Motorcycle Adventure Ride – Page 18

Charlie Don’t Wheelie – A Vietnam Motorcycle Adventure: Part 2

By Mike Huber

As soon as we landed in Da Nang and got our bearings (as best we could with the jet lag, language barrier, and me) the first step was to pick up the motorcycles from Tigit, the motorcycle rental company. My girlfriend Bobbie and I had reserved two Honda Winner 150cc motorcycles a month prior. I had some reservations about the smaller displacement, but the benefit of these little workhorse bikes was that the parts were so plentiful in the country and they were so easy to work on that if/when we did break down it wouldn’t stall the trip for more than a day or two. This was an advantage compared to other models that you’d have to order parts and wait 3 or 4 days for even little maintenance issues. In hindsight this was a wise decision as we really beat the hell out of the bikes.

The rental process with Tigit was painless and with the owner giving us his Whatsapp contact number in event of breakdowns or other issues we instantly felt comfortable in this foreign land. To further ensure our safety we had purchased Sena 10C EVO headsets so we could stay in close contact due to the ever-changing road and traffic conditions. This purchase proved invaluable over the next three weeks and quite honestly saved our lives more than once. Knowing the road conditions would be challenging, we also opted to bring all our protective gear from home. Once we were all geared up and after a quick comm check with the Senas it was time to ride!

The first destination would be a local beach in Da Nang. The wind and sun were just what was needed to flush out the jet lag and wooziness from our bodies.

In being true to myself I had to decorate the bike. I had just recovered from a hip replacement in which I had a walker for a few weeks and decked it out with a bicycle bell, pink horn, pink streamers, and a pink basket. The nurses loved it and old ladies in their walkers would give me dirty looks as I went about my errands on it (they were clearly jealous). I had reasons for these decorations, more than just an opportunity to be obnoxious. The bell was to signal I wanted pain meds, and the horn was for a cold beer. The streamers….well, they just seemed to tie the entire walker together. I brought them all to Vietnam to ensure my moto was properly suited to me. It provided endless entertainment for me and proved to be rather annoying to everyone else. Whenever I parked the moto, it just took a moment before children, police, or pretty much any local would be ringing the bell or honking the horn. On more than one occasion, our hosts had us park the bikes inside their houses just so they could get a reprieve from the sounds of these add-ons, which benefitted us from a physical security standpoint.

At the start of this adventure, I felt a strange uneasiness. This came from notions placed in my head from others telling me about their experience in the Vietnam War. Feelings of guilt were constantly weighing on my mind as I met the locals and they asked where I was from. I was always extra respectful and humble when I said I was from the United States. Having travelled much of the world this is always how I present myself, but in Vietnam I did so even more. After a day or two I began to open up with several Vietnamese people about how I was feeling (I am a pretty open guy anyway so wanted to get this feeling resolved). They all assured me that the people of Vietnam have long forgotten about the war and there would be absolutely no animosity over that from anyone. It didn’t take long for me to put those feelings in the rear view mirror. I began to fully embrace the beautiful people and their culture as I should have from the start. As we continued to ride through the country this became even more apparent with every stop as the female locals grabbed Bobbie and brought her into their kitchen to pick out our meal, and the men invited me to sit on the stairs with them and smoke tobacco in bamboo pipes. Sometimes it just takes a day or two to get comfortable with your surroundings. Vietnam was no different.

I love it when a plan comes together, or doesn’t. This is an especially great feeling when the plan is to not have a plan, other than a direction to travel in. For us, this direction was north. The goal was to hit the Vietnam North Pole, a remote area at the northern tip of Vietnam that bordered with China. We had seen and read a lot about the ride and roads up there and it seemed one of the most epic adventures a motorcyclist could have. During this journey we wanted a leisurely pace with no pressure to travel if we didn’t feel like moving due to being tired or falling in love with a specific region. Why rush this wonderful experience without savoring each mile to its maximum? Our only constraint was to make our flight in Hanoi in three weeks, and this was plenty of time to cover 1,500 miles of the infamous Ho Chi Minh Trail if we chose to.

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Albuquerque Balloon Fiesta

By Joe Berk

The turnaround point for our New Mexico trip was the Albuquerque Balloon Fiesta. We had talked about it for years, and it combined nicely with our stops in Tucson and Alamogordo (and the visit to Tinfiny Ranch). I shot all the photos in this blog with my iPhone. I had the big Nikon D810 and its boat anchor 24-120 lens with me, but my leg was acting up (an old motorcycle accident injury) and I couldn’t lug that thing around any longer on this trip. I might have shot better photos with the Nikon, or I might not have shot any at all if I didn’t have my cell phone. Adapt, improvise, overcome.

The deal on our visit to the Balloon Fiesta was a tour group. It’s really the only practical way to get in to see the balloons. Here’s the deal: Albuquerque’s population is 550,000 people (it’s the biggest city in New Mexico). The Balloon Fiesta, however, draws a cool one million visitors. Just getting to the field where the balloons lift off would take an hour or more due to the crush, and if you did that, you’d have to park far away to find a parking spot. If you’re part of a tour group, however, you ride on the tour group’s buses from your hotel to the balloon field, and they take you right up to the gate. The City of Albuquerque has done this event for years and they have it dialed. They designate special bus lanes during Balloon Fiesta week. Logistically, it’s a much better approach.

What the City can’t control is the weather, and hot air balloons are sensitive to the weather. If there are electrical storms, low visibility, rain, or high winds, the balloon’s won’t lift off. And there were plenty of all these conditions that week. Our tour grip told us we’d be making three trips to the balloon field, but there were no guarantees we’d get to see the balloons lift off during any of our visits. Two of our visits were early morning affairs (we arrived at the field before sunup), and another one was in the late afternoon.

The Balloon Fiesta field periphery is lined with vendors.

During our first early morning arrival, it was cold and too windy for the balloons to lift off. The balloon fiesta had a backup plan, though, and in the distant skie we observed a light display. At first I thought there was a large board with lights, but then the display lifted into the pre-dawn sky. I learned it was all down with multiple computer-controlled drones. That was impressive.

Cell phone photography is like halitosis…it’s better than no breath at all. Each of these lights is carried by a single drone. They were probably a mile away when I took this photo.

The images changed. We couldn’t see or hear the drones, and there was nothing from our location that would indicate they were drones. It was impressive.

A Puebloe Native American symbol, commandeered as the image on the New Mexico flag. This is the area where we had breakfast. Breakfast was a part of the tour package.

During our second visit, which occurred in the afternoon, the wind conditions weren’t acceptable and there was a thunderstorm moving in, which prevented the balloons from ascending. But it allowed a parachute display, and I grabbed a few photos of it.

Evidently the smoke generators the parachutists used create debris. One particle hit me in the face. Fortunately, it caught me in the cheek and not in my eye. That would have made for an interesting lawsuit.

Even though it was too risky for the balloons to inflate and ascend, there was a lot going on. It was fun walking around and taking iPhone pictures.

A fire truck at the Albuquerque Balloon Fiesta.

Our third and last visit to the balloon fiesta field was on a brisk Sunday morning and it was the charm. After being skunked on two prior visits, the word was out: The balloons had the okay to inflate and liftoff. The winds were suitably low, visibility was good, and there were no looming electrical storms. It was a go for a mass ascension, which kind of sounds like a religious experience. In a way, it almost was.

Balloons inflating after recieving the go ahead. You walk in amongst the balloons. It’s all very exciting.

In a strange kind of way, being in the middle of the mass ascension kind of reminded me of seeing the whales in Baja. You go out in a small boat and for a while, nothing happens. Then you see a lone whale spout in the distance (like that one balloon you see going up in the photo above). Then, suddenly, there are whales spouting all around you, and then they are right up close to the boat. The balloon fiesta is a lot like that. Nothing happens at first, then you get very excited when you see that single first balloon ascend. Then, suddenly, balloons are going up all around you.

Then, suddenly, there are balloons everywhere.

The cell phone was doing a decent job for me. I would have liked having the D810 with me, but it was not meant to be. Maybe next time.

The colors, and the vibrance, was off the charts. The balloon fiesta is a photographer’s paradise.

Approximately 650 balloons ascended within about 30 minutes. It was impressive.

Several of the balloons were more complex shapes, like this Felix the Cat version. There were turkeys and other shapes as well.

This last photo is a panoramic shot, in which you manually sweep the camera through an arc (in this case, about 180 degrees). The iPhone does a suprisingly good job. The actual image is a little over 16,000 pixels wide.

A question several of my friends asked is: Did we go up in a balloon? The answer to that is no. You have to make a reservation far in advance to get a seat in one of the balloons (we had not), it costs several hundred dollars, and truth be told, I wasn’t too sure about doing it. Joe Gresh, whom we visited on our trek to Albuquerque, had done it in the past and he told us he and Colleen enjoyed it. Maybe next time.

If you have any thoughts about visiting the Albuquerque Balloon Fiesta, my advice is to go for it, and to do it through a tour agency for the reasons listed above. It’s a bucket list sort of thing to do. We went with the Road Scholars tour group, they did a great job for us, and they kept us busy for the three days we were in Albuquerque.

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Charlie Don’t Wheelie – A Vietnam Motorcycle Adventure: Part 1

By Mike Huber

In 2019, just before COVID body slammed the world by stopping most travel while adding uncertainty, panic, and fear, I completed a 1,000+ kilometer motorcycle journey through the heart of Central Vietnam. This blog will be a 7-part series to highlight the beauties, wonders, and people of this magical land through the lens of a motorcyclist, philanthropist, and former soldier.

Asia. The largest continent in the World. Where the cultures are as vast as the geography. It had been some time since I was on this continent and the first time was purely by a decision that there would be better stories out of Asia than where I was supposed to be stationed, which was Texas.

It was 1992 and I was graduating AIT (Advanced Individual Training) as a U.S. Army Communications Specialist at Ft. Gordon in Augusta, Georgia. It was August and the heat and humidity were brutal. We were called into formation as this day we were to be given our orders for our first assignment as soldiers. As the Drill Sergeant called us up one by one, the anxiety in the air was intense. Would we go to Germany, remain in the United States, or maybe go to Korea? Most of us received stateside duties. As I eagerly opened my envelope, I learned my assignment was to report to Ft Hood, Texas. I was not happy at all, as my “Dream Sheet” consisted of Jamaica, Aruba, and Portugal (I figured why not try for a cool duty station even though I knew it was extremely unlikely).

The formation dispersed after about 15 minutes, and I noticed one of my peers on the burnt lawn looking distraught. He was set to be married and his fiancé was pregnant, and he now had orders to Korea for a year. It took me all of 2 seconds to look at him and say “Hey, wanna trade?” After a short chat with the Drill Instructor we made it happen. I often wonder how his days in Texas went, but I find it hard to believe it could have been more of an adventure than what was to be my first duty station as a soldier in the United States Army.

I got what I was looking for: A lot of stories and a hell of an adventure in Korea with the 2^nd Infantry Division. I was posted on Korea’s demilitarized zone for a year. This story came to mind in December of 2019 as I groggily stepped off an airplane into the hot humidity of Da Nang, Vietnam to spend 3 weeks motorcycling around the country along the Ho Chi Minh Trail. It had been a long 26-hour trip from Los Angeles to what I was about to realize was a beautiful and unique country. The Vietnamese culture, although extremely beautiful, was much different then how westerners live. To see it from a motorcycle was an adventure few people experience.

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The Wayback Machine: 7 Favorite Baja Destinations

By Joe Berk

We’re introducing something new here on ExNotes. We publish new content every other day (sometimes more often, sometimes less often, but we’ve been pretty good about bringing you new stuff). But what about the days we don’t publish? We’ve published about 1200 blogs in the last four years, and a lot of them received super responses. So, on the in between days when when we don’t publish new material, we’re going to select some of our favorites from the past. This is the first. Every one of these reruns we’ll be preceded by The Wayback Machine in the title.

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Baja is a motorcycling paradise and I have a bunch of favorite destinations there. Seven of them, to be precise, although truth be told, I like everything in Baja except for Tijuana and maybe La Paz and Loreto. That said, my favorites are:

- - Tecate
  - San Quintin
  - Cataviña
  - Guerrero Negro
  - San Ignacio
  - Santa Rosalia
  - Concepcion Bay

Here’s where they are on a map:

So what’s so great about these places? Read on, my friends.

Tecate

Tecate is the gateway to the middle of northern Baja, and it’s the easiest point of entry. Both Tijuana and Mexicali are too big and too complicated, and the Mexican Customs guys are too official in those bigger cities. Tecate is a friendly place. The last time I picked up a tourist visa in Tecate, the Customs officer tried to sell me salsa he and his family made as a side gig. That’s what the place is like. I love it.

If you’re into fine dining (not as in expensive dining, but just great food), it’s hard to go wrong anywhere in Baja. Tecate has some of the best, from street taco vendors to Malinalli’s to Amore’s. I could spend a week just in Tecate. It’s that good.

Uncle Joe Gresh with street tacos in Tecate. Wow, were they ever good.

The buffet at Malinalli’s is regional, awesome, and inexpensive. It’s a hidden treasure.

Dos Joes’ motos on an Enfield expedition that took us through Tecate.

The Tecate brewery dominate the Tecate skyline and is visible from just about anywhere in town. A can of ice cold Tecate with sea salt around the rim and a bit of lime juice…life doesn’t get any better.

San Quintin

San Quintin is 186.4 miles south of the border on Baja’s Pacific coast. It’s usually a quiet ag town that has a lot of things going for it, including interesting hotels, good food, and Bahia San Quintin. The Old Mill hotel and its associated restaurant, Eucalipto, is my personal favorite. The hotel is about 4 miles west of the Transpeninsular Highway, and what used to be a harrowing soft sand ride to it is now easy peasy…the road is paved and riding there is no longer a test of your soft sand riding skills. The Eucalipto restaurant is second to none.

What could be better than an ice cold Tecate overlooking Bahia San Quintin after a day’s riding in Baja? We once saw a California gray whale from this very spot.

A man, a motorcycle, and Mexico….the sign on the Transpenisular Highway pointing toward Bahia San Quintin and the Old Mill Hotel. The bike? That’s the 650cc Royal Enfield, perfect for riding Baja. But then just about any motorcycle is perfect for riding Baja.

Bahia San Quintin at dawn. It’s an awesome spot.

Uncle Joe enjoying breakfast in the Old Mill’s Eucalipto. It is an exquisite restaurant.

You’ll notice at the top of my scribblings about San Quintin I said it is usually a quiet town. The one exception for us was when there was a labor riot and we were caught in it. The Mexican infantryman about 80 miles north of San Quintin told me the road was closed, but his English matched my Spanish (neither are worth a caca), and without me understanding what I was riding into, he let me proceed. It’s not an experience I would care to repeat. But it’s the only event of its type I ever experienced in Old Mexico, and I’d go back in a heartbeat.

The Cataviña Boulder Fields

Ah, Cataviña. Rolling down the Transpeninsular Highway, about 15 miles before you hit the wide spot in the road that is Cataviña you enter the boulder fields. Other-worldly is not too strong a description, and if the place wasn’t so far south of the border it would probably be used more often by Hollywood in visits to other planets. The boulders are nearly white, they are huge, and the juxtaposition of their bulk with the bright blue sky punctuated by Cardon cactus.

Pastel geology. The area really is as beautiful as the photos depict it to be.

I get a funny feeling every time I enter this part of Baja. Not funny as in bad, but funny as in I feel like I’m where I belong. I once rolled through this region in the early morning hours with my daughter and she told me “you know, it’s weird, Dad. I feel like I’m home.” She understood (as in completely understood) the magic that is Baja.

I like the area and its stark scenery so much that one of my photos became the cover of Moto Baja! I grabbed that shot from the saddle at about 30 mph on a CSC 150 Mustang replica, which I subsequently rode all the way down to Cabo San Lucas (that story is here).

You should buy a copy or three. They make great gifts.

Every time I roll through Cataviña with other riders, the dinner conversation invariably turns to how the boulders formed. When I was teaching at Cal Poly Pomona, I asked one of my colleagues in the Geology Department. He know the area as soon as I mentioned it. The answer? Wind erosion.

Guerrero Negro

The Black Warrior. The town is named after a ship that went down just off its coast. It’s a salt mining town exactly halfway down the peninsula, and it’s your ticket in for whale watching and the best fish tacos in Baja (and that’s saying something). I’ve had a lot of great times in Guerrero Negro. It’s about 500 miles south of the border. You can see the giant steel eagle marking the 28th Parallel (the line separating Baja from Baja Sur) a good 20 miles out, and from there, it’s a right turn for the three mile ride west into town. Malarrimo’s is the best known hotel and whale watching tour, but there are several are they are all equally good. It you can’t get a room at Malarrimo’s, try the Hotel Don Gus.

CSC RX3 motorcycles at the Hotel Don Gus. We used to do annual Baja tours with CSC…those were fun times and great trips, and introduced a lot of folks to the beauty of Baja.

What it’s all about…getting up close and personal with the California gray whales. They are in town from January through March.

Tony, taco chef extraordinaire. You might think I’m exaggerating. I’m not.

It’s worth the 500-miles trek to Guerrero Negro just to savor Tony’s fish tacos. You might think I’m exaggerating. But like I said above…I’m not.

Man does not live by fish tacos alone, so for breakfast or dinner, it’s either the restaurant at Malaririmo’s or the San Remedio, a block north of the main drag into town. You won’t be disappointed at either.

Sue’s photo of a Guerrero Negro osprey enjoying some sushi.

After you leave Guerrero Negro and continue south, the Transpeninsular Highway turns southeast to take you diagonally across the Baja peninsula. About 70 miles down the road (which is about half the distance to the eastern shores of Baja and the Sea of Cortez along Mexico Highway 1) you’ll see the turn for San Ignacio. It’s another one of Baja’s gems.

San Ignacio

San Ignacio is an oasis in the middle of the desert that forms much of Baja. The Jesuits introduced date farming to the region hundreds of years ago, and it’s still here in a big way. Leave Guerrero Negro, head southeast on Mexico Highway 1, and 70 miles later you run into a Mexican Army checkpoint, a series of switchbacks through a lava field, and when you see the date palms, turn right.

The San Ignacio church, built as a mission in the 1700s, dominates the center of San Ignacio. It’s a beautiful spot, one of the most photogenic in all of Baja.

Another photo of the San Ignacio Mission. You’ll want to grab some photos in San Ignacio.

Dates? Nope, not on that trip, but dates are one of the things San Ignacio is known for. I’ll bet they are delicious.

San Ignacio has a town square that’s right out of central casting, there’s a little restaurant that serves the best chile rellenos in all of Mexico (I’m not exaggerating), and the place just has a laid back, relaxing feel about it.

Santa Rosalia

You know, this town is another one of Baja’s best kept secrets. As you travel south on Highway 1, San Ignacio is the first town you encounter after traveling diagonally across the peninsula. Folks dismiss it because it’s an industrial town, but they do so in ignorance. There’s a lot of cool stuff in this place.

One of the things that’s unique about Santa Rosalia is the all-wooden architecture. The town was originally built by a French mining company (Boleo) and they built it they way they did in France. Like the Hotel Frances, which sits high on a mesa overlooking the town and the Sea of Cortez. I love staying there.

The Hotel Frances. It used to be a brothel.

There’s a cool mining musuem a block or two away from the Frances, and it’s worth a visit, too.

There are many cool things in Santa Rosalia, and one of the best is the Georg Eiffel church. It was designed by the same guy guy who did the Eiffel town.

Santa Rosalia’s church. It’s an unexpected delight. And I’m not even Catholic.

Inside Santa Rosalia’s Georg Eiffel church.

Stained glass. Photos ops abound in Santa Rosalia.

I’ve heard people dismiss Santa Rosalia as a gritty, industrial place not worth a stop. Trust me on this: They’re wrong. It’s one of my favorite Baja spots.

Bahía Concepción

Concepción Bay is easily the most scenic spot in Baja. It’s just south of Mulege (another delightful little town, and the subject of an upcoming ExNotes blog). Bahía Concepción runs for maybe 20 miles along the eastern edge of the Baja peninsula. I’ve seen whales from the highway while riding along its edge, the beaches are magnificent, and the photo ops just don’t stop. The contrast between the mountains and Cardon cactus on one side and the pelicans diving into bright green water is view from the saddle you won’t soon forget.

World-famous novelist and motorcycle adventurer Simon Gandolfi andn yours truly on 150cc scooters. We were on our way back from Cabo San Lucas when we stopped for this Bahía Concepción photo. Hardtail 150cc scooters. Up and down the length of Baja. I think about that ride every time I see a GS parked at a Starbuck’s.

So there you have it: My take on seven favorite spots in Baja? How about you? Do you have any favorite Baja destinations? Let us know here in the comments sction!

Cuba Bound

By Mike Huber

So, I had just finished a certification exam that required more studying than I care to discuss. It was December 2008, and I was mentally exhausted and in much need of a beach vacation to reward myself for passing this rigorous exam. At the time I happened to be visiting Montreal and decided to hit up a travel agent to see what deals were available. My only criteria were sun, beach, and relaxation. It is rare that I ever take time to slow down, even on vacation. It seems most of my vacations leave me more exhausted than relaxed (even though they are pretty rewarding). At this juncture in my life I needed a “time out” to bask in the accomplishment of passing that exam, so I wasn’t looking for anything too adventurous.

The travel agent in Montreal listened to my criteria and recommended Mexico or Cuba. As a citizen of the United States, I thought I was not allowed in Cuba and when asking the agent, she assured me it was not a problem. Cuba was much less expensive than Mexico, it would meet my beach requirements, and it was off the beaten path since Americans were not formally supposed to travel there. Cuba it is!

The flight to Havana was a short 3 hours from Montreal and I was already yearning for a Cuban cigar and a glass of Havana rum while admiring sights along the white sand beaches. Once the flight began to descend it hit me as I could see the last of the Florida Keys fading away from the plane window “Wow, I wonder how much that travel agent really knew about the embargo for Americans.” I was about to find out.

Feeling a little bit nervous as I entered the immigration queue, I saw those ahead of me enter this little glass box. The doors closed, they showed their travel documents, and once the doors opened on the other side they were officially in Cuba. As it became my turn I entered the glass box, it closed, I showed my American passport when the immigration agent looked at it. He said “Uno momento” and went in back to gather with four other agents who looked at me, then at my passport, and began passing it around like a Mickey Mantle rookie card. Ahhhh, this is how my Locked up Abroad episode would begin I thought.

The Cuban people love Americans, and it is so rare an occurrence to see an actual American passport that it draws a lot of curiosity and attention, something I wasn’t particularly looking for. When the agent went to stamp my passport, I quickly remembered about the embargo. A Cuban stamp in my passport would not go over well when I returned to the United States next week.

“No Stamp por favor” I said nervously. He laughed said no problem and opened the glass box for me to enter Cuba. I made it! This is so cool!

What little I knew of Cuba was that my entire wallet was now useless. Health insurance, credit cards, ATM access: Nothing would be accepted in this country due to the embargo. I had about $200 Canadian and reservations to an all-inclusive resort to ensure I could enjoy a week relaxing and not worryimg about the limitations due to lack of cash. This idea worked perfectly, with the exception that my travels would be limited to short day trips near the resort in Veracruz, and it wouldn’t allow me to visit Havana.

This was all fine with me. I was able to relax at the beach while still having the ability to leave the resort to take in some local food and sights. This included cigar stores, drooling over the 1950’s cars that were still in pristine condition, and of course soaking up some much-needed sun. The resort where I was staying was filled with Canadians and whenever they had those silly contests in the evening they would always ask where the person was from. I was tempted every time I was called upon to grab the microphone and loudly say “The United States of America,” and then I would revel in the silence that was sure to follow that statement. For once I listened to my Dad’s advice (Don’t do anything stupid, Mike). For the entire trip I identified as a Canadian from Toronto (I couldn’t say Montreal as I didn’t speak French) and I successfully avoided the temptation to say otherwise.

As the week came to a close, I had a great tan. I was relaxed and refreshed both mentally and physically. Mission accomplished!

Once we began our descent into Montreal a revelation hit me: I still had to re-enter the United States, with a tan, in January, from Montreal. Would the US Immigration agent know I was in Cuba?

When the plane hit the tarmac, I did what any mature person who thought they were about to get into trouble does. I phoned my Mom and let her know that I may have overstepped, and she may be receiving a call from the US State Department in reference to my traveling shenanigans. After hanging up the phone I felt a tap on my shoulder. It was a friend I had made at the resort. He happened to be sitting behind me and overheard the conversation with my mom. He let me know that I could use him as an alibi and that he was a member of a health club in Montreal that had tanning beds. That seemed to be a solid response to any questioning I might soon face. I’ll go with that, I decided. I began to feel a bit more confident as I nervously crossed into Vermont. The US Immigration officer had no questions for me and simply said “Welcome home Mr. Huber,” as he waved my car onward. It was only about 10 degrees that night, yet I still could feel the warmth from the Cuban sun glowing while breathing a sigh of relief I happily drove by the “Welcome to The United States of America” sign. Cuba let me accomplish all my relaxation goals and tacked on a pretty cool story along the way.

If you would like to read more about motorcycling in Cuba, take a look at Christopher Baker’s Mi Moto Fidel.

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Naco Taco Thanksgiving Run

By Mike Huber

For most, Thanksgiving is a time to spend with family and friends watching football and performing the “eat, drink, nap, repeat” cycle. This is, of course, never a bad way to spend this holiday but finding myself in Bisbee, Arizona I thought changing it up from the traditional turkey feast would be beneficial.

Bisbee, Arizona is a late 1880s copper mining town that turned in its explosives, shovels, and rock drills to grow into a more artistic town with historic hotels, quirky shops, and lots of festivals. Being that this tiny community is nestled in the canyons of southernmost Arizona (just minutes from the Mexican border), an idea struck me. I had not visited Mexico since February, and although this sounds crazy, I was craving tacos. Being this close to Mexico it felt almost a necessity to partake in a run to the border to extinguish my craving.

Fifteen minutes later I found myself parking the car and walking about 50 yards through a turnstile much like you would see in a New York City subway entrance. It was that easy and I was in Naco, Mexico. Another 200 yards and I was at a restaurant called Asadero Los Molcajetes which I had frequented several times when I crossed on my BMW GS to ride mainland Mexico. This restaurant to me always represented the gateway to Mexico and was a symbol of happiness.

Asadero Los Molcajetes is a perfect stop for when you are riding across and must get your visa stamped and the bikes inspected since it is right next to where you have those tasks completed. The restaurant provides you the opportunity to celebrate entering Mexico with some outstanding tacos (along with a cold Pacifico or margarita) to wash them down, while taking in that special moment to realize that your trip has officially begun.

The tacos were exactly what I had been craving. Even before the tacos were served, we had a large plate of several different hot sauces. Chips, cucumbers, and onions rounded out this first course. Usually, chips in any Mexican restaurant are one of my biggest diet downfalls. They put that bowl out and its rare I don’t require it to be reloaded prior to my food arriving. By then I am much too full to fully enjoy the meal. This time, however, I managed what little self-control I have and made sure to go easy so that I could enjoy the carne asada tacos.

The brilliance of Mexico is that when you order two tacos, there is an extra shell underneath. This is for when all that deliciousness of your fully loaded taco falls out. BOOM! You now have a third taco!

After four tacos (six with the extra shells and my sloppiness) I felt just as full as I would have had I eaten a normal Thanksgiving feast. It was time to burn off a few calories by walking around Naco before my 200-yard journey back to the United States. Returning to the United States was just as easy as entering Mexico. “Reason for your trip to Mexico, sir?”. I simply stated, “Thanksgiving tacos, sir,” and I was waved through.

A unique Thanksgiving for sure and as I drove back to Bisbee, I could feel it was time for a solid nap. The nap would signify completing the “eat, drink, nap, repeat” cycle. I next started wondering how late Asadero Los Molcajetes was open for the possibly of Cycle Number Two.

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Old Town Albuquerque

Our destination on this trip was the Albuquerque Balloon Fiesta (the 50th Anniversary Balloon Fiesta, at that!), and we stayed in Albuquerque for the event. One of the stops on this adventure was old town Albuquerque. Touristy? You bet. But it was still fun. I had my Nikon and a 24-120 lens (a real boat anchor camera and lens, to be sure), but I enjoyed myself wandering around and taking pictures.

A plaque below the statue shown in this blog’s featured photo.

That fellow in the statue up above? That’s Don Francisco Cuervo y Valdés, Spanish governor of New Mexico, who founded La Villa Real de San Francisco de Alburquerque (what we know as Albuquerque) in April 23, 1706.

Albuquerque is one of the oldest towns in New Mexico.

Albuquerque, population 550,000, is New Mexico’s biggest city. We were there for four days. We hit old town Albuquerque on Day 1. Kitschy, corny, but cool. We enjoyed it, and there were plenty of photo ops. There’s a lot to see and do in Gresh’s home state.

A ristra is a cluster of dried red chiles you see hanging in many places in New Mexico. They can be decorative, ot they can be used for cooking. This one was hanging in a doorway in old town Albuquerque.

Another ristra hanging in old town Albuquerque.

A salsa store. There’s lots of it in old town Albuquerque.

On this topic of chiles and authentic New Mexico salsas: In New Mexico Mexican restaurants the question that every waiter asks is: Green or red? That’s for the kind of salsa you want with your meal. Red salsa is made of crushed red chiles that are reconstituted into a red liquid salsa. Green is a bit chunkier with larger pepper pieces included in the mix. They told us that green is the spicier of the two, but I think it depends on the restaurant. The New Mexicans advised us that a good answer for the red or green question is “Christmas, on the side.” You know, red and green. That will get you a dish of each salsa.

A doorway to one of the many shops in old town Albuquerque.

Our tour guide advised us to avoid the restaurants in old town Albuquerque, so we ate at a Mexican place just outside of Old Town. I love New Mexico, but I’m convinced any restaurant in or close to a tourist destination is going to be mediocre. Our lunch didn’t change my mind.

The San Felipe de Neri Church is one of the oldest buildings in Albuquerque. It dominates old town Albuquerque. This church was originally used by Franciscan missionaries. It’s still in use. All of the tourists (and there were a lot of them) congregated outside the church. I checked the door and it was unlocked. I ducked inside and grabbed a quick available light photo.

Inside the San Felipe de Neri Church. I have more than a few photos that look like this from visits to churches elsewhere, including some dynamite photos from the missions in Baja. I use the last pew as a camera rest.

So there you have it…one guy’s photo interpretation of an afternoon walk through old town Albuquerque. The Balloon Fiesta is coming up in a near term future blog. Stay tuned.

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Check out a few of our epic rides here!

The Ride

“I am slowly dying every day I am here”

It was April 2017 and that was the thought that kept going through my head. I was living in Seattle and it was one of the grayest winters in Pacific Northwest history. According to meteorological scientists, there had been only thirty hours of sunlight from October to May. I was working remotely; a strange, novel existence that in a young and lighter life was referred to as telecommuting. To work remotely is to live semidetached from the rest of society. At times, it feels as though you are physically invisible to the world; literally, a digital personality. Of course, this was before the global pandemic came in and made remote work the new normal for those of us fortunate enough to have a job. I had begun losing motivation in my work and in most other aspects of life and it wasn’t just the weather. Maybe it was the fact that I wore the same ratty Boston University hoodie every day that winter and ate Shin Ramen for two of my three meals a day. Maybe it was that the people I saw in the streets and places I frequented seemed to be as isolated and disconnected as I was feeling at the time.

Looking back on those gray, empty, Seattle days I realize now that the need for freedom and openness was what finally forced me to make such a drastic change. I needed a hard reset of my current mindset and environment, one that would revolve around my passion for riding motorcycles. I wanted to take the check-mated chess game that had become my life and forearm-swipe the whole thing across the room, kind of like the Jack Nicholson diner scene in Five Easy Pieces.

So that is exactly what I decided to do.

New game

I decided I was going to put the Jet City in my rearview mirror and travel the country on my Ducati Monster M1100. This torquey little machine had a dry clutch with a stiff pull, which made a beautiful “clack clack clack” sound that reminded me of a WWII P-51 Mustang heading into a dog flight alone, against a squadron of Messerschmidts. I loved my Monster, and we had seven good years together feeling the wind in our hair and the angry vibes of the 1100 CC v-twin engine on two-lane roads all over this amazing country. I had even camped off this sleek little machine during a memorable ride down the coast to San Francisco. To me the Ducati Monster M1100 is everything that a motorcycle should be. Nothing extra, and nothing less. In fact, the only thing that bike wasn’t fit for was the journey I was about to take.

The Plan

The high-level plan was to head east on I-90, blaze through E-WA and Idaho in one go, not stopping until I hit the unadulterated freedom of open space called Montana. I would camp every chance I could in the open-air majesty of perhaps our greatest treasure; America’s National Forests. I planned to visit National Parks, and stop to see every UFO landing site and giant ball of string that caught my eye. Most importantly, I would make sure that my thirst for the road on a fossil fuel burning two-wheeler was quenched on a daily basis. I would live in Airbnb’s during the week, feeding my pencil thin bank account by logging in to my nine to five via laptop as an IT project manager. Although I did fine at my job, I had this unique perspective that work was a vehicle, a vehicle that when pointed in the right direction and driven with the right intent could be used to feed my hunger for riding, camping, and living life in a way that I would not regret when my last days arrived. Monday through Friday I would continue to persevere in my career. Weekends, however, would be all mine and I intended to max each one out with the whistle of speed in my ears and a thick coating of dead insects on my face-shield.

Seattle

The weather finally broke in May. I greeted the first rays of sun with squinted eyes, dangerously low vitamin D levels and steaming cup of Starbucks, which would be my last for a while. I loaded the Ducati with all my gear and took a step back to look things over. The packing list was dangerously minimal, yet the bike looked like something off of Sanford and Son. My gear was just too much for the journey I had planned on the Ducati.

I had to make a difficult decision, one that I had been stewing on for years, in fact. Some might call it an up-grade, some might call it the death of romance. Some might call it the end of the sexy and lyrical object worship and variable reliability that is the result of Italian design and engineering. That day… that fateful day, I traded my Ducati Monster in for a BMW GS1200.

Coming out of the closet as an adventure rider

I now had the perfect bike for the adventure and the lifestyle I was about to launch into. I had no idea it would lead to an all-consuming life obsession that would take me some 50,000 plus miles down every type of road imaginable on one excursion after another with no end in sight. When I departed Seattle on that first sunny day in May I remember thinking “I’ll just cruise out to Montana tomorrow and get to know my new machine.” My plan was light on detail and I told myself I’d deal with that, well, tomorrow. Besides, spring was in the air and I had never spent more than a few days in Montana, and that was years earlier. I had been headed in the opposite direction then, and running on Red Bull and fumes, hunched over the Ducati’s bars on a laser-focused run down the entire length of I-90 from Fenway Park in Boston all the way to Seattle’s Safeco Field.

That first day riding east was epic. As I left Seattle, I remembered the scene at the beginning of Easy Rider where Peter Fonda tossed his watch onto the desert sand as they kicked started their Vaughs and Hardy chops and blazed out eastward on their own adventure towards Mardi Gras. The day couldn’t have tasted better. The smell of Spring was thick in the cool morning air. The sky opened up as if to reassure me I had made the right choice and would be there to support and guide me in this liberating endeavor. The enormous evergreens of the coast became steadily shorter, fewer and far between until they disappeared and were replaced by tumbling sage and the open high desert of eastern Washington.

I don’t know how fast I was going but there was still a light mist coming off the Columbia as I cut through a vicious cross wind on the bridge at Vantage. The traffic thinned out with every mile as the quiet machine practically rode itself eastbound. Spokane, Coer’D’Alene, Post Falls, Idaho… Well hello Montana! I rolled into Whitefish and stopped for my first full meal since I had left out. It wasn’t anything spectacular; a small brewery on the outskirts of town. I could have eaten a gas-station bologna sandwich on stale bread and been just as happy. I had made that leap and had landed squarely outside the hamster wheel, looking in. It felt like coming home.

Montana is a rider’s paradise. With a rough plan of spending 2 weeks in Whitefish I would start by riding a road called Going to the Sun, which is a rare and beautiful collection of breathtaking views that you take in between sweeping switchback curves on good asphalt. The experience leaves you feeling unstoppable while the occasional grizzly bear sighting reassures you that your place in the food chain is not always at the top.

Going to the Sun was a life-changing road on a bike that would prove life-changing for me as well. The GS was silent compared to the Ducati. It had roll on power for the slow steady grades of the continental divide. I sat up high and took in the wildflowers of spring and the smells of Ponderosa and Lodgepole pine as I changed the GS’s road setting to sport mode, opened up the throttle and consumed mile after mile of sun-baked highway.

At some point in mid-June, I lit out of Whitefish on Forest Service roads, starting to get a feel for what the GS and I were capable of together. Hunter S. Thompson famously said, ‘The edge; the only ones who really know where it is, are the ones who have gone over.’ There were several times on that ride when I had to dust myself off and pick up all 650 pounds of fully loaded GS before pointing her east and rolling it on. A sort of cadence developed on those sandy mountain roads; drop the bike, swear a lot, cut the engine, swear some more, then pick her up, swear a bit more, onward and upward. It was all part of a steep learning curve that comes with all things worth doing, and I learned that lesson one dropped twenty thousand dollar German motorcycle at a time until the new car smell was all but washed off of her.

I was falling fast in love with my new bike and Montana too, and soon after Whitefish I made the decision to relocate to Missoula where I began taking weekend trips out to experience some of America’s most drooled over stretches of two-lane blacktop. One of those American roads I will never forget is the Beartooth Highway, which stretches between Red Lodge and the Northeast Entrance to Yellowstone. If we set foot on Mars in my lifetime, I may just volunteer to go. Until that happens I’ll have the Beartooth Highway; A pristine lunar landscape that is literally without end, show-casing snow-capped peaks that go on forever to your left, right and center. The road going up Beartooth Pass is a chain of perfect hair-pin switchbacks so parabolically consistent that after a few awkward peg-scrapers I was able to lean the big GS in with a confidence reminiscent of my old Ducati. I experienced seventy-odd miles of rider’s paradise on this first outing from my new Missoula basecamp and finished the day dropping into Yellowstone, which, when it’s not choked off with Winnebagos and European tourists in black socks, is truly one of the seven wonders I have personally experienced on two wheels. You can camp on a pristine prairie and share the view with the bison who will roam freely around you as you grill up a rib-eye from one of their close cousins and enjoy a well-earned adult beverage in a tall can. This riding experience was something patently American; the stuff of childhood cowboy dreams and one I will never forget.

I hit Montana running, never planning more than twp weeks in advance and I never really stopped. The ride has been something enviable to those that understand. I am currently writing this sitting in front of a warm fire on this chilly June day in Lake City Colorado with the GS unloaded and parked where I can keep an eye on her. I will spend a few more weeks tearing up the asphalt and dirt in this geographically diverse state before setting sites on my next challenge.

I try to avoid the news, but it’s easy to see the world is spinning faster than ever these days. People seem to be polarizing more and more to where common ground is hard to find. In this unstable operating environment, you need to find a constant; a baseline; a solid rock that you can stand on, mentally and spiritually. Call it a ground-wire. For me, that constant is riding a motorcycle and the life that comes with it. Using the power of the ride to find common ground with people is one of the most magical talents I have learned to develop

So, as I continue on my ride, I am reminded that balance on two wheels requires constant motion. And like my last listless, restless winter in Seattle, there can be great tension in standing still. I think of the balance sometimes when I am polishing off a tall can, watching the crackling campfire reflect off the GS’s exhaust system, always parked close where I can keep an eye on her – after all, we are alone in a wild place. Now that I think about it, I’m pretty sure that’s what keeps us together.

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New Mexico Museum of Space History

Alamogordo is a cool town, and on a recent visit there Joe Gresh, Susie,and I took in three of its attractions: The White Sands Missile Range, White Sands National Park, and the New Mexico Museum of Space History. This blog is on the New Mexico Museum of Space History, a five-story tall structure that is arranged in a spiral (kind of like the Guggenheim in New York City). Joe, as the Ambassador of Alamogordo, suggested riding the elevator to the top and then walking down the spiraling hallways to take it all in, which is what we did.

As museums go, this is a good one. There were a lot of cool things to see, including a mockup of the space shuttle control panel (that’s Joe piloting the Shuttle in the photo above). Some of the other cool things are shown in the photos below.

Sputnik, the Russian satellite that initiated the space race.

The Ham capsule. Ham was the first chimp launhed into space. He’s buried on the Museum grounds.

Paying homage to perhaps one of the greated sci-fi series ever, Star Trek.

There’s a small missile park outside the Museum building. The vehicle in the foreground is a rocket sled, used in early development efforts.

If you ever find yourself in Alamogordo, the New Mexico Museum of Space History is worth a visit.

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The White Sands Missile Range

I first visited White Sands Missile Range in the mid-1970s when I was in the Army stationed at Fort Bliss, Texas. I visited two places that day 50 years ago: The White Sands Missile Range, and White Sands National Park. I did the same most recently (i.e., hitting both spots on the same day) with Joe Gresh and Susie. We recently posted about White Sands National Park. Today, the focus is on the WSMR Missile Park, a display of military equipment just inside the White Sands Missile Range main gate.

WSMR is a place with history. It doesn’t go back that far…it was created in July 1945, right at the end of World War II, when we grabbed all those Nazis for our space program (the Russians were doing the same). A lot of them were sent to White Sands, along with a hundred German V2 rockets. We cut our space program teeth on them, launching two thirds of our V2 stash and studying the rest before we started building and testing American versions. Our first atomic bomb was tested on the northern edge of White Sands Missile Range. When I was based at nearby Fort Bliss to the south, we heard stories about missiles launched from White Sands that went a bit wide of their mark and landed in Mexico (as in Old Mexico, not New Mexico). Like I said, there’s a lot of history here.

It used to be that you could just drive onto White Sands Missile Range and visit the missile park. In those days, they had a German V2 on display along with perhaps a dozen or so other US missiles. But that was then, and thanks to Osama Bin Laden, this is now. Now, you have to park outside the main gate, show ID to the minders, fill out a form saying you’re not evil, and get permission to walk onto the base. From the main gate, it’s maybe a couple hundred yards to get to the missile park. The indoor stuff (including that old V2) was locked up when we visited, so all we could see was the stuff on display outside. But that was good enough, at least until the skies opened up and the rains came down.

The photo ops were fantastic…military missiles, gun systems, and aircraft against the bright blue New Mexico sky, with a bit of cloud cover to soften the shadows. We had a blast. Figuratively speaking, of course.

Joe Gresh, asking what would happen if he pushed that button.

The Fat Man (I am referring to the atomic bomb). Gresh has been dieting, and doing pretty well at it.

The mulitple launch rocket system, or MLRS.

There are all kinds of cool missiles on display here. It’s free, too. We used to build plastic models of these things when I was a kid.

A US Navy 5-inch gun. Gresh climbed inside the turret when it started to rain.

A Nike Hercules anti-aircraft missile, successor to the Nike Ajax. The Nike Hercules could carry a nuke. Although designed as an anti-aircraft weapon, the nuclear-armed Hercules could be used against ground as well as airborne targets. Don’t ask me how I know.

When it started to rain, Susie and I jumped beneath the wing of an F-4 Phantom.

We only stayed about an hour at the White Sands Missile Range, our visit shortened by the rain and the fact that the indoor displays were closed. But that’s okay. We’ll hit this place again on the next visit to New Mexico.

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