory original, or if the owner added them.
It looks good. I like it.

We are enjoying our last full day in Bangkok.   We’re up early tomorrow for the flight back to California.  It’s been grand.  We’re staying in the top floor of a 5-star hotel in downtown Bangkok (the Pullman Grand Sukhumvit) and we’re living in the lap of luxury.  The room is awesome, there’s a pool and a gym, there’s a free tuk tuk ride wherever we want to go, there’s free booze and breakfasts and dinners, and it’s costing less than what a Holiday Inn might cost in the United States.   We’re going for a dinner cruise up the Chao Phraya River tonight with our good friends Kevin and Nan, and we’re going to hit another one of the temples later today.   We took a grand long boat ride on the Chao Phraya yesterday and it was awesome.

There’s one more in this series of Bangkok blogs, and it will feature a set of photos showing Thai women passengers on moto taxis.  Stay tuned.  I think you’ll like it.

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Physical Security

By Mike Huber

Okay, so having served in the United States Army I am always aware of my surroundings, my gear, and most importantly physical security of these items.  This is even more true nowadays as a fulltime traveler on my motorcycle.  This involves not leaving sensitive items on the motorcycle overnight and parking it near me (usually line of sight) or in a garage.  These habits have kept my gear safe over the past six years of traveling, not just in the United States but across the globe.

Upon waking up in Baltimore on November 2nd and looking out the window from my bedside I instantly was shocked to see that my BMW GS1250 was not in the parking spot where I had left it the day prior.  My heart sank.  Not only was the bike gone but so was a lot of my gear.  Non-sensitive items thankfully were inside my friend’s house where I was staying.  I combed the parking spot to see if I could find any pieces from the bike or any type of clue as to what happened.  There was nothing.  The bike was just gone.

I was devastated to say the least.  The GS1250 still had its temporary tags on it; that’s how new it was. What hurt me even more was the panniers with dozens of stickers identifying where I had traveled.  They were gone along with some sentimental items from the Army that were kept locked in them.

Within five minutes of calling the Baltimore police, three officers showed up, took the report, and fully understood my pain.  They issued an alert for the missing motorcycle, which was my home.

It only took two hours and my phone rang.   They had found the BMW two blocks away. I quickly ran down to meet the officer and was anxious to view what was left of the bike (if anything) and my gear.  The bike had a few thousand dollars in damage, mostly from whoever took it snapping the steering lock to push it into this dark alley. Amazingly, most of my gear was intact, but the panniers were destroyed from the thieves prying them open with a crowbar (I’m assuming).  Some of the gear was still hanging off the panniers and some of it was thrown all over the alley.  Fortunately, my losses only included my raingear, air mattress, tool kit, and my fishing pole. I asked the officer to alert the Coast Guard as obviously the thieves were going to blow up the air mattress and go fishing in Chesapeake Bay.  Even in times of darkness I find humor to lighten the mood, if for nothing else but my own sanity.

So the police found my bike, but it wouldn’t start due to the steering lock being destroyed.  That began a painful day of finding a local BMW dealer, calling a tow truck, and beginning the paperwork for the insurance claim. I was still extremely distraught and depressed over the whole incident, and rightfully so. Over the years my mindset has changed from the “woe is me” negative thinking to a more positive one of “maybe this is meant to be and had the bike not been taken I possibly could have been injured or killed in a wreck that day.”  It sounds cheesy, but I do believe this. Having a positive outlook helps take a bit of the pain away, even if momentarily.

Luckily for me I have incredible friends pretty much all over the world.  The decision to rent a car was a no brainer.  It would be a fun way to kill a couple of weeks and Kia Kamp while the bike was being repaired.  I could continue the “Mike Huber friends and family tour.”  This would not only occupy my time but reassure me that even though I was going through a difficult time, being surrounded by beautiful friends would provide the inspiration and confidence to move forward.  This is not to say that a few times a day I don’t feel an emptiness in my gut.  Having traveled so much of the world and especially doing so by motorcycle where I am so exposed has provided much more good than bad throughout the years.  If you get off your couch and go live sometimes bad things happen, but more often than not you meet wonderful people and build relationships with new friends for life.

Lessons Learned

Sadly, this isn’t the first time I had a motorcycle stolen.  I had a brand new Suzuki GSXR750 stolen when I was in college at Boston University.  That moto was never recovered, but I immediately bought a caliper lock for my next motorcycle.  This provided comfort, but it would not stop three or four big guys from simply picking the bike up and throwing it in the back of a truck. I stopped using the caliper lock when I bought my first BMW GS (in hindsight, this was not a good move).  I didn’t think stolen BMWs were in as much demand as the Japanese motos.

There are motion alarms, airtags, and a ton of other security devices out there that I am sure I will be writing about in the near future.  For now the bike is back and the panniers have a clean canvas to start over and begin adding new stickers.  My travels will continue after a brief hiatus as we await BMW parts from the Motherland.

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A Season of Change

By Mike Huber

Having recently turned 50 and even though I feel it has been a super intense and successful ride (I’m still alive, so I guess that’s a barometer for success), I felt myself falling into a rut. I was unfulfilled in my job and things were just…blah. A close friend of mine made this analogy:  When things tend to go flat for me I come in the room and flip the table over and the game board and pieces go flying everywhere.  Well, it was time to flip the table again, and to do it with authority.

My job had been a great vehicle in my life for college, certifications, and traveling the world, but it seemed to have broken down on a desolate desert road with radiator fluid spewing all over the cactus that surrounded it.  My management and the leaders above me were spectacular, but I was stuck and having been there for 21 years, I felt it was time to move on.  My boss, after laying others off, didn’t look too well as he prepared me for the news over a video call.  I wanted to volunteer for the layoff and simply said, “Sir, this will be the easiest call you have all day.”  I had a Cuban cigar and a glass of whiskey ready when I heard the numbers.  I instantly knew I had made the right decision when I felt a massive weight lift off me.

What to do with my life now was the next question. It didn’t take me long to realize I should blast out on the bike to figure it out.  While riding through Joshua Tree National Park I reflected on my time in Peru. I took a trip up the Amazon and at a friend’s suggestion I tried this mystical hallucinogenic drink called ayahuasca under the guidance of a Peruvian shaman. It was an intense experience (to say the least) and it was a solid restart of my entire system. I felt as though it was time for this sacred drink again.

After a 3-month ride to British Columbia (nothing is ever a direct route for me) and experiencing some failures with the motorcycle, I arrived at my friend’s retreat.  Ayahuasca isn’t a pleasant experience for me.  It is a lot of work.  You face your true inner self, even if you don’t want to.  This can be painful and ugly. It is intense.  In my life, there are two things that scared me:  Exiting an aircraft in flight and drinking ayahuasca.  Everything else is manageable.

I was beyond nervous so I thought prior to arriving I would throw a few casts out to kill an hour or two. My first cast I caught a beautiful bass.

The preparation for these ceremonies was not something to be taken lightly.  This includes a very strict diet of no processed food or alcohol, and meats limited to chicken, turkey, or fish.  The bass was a perfect meal to share with my new friends.

I arrived on my semi-trusty BMW GS1200 (the semi part is an0ther story) and pitched my tent where I would sleep after the ceremonies.  There were 11 others that would be drinking along with 2 practitioners overseeing the ceremony.  It would take place at 20:00 (that’s 8:00 p.m.) in a yurt on a beautiful piece of land next to a large river. It was the perfect setting and time for me to be in this place.

I was beyond scared to drink this medicine again, but I knew it would provide the life guidance I wanted. Having taken ayahuasca in Peru, I felt confident and familiar with the effects; however, I didn’t expect the impact it would have on me this time.

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