Motorcycle Adventure Ride – Page 9 – The ExhaustNotes Blog

Bangkok Part 3: Soi Cowboy

By Joe Berk

Another day, another Bangkok blog, and another famous Thai locale…Soi Cowboy. Soi means street in Thai, so Soi Cowboy is Cowboy Street. It played a role in the movie Hangover II. It’s amazing how many famous spots there are in this amazing town. The guys in orange vests you see in the big photo above are motorcycle taxi dudes. They take folks (mostly women) around Bangkok on the back of their bikes carving paths through traffic as if it wasn’t there. It’s an amazing thing to see.

Soi Cowboy is a street that is pretty dead during the day. When the sun sets, though, Soi Cowboy comes alive. There are street vendors selling food from their carts. The clubs come to life. And the B-girls start doing their thing. As an older married guy, it all seems pretty silly. Sue was mortified. But it is what it is, and I’m going to show you just a little bit of it here.

One of the many food carts on the street in front of the clubs on Soi Cowboy.

Another food cart. I had the Nikon on its “auto ISO” setting, which basically means it runs the ISO up as high as it thinks it needs to be to get a good shot. Some of these photos were at ISO 12,800.

More Thai food. I didn’t work up enough courage to try eating off these street vendors, but I’ll bet the food was good.

The clubs are bars with entertainment. Most of the entertainers are young Thai women. Most of the entertainees are older western guys. It’s pretty sad, actually, and I imagine it’s a pretty rough life for the girls.

A snap shot in front of one of the clubs.

As always, motorcycles and motor scooters were everywhere.

Bikes lined up just off Soi Cowboy last night.

And finally, a look down Asoke (that’s the street name) from a pedestrian overpass.

So that’s it for this post from Thailand. Watch for scenes from the floating market tomorrow.

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Bangkok Part 2: The Wat Pho Temple

By Joe Berk

On our next day in Bangkok, Sue and I visited the Wat Pho Buddhist Temple. There are numerous Buddhist temples in this fine city, and on this (my third trip to Bangkok), the nod went to Wat Pho. The colors and the views were stunning, and my 8mm inexpensive Rokinon wide angle manual everything lens earned its pay yet again. I think it would be hard to find a Buddhist temple in Bangkok that was not impressive.

Wat Pho is one of Bangkok’s oldest temples, and it is one of six temples considered to be of the highest grade Buddhist temples in Bangkok. It is a royal temple.

Wat Pho has the famous reclining Buddha, which is 15 meters high and 46 meters long. It is one of the largest statues of Buddha in Thailand.

Colors abound at Wat Pho. It is a photographer’s delight.

A colorful tapestry inside the Wat Pho temple.

We later walked around town a bit, including a visit to the infamous Soi Cowboy area (it’s right around the corner from our hotel). I will post a few evening Soi Cowboy photos in a later blog.

Thailand is two-wheeler territory. Motorcycles and scooters are everywhere. There’s more to come on this topic, so stay tuned.

I said I would try to get something motorcycle-related in each of these blogs, and here’s the photo for this one: A Sukhumvit Street stoplight at night, with all the motorcycles and scooters filtered to the head of the line.

Later, folks. Ride safe.

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Adventures on Borrowed Time

By Joe Berk

I guess a good way to start a blog is to grab the reader’s attention, and I can do that here: How many people do you know who ride a Panther?

A few weeks ago I wrote a blog about Nick Adams, an interesting man, fellow motojournalist, and author. Nick is about the same age as me and he enjoys exploring the world on his different motorcycles. In other words, he is our kind of guy.

In my prior blog about Mr. Adams, I mentioned that I planned to purchase one of his books. I did, and a few days after ordering Adventures on Borrowed Time, it arrived.

Adventures on Borrowed Time is well written and well organized. It’s 191 pages long and it has lots of pictures. Nick’s writing style is conversational and easy to follow (it feels more like listening to a good friend’s stories than reading). The first chapter is about Nick’s ’72 Guzzi Eldorado (the one you see in the photos above). The following chapters take you through Canada, mostly on gravel roads, in good weather and bad. There are instances in which Nick’s Guzzi didn’t feel like starting, and Nick takes us through the steps he took to coax the old V-twin back to life. There are parts where Nick switches to his ’86 Suzuki Cavalcade (Suzuki’s attempt to cash in the Gold Wing craze), that monster of a bike’s surprisingly good handling, and the repairs Nick made to it. Parts of Adventures on Borrowed Time describe exploring Canada on Nick’s 650cc Suzuki Burgman scooter. And then, returning to my attention grabber at the start of this blog, Adventures on Borrowed Time describes Nick riding Canada on his 62-year-old Panther.

Never heard of the Panther? Don’t feel bad. The Panther is a 600cc single English bike made from 1900 to 1968, and most folks have never heard of it. They are fairly primitive, I think. I say “I think” because I’ve never even seen a Panther. And here’s Nick, describing what it’s like to take major trips through Canada on one. A long-distance moto adventure ride through the Canadian wilderness on a 62-year-old British motorcycle…what could go wrong?

The writing is superb, the photos are great, and the character development all make Adventures on Borrowed Time a book you need to read (the characters being Nick, his wife, the people he meets, and the bikes). You can purchase your copy of Adventures on Borrowed Time here. Trust me on this: You’ll enjoy it. You can thank me later.

My Solo Motorcycle Journey from Sedona to Canada: Part IV

By Bobbie Surber

A quick recap: In Part One, I kicked off this solo motorcycle journey on my trusty Triumph Tiger 900 GT Pro, lovingly christened Tippi. As I bid farewell to Sedona, the road promised a majestic odyssey. From the winding bends of the Colorado River to the breathtaking grandeur of Lees Ferry, Marble Canyon, Jacobs Lake, North Grand Canyon National Park, and Zion National Park, each mile etched indelible memories on my soul. Part Two unveiled the treasures of Bryce Canyon, Capitol Reef, and Great Basin National Parks, along with the legendary Loneliest Highway in America, Highway 50. The roads led me to Lake Tahoe, where I encountered unique wonders and overcame challenges that enriched my adventure. In Part Three, I entered the landscapes of Yosemite, Kings Canyon, Sequoia, and Lassen Volcanic National Parks. I visited the town of Bigfoot and the Lost Coast. Amidst these joys, there was a bittersweet encounter with my boyfriend, Mike, marking the end of a significant chapter in my life. Now, let’s continue the ride through northern California and the Oregon coast.

In the embrace of an early summer morning, I stood alone, a solitary figure beside my trusted motorcycle, Tippi. The sun painted the horizon in hues of gold and pink, casting a spell of serenity. This was the moment of bidding farewell to Greg, a friend whose hospitality touched my soul. The road stretched before me, an endless promise. As I eased Tippi out of Greg’s driveway, it felt as if the entire world held its breath, echoing the emotions that propelled me into this adventure. This journey, forged from the ashes of heartbreak and kindled by an insatiable wanderlust, was poised to unfold a voyage of self-discovery and emotional renewal.

Just the night before, I had embraced a decision steeped in emotional turbulence — a poignant farewell to my boyfriend, Mike. It was a decision marinated in profound sadness and the weight of loss. Despite the heaviness in my heart, I clung to the belief that the open road cradled an undiscovered trove of experiences, encounters, and life lessons. Each mile seemed to hold the promise of a fresh beginning, and as I departed McKinleyville, California on that Sunday morning, the marine mist hung in the air like a wispy veil. It created a backdrop to my reflections on the past and the enigma of the future. The chill in the air mirrored the swirling mix of emotions within me, signifying the dawn of a new chapter in my solitary adventure.

Surrounded by towering redwoods and glimpsing fleeting vistas of the boundless Pacific Ocean as the last remnants of marine fog dissipated, the morning unfurled in all the splendor I yearned for. We journeyed up the coast, passing through the awe-inspiring realm of Redwood National Park. This marked my tenth rendezvous with a national park in just a month of travel. Each park visit hammered home the vital importance of preserving our public lands, and standing amidst these colossal arboreal titans served as a perpetual reminder of their awe-inspiring grandeur.

Reluctantly, I bid adieu to the towering redwoods as Highway 101 gently steered me slightly inland, ushering me towards Elk Meadow. Here, nature unfolded a spectacle that stole my breath — an assembly of elk, the largest gathering I had ever witnessed. I yielded to the irresistible urge to halt and pay homage to their beauty, immortalizing the moment through the lens of my camera.

After our parting with the majestic elk, I made a brief sojourn in Crescent City, a pause to refuel Tippi and replenish my spirits with a cup of coffee. It was in this picturesque spot that I stumbled upon kindred spirits — two gentlemen on Ducati motorcycles. We shared a common destiny: Canada. While a twinge of envy for their sleek machines grazed my heart, I cherished the chance to engage in a brief yet warm-hearted conversation with fellow travelers.

With renewed zeal, Tippi and I resumed our journey on Highway 101, eager to cross into Oregon, the fifth state to embrace our adventure. We traversed familiar terrain, including the enchanting Harris Beach State Park and Whaleshead Beach in Brookings. While my original goal was Bandon, the unyielding coastal winds encouraged me to pursue the unknown paths that Oregon had hidden.

Coos Bay welcomed us with an uproarious windstorm, a tempestuous force of nature that consistently left me feeling exposed and vulnerable. After a hasty search on Rec.gov, I secured a campsite on the north side of Coos Bay. However, our path to the campground presented a challenge—an encounter with a bridge at the northern edge. Anxiety surged within me as a flashing warning sign taunted me with its “High Wind Alert” and “Overturned Vehicle” messages.

I wish I could recount the crossing of that bridge with calm and composure, but the truth was far from it. My grip on the handlebars was vice-like, my white knuckles bearing testimony to my sheer terror. My aversion to fierce winds reached its zenith, and adrenaline coursed through my veins as I navigated to the other side. Upon reaching the campground, my heart sank as I discovered an RV occupying the very spot I had reserved. The encounter with the RV owner left me frustrated and disheartened, an unfortunate epilogue to the nerve-wracking bridge escapade.

Thankfully, a benevolent camp host emerged as my savior, guiding me to an alternative sanctuary shielded from the relentless wind. After a modest dinner, I indulged in a generous pour of Irish whiskey, surrendering to the soothing embrace of slumber, grateful for the tranquility of the night.

As the sun greeted me with a gentle caress, I found myself back in the saddle on Tippi. An early morning ride past Florence unfolded, each curve of the road a thrilling waltz with the remnants of marine fog. This was my sanctuary — a joyful communion with the open road and splendid vistas without a hint of traffic. All too soon, Tippi beckoned me onwards, leading to Yachats, Oregon, a captivating seaside village promising both coffee and a well-deserved breakfast.

On a whim, I reached out to an old friend from Sedona, Elaine, her presence a comforting tether to the past. Hoping she and her gracious husband could join me for an impromptu cup of coffee, I was delighted when they not only accepted my invitation but also extended a generous offer for me to spend the night. It was the 4th of July, and their cottage, adorned with breathtaking views of the bay, surpassed all expectations.

I soon found myself immersed in the heartwarming tapestry of small-town America, a 4th of July parade, and savoring dinner with their friends by the bay (a diverse ensemble of souls who graciously embraced me). The day culminated in a spectacular sunset and an awe-inspiring fireworks extravaganza over the ocean (as you can see in the photo at the top of this blog).

Early the following morning, as I reassured my friends of my competence on a substantial bike, I negotiated their lengthy gravel driveway. But I inadvertently tipped Tippi over. My pride was slightly bruised, but with concerted effort, we righted Tippi, and my journey continued. The weather was perfect as the road led me along the rest of the Oregon coast, passing through my beloved coastal havens like Cannon Beach and Surf Pines before culminating in Astoria.

My journey reached a momentous juncture as I approached the Astoria-Megler Bridge, an imposing truss bridge spanning an astonishing 4.6 miles, suspended 192 feet above the majestic Columbia River. This crossing marked my entry into Washington State, and contrary to the daunting tales of ferocious winds, I was pleasantly greeted by a smooth and rewarding journey. I took a moment to document my arrival in my sixth state in just over five weeks on the road. With newfound enthusiasm, I revved up Tippi and continued my pilgrimage to the charming village of Westport, Washington, where my family eagerly awaited my arrival.

What an extraordinary adventure it has been, with the promise of even more to come. Along the way, I have cast aside heartache, embraced the highs and lows of the road, and found solace in the arms of independence, the kind of independence that comes from conquering challenges that nudge us beyond our comfort zones. I wholeheartedly embrace my addiction to solo motorcycle travel, cherishing the serendipitous encounters with strangers who become cherished friends, and savoring the freedom of the open road.

Stay tuned for the forthcoming chapter, where I will unveil my family adventures in Washington and the epic odyssey through Canada. I extend my heartfelt gratitude to you for joining me on this narrative journey. Your comments, suggestions, and unwavering support are a source of immense inspiration. Until then, whether you embark on a bike, in a car, on a bicycle, or simply with your own two feet, I implore you to heed the call of your own epic adventure. Safe travels, fellow adventurers!

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My Solo Motorcycle Journey from Sedona to Canada: Part III

By Bobbie Surber

My solo motorcycle journey of joy from Sedona, Arizona, to Canada continues. This is an epic journey and it holds a special place in my heart. I can revisit fleeting moments of pure joy, rekindle the emotions, and extract lessons learned along the way. As a woman riding solo, I am part of a remarkable and tight-knit sisterhood that inspires me, challenges me, and provides me with extraordinary kinship. With their spirit in mind, I’m excited to dive into the next chapter of my unforgettable summer ride.

In Part I, I embarked on my trusty Triumph Tiger 900 GT Pro, affectionately named Tippi, leaving Sedona behind. Our journey took us through landscapes of the Colorado River, Lees Ferry, Marble Canyon, Jacobs Lake, North Grand Canyon National Park, and Zion National Park. It was a breathtaking start to an indelible adventure.

Part II chronicled our exploration of Bryce Canyon, Capitol Reef, and Great Basin as well as Highway 50 (the Loneliest Highway in America) and our arrival in Lake Tahoe. Each destination brought its own magic and challenges, enriching the tapestry of this incredible journey. Leaving Lake Tahoe after a full week of exploration was bittersweet. I savored every moment but the open road called, promising new horizons and cherished old favorites. This part of my journey led me to Roseville, California, where I had to part ways with Tippi temporarily for a well-deserved tune-up and a new chain. Joining forces with a fellow rider and friend Mike (whose BMW was waiting for a harness from Germany), we hatched a plan over drinks and a shared meal. Our first destination: Majestic Yosemite National Park.

We took a brief detour to pick up another adventurous soul, Dan, who would follow us as we made our way to a campsite outside the park. While the campsite may not have been the most scenic, the camaraderie more than compensated for it. We enjoyed a hearty campfire dinner, and Dan and Mike one-upped each other with travel tales of daring escapades. It was a night filled with laughter.

The following morning marked our entry into Yosemite National Park. For me, it held a special significance. It was here that I had embarked on my solo hike along the John Muir Trail, starting from this very valley floor. The memories flooded back, stirring emotions and a sense of longing that I can’t put into words.

We secured a campsite within the park and spent two days immersing ourselves in Yosemite. We hiked amidst the awe-inspiring vistas, capturing the record-breaking snow melt that transformed the waterfalls into powerful cascades painted by breathtaking sunsets. As if retracing my steps, I followed a small section of the John Muir Trail, a nostalgic journey that filled me with joy. Those two magical days, spent with my riding buddies, nourished my soul and dispelled the occasional loneliness that accompanies solo motorcycle adventures. The camaraderie and shared experiences reminded me of the beauty of both solitary and shared journeys.

With a fond farewell to our friend Dan, we resumed our journey, eager to immerse ourselves in the natural wonders of Kings Canyon and Sequoia National Parks. Nestled within the Sierra Nevada, this region is a testament to Mother Nature’s diversity—flaunting thickly forested mountains in the north and the awe-inspiring austerity of the south, adorned with numerous 12-thousand-plus-foot granite passes. Each pass unveiled mesmerizing views of ancient tarns and the vast valley floor, a breathtaking vista to behold.

Walking among the giant Sequoias shrouded in mist left an indelible mark on our souls. It was a humbling and awe-inspiring, a stark reminder of the profound importance of our National Parks. They are not merely places of natural beauty; they are sacred sanctuaries that merit steadfast dedication and protection.

Leaving the majestic Sierras behind, we set our course for Roseville, where I was joyfully reunited with my beloved Tippi. After proper cleaning and the installation of a new chain, I mounted Tippi and instantly felt the familiar embrace of returning home as we navigated through the city. Our next destination was my ninth National Park on this epic journey: Lassen Volcanic National Park, a place I had never explored before. It’s the photo you see at the top of this blog.

Battling the sweltering heat, I was eager to escape the valley floor and ascend once more into the cool embrace of the mountains. Not even the looming threat of rain could diminish my excitement. Mike, still patiently traveling by car and awaiting his parts from Germany, made the most of vehicle camping. We embarked on an exploration of this new park, from leisurely walks around the serene lakes to gazing upon the painted desert from the viewpoint of an 800-foot-high cinder mountain. Two days sped by, leaving us reluctantly parting ways as we set our course for Bigfoot Country!

After a long day’s ride, we arrived in Redding, California, and were greeted by the majestic sight of Shasta Lake, with Mount Shasta occasionally revealing her beauty through the clouds. Continuing our journey, we soon reached our night’s destination, Willow Creek. This quaint town is adorned with numerous signs and wood carvings of Bigfoot, famously known for a rare sighting of the mythical creature. Adding to the allure, Highway 299 proved to be an underrated gem, offering exhilarating stretches of mountains and tight, winding roads, although the return of record-breaking temperatures reminded us of the heat.

Despite a warm night of camping, the anticipation of exploration tugged at our hearts, leading us to visit our friend Greg in McKinleyville, California. Leaving the majestic mountains behind for the refreshing embrace of the Pacific Ocean, I was up early and invigorated, eager to hit the beach!

Our long-awaited visit to the Lost Coast was the next thrilling chapter in our journey. Traveling through the towering giants of the redwoods and then navigating the winding, narrow roads flanked by quaint ranches and farms we finally arrived at our destination. Securing one of the thirteen coveted camp spots nestled against the picturesque sand dunes felt like a small victory. The beach, with its wild and rugged beauty, was a sight to behold. Our joy was multiplied when we invited an adventure rider from Croatia who had no place to camp to join us. We met two hikers planning to embark on the famous Lost Coast Trail the following day. With our newfound temporary traveling family, we combined our meager food supplies, beer, and the last of my Irish whiskey to set the mood for another unforgettable night of sharing grand tales beneath the starlit sky.

The following morning, we returned to visit Greg and his girlfriend K, soaking in his warm hospitality and exploring a delightful local wine-tasting room. The lazy Sunday was bathed in the glow of friendship as I leisurely embraced the day. That evening, I bid a heartfelt farewell to Mike for the last time. Our 4.5 years of shared adventures had gifted us with countless stories and unforgettable moments. With a heavy heart I knew I would miss our adventures together. The next morning found me back on Tippi’s saddle; after a fond goodbye to a casual friend who I knew would become a lifelong friend, I pulled out of Greg’s driveway and embarked on the northern coast journey along the famous Hwy 101.

I knew the days ahead would be filled with breathtaking views of the Pacific Ocean as I ventured into Oregon easing the bittersweetness of a wounded heart, but also an opportunity for reflection, healing, and embracing the boundless possibilities that lie ahead. I was on my bike heading wherever my heart desired and I planned on embracing each moment of my onward solo journey north.

Solo traveling is where my heart finds its purest joy, and venturing forth with my steadfast companion Tippi elevates this experience to unparalleled heights. While the presence of a cherished companion adds a unique dimension to our journey, the profound beauty of solo exploration lies in its ability to unveil the depths of our own capabilities. It’s about embracing the allure of the unknown and relishing the boundless possibilities of tomorrow.

As I eagerly dive into the upcoming chapters of my journey in Part IV, I promise to infuse these tales with the rich tapestry of emotions that solo travel and the open road have given me. I’ll unveil more stories of Oregon and Washington, and who knows, I might even tantalize your sense of adventure with a glimpse of enchanting Canada. The adventure continues, the road beckons, and the world awaits with open arms, ready to share its secrets and wonders with a wandering soul.

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A Clever Cup of Joe, Japanese Style

By Joe Berk

Here at ExNotes, we cover a lot of topics: Motorcycles, motorcycle touring, product reviews, concrete, guns, reloading, and more. And coffee. The thought occurs to me we’ve written a lot about coffee, from the primo Batdorf and Bronson beans provided by good buddy Ren to just about everything else. About now, you might be wondering: Where is this blog going?

Well, I was recently in Tokyo. I gave a class in Singapore and Sue and I thought as long as we had invested the 20+ hours to get there, we might as well stop in Japan on the way home (neither of us had ever visited Japan before). I’ll post a blog or two about the land of the rising sun in the coming days, but for now I wanted to talk about making coffee in our Tokyo hotel room. On these Asian trips, I’m usually up by 2:00 or 3:00 a.m. (there’s a 16 hour time difference between Japan and LA, and my biological clock doesn’t handle it well). They don’t serve coffee in the hotel lobbies over here, so you either make coffee in your hotel room or you don’t have coffee. For me, not having coffee has never been an option.

If you’ve read Riding China, you know that Gresh and I became experts at making coffee at places in China so remote they had to pipe in water and air. Our coffee was always prepared using instant Nescafe, which is almost a crime against nature for folks who enjoy a good cuppa Joe. Nescafe reminds me of that old engineering saying: Halitosis is better than no breath at all. But when it comes to making coffee in a hotel room, the Japanese had a better idea. It took me a while to dope it out and I finally had to read the instructions to do so. When I did, I realized: Clever people, these Japanese are. Take a look.

The water heater for making coffee. I thought the coffee bag would to into the white gizmo below the lid. I was trying to find a way to open it up. When I spotted the Phillips head screws securing it to the lid and I thought I needed a screwdriver, I realized I was on the wrong track. There are no English instructions anywhere on this pot.

The bag of coffee. How the hell does it fit into the coffee pot?

Ah, the flip side. No instructions in English, but there are pictures. I panicked initially when I couldn’t find the holding fixture the pictures show.

Could it be? A cardboard fixture built into the coffee bag?

Ah, these people are very, very clever. You heat the water in the pot, mount the coffee bag with its included cardboard mounting fixture in your cup, and pour the hot water over the coffee.

And it was a damn fine cup of coffee, too!

Gresh and I sure could have used this when we rode across China. Next time, I guess, if I can find a place to buy these coffee bags. And you know what? As soon as I wrote that last line, I remembered: Amazon is your friend. I did a search on drip bag coffee, and wow, here they are!

I couldn’t let a story about coffee get by without a commercial or two…the first one being for our book, A Cup O’ Joes. Have you picked up a copy yet?

And the second commercial…how about Riding China, from which you can learn all about how two die-hard coffee drinkers struggled across the Gobi Desert, the Tibetan Plateau, and more in China, the land where people don’t drink coffee?

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Córdoba, Spain

By Joe Berk

Until this summer, if anyone had mentioned Cordoba to me my first thoughts would have been of Fernando Llamas and fine Corinthian leather. Men and women of a certain age will remember the Chrysler commercials of the ’70s and ’80s:

But I digress. This blog is about the real Córdoba. The one in Spain. I haven’t finished telling the story about our visit to Spain (I still have three or four blogs to go). This blog continues the journey, and our enfoque del día (focus of the day) is Córdoba. We traveled to Córdoba after our visit to Portugal.

Córdoba lies along the Guadalquivir, Spain’s second longest river. The Guadalquivir used to be navigable along most of its length; that is no longer the case.

Córdoba is in southern Spain (in the Andalucia Province) along the Guadalquivir River. The photo at the top of this blog is where we walked across the Guadalquivir River into the center of the old city. The bridge across the Guadalquivir was built by the Romans and for 2000 years it was the only bridge into the city. As we walked across the bridge and entered Córdoba, I noticed a couple posing for wedding photos in the now dry moat.

Ah, the wonders of a decent camera (my Nikon D3300), an inexpensive lens (the Nikon 18-55 that came with the camera), and PhotoShop. I cropped this photo and adjusted its curves and levels to get the image below.

Córdoba is a World Heritage site with an impressive history and stunning architecture. The city was part of the Roman Empire, then it was conquered by the Visigoths, then the Muslims (when it became part of the Caliphate of Córdoba), and finally, the Christians when they conquered it in 1236. When the Muslims were the landlords, Córdoba became one of the world’s centers of knowledge and education.

One of Córdoba’s principal attractions is the Mezquita-Catedral. It began life as a mosque in 784 – 786 AD when Abd al-Rahman I built it. I took the following photos using the fisheye 8mm Rokinon lens I’ve written about before. Using that lens requires doing everything manually (focus, shutter speed, ISO, and f/stop). I’ll usually have to take a few shots to get the camera dialed in using the onboard histogram. I set the ISO high (12,800) to get the speed (i.e., the camera’s light sensitivity) high enough for the dimly-lit mosque interior. That induces a lot of noise into the photo, but the noise mostly disappears when the photos are resized from their native 6000 x 4000 pixel size (at 300 dots per inch, or dpi) down to a 600 x 400 pixel, 72 dpi size for the blog.

Inside the mosque interior with the 8mm Rokinon lens. These interior photos were shot at a very high ISO, which adds a lot of noise to the photos that is not too visible in these reduced size images.

A cropped portion of the original photo above. The high ISO noise mentioned above is quite visible in this “actual pixels” viewing size.

Another option for these kinds of shots would be to shoot at a much lower ISO speed (say, 200 or 400 ISO) with the camera on a stable tripod. That would get rid of the noise, but exposure times would have gone up dramatically. I didn’t want to carry a tripod for a lot of reasons, so that approach was out. You might be wondering about using flash, but that’s a nonstarter, too. Most of these places don’t allow flash photography, and even if they did, the flash is only good for a few feet. Available light, no tripod, and high ISO is the way to go here.

This area goes back about 1200 years. The Muslims built it when ruled Cordoba.

Our local tour guide explaining more about the mosque.

Another indoor photo where the lighting was a bit better.

Islamic art and architecture inside the mosque.

When the Christians conquered Córdoba in 1236 the mosque became a church. There are a lot of churches in Spain that started life as mosques. Sometimes several such switches in ownership and religious affiliations occurred in other parts of Europe that had been ruled by the Moors. We’ve been in one that started as a mosque, became a church, and then reverted to a mosque as different factions occupied conquered lands (the one I’m thinking of is San Sofia in Istanbul, which I may get around to writing about one of these days).

So the mosque became a church as the Christians “converted” or executed all who were not Christians. While the artwork and architecture are beautiful, the history is not. During the Spanish Inquisition, the Jews of Córdoba had a choice: Convert to Christianity or die (with death preceded by horrific torture). The church is now referred to as the Mezquita-Catedral, the Great Mosque of Córdoba. The photos below show more of the Mezquita-Catedral.

The f bell tower dominates Córdoba. It was built over the mosque’s dome.

An interior photo of the Mezquita-Catedral.

A sculpture inside the Mezquita-Catedral.

Ferdinand and Isabella lived in Córdoba for a while when they used it as a base of operations to drive the Moors from Spain. It’s also where the Spanish Inquisition took root. Prior to The Inquisition, Cordoba had three synagogues and a sizable Jewish population. Today, only one synagogue remains and it is essentially a tourist attraction. My research indicates no Jews live in Córdoba today.

A doorway to the Mezquita-Catedral, as seen by the 8mm Rokinon lens.

What used to be the Jewish quarter retains the streets of medieval Córdoba outside the Mezquita-Catedral, and today the area is largely a tourist center. Although the streets are not laid out in a grid pattern, the Mezquita-Catedral tower dominates the town and is visible from all directions. It would be difficult to get lost in Córdoba.

The Mezquita-Catedral bell tower dominates the tourist area.

A door handle in Córdoba’s tourist area.

A knocker. If you look through our other posts from Spain and Portugal (I’ll provide a set of links below) you’ll see quite a few similar photos.

There are many restaurants in Córdoba, and we enjoyed lunch at one. Most of the restaurants have tables in front on the narrow cobblestone streets, and virtually all meals are preceded by complimentary tapas. After having lunch, we wandered around a bit more. There are about a dozen churches in Córdoba, and most go back to medieval times. I watched a family entering one for a wedding.

This woman was outside a church prior to a wedding. I’m guessing she’s either the bride or groom’s mother. I caught a pretty dour expression when I snapped this photo, but immediately after she broke into a huge smile. I don’t know why I didn’t hit the shutter again.

After Córdoba, it was on to Madrid. We traveled on Spain’s high-speed rail, running at speeds of around 220 mph. That was really cool.

A high-speed Spanish train. Their rail network is impressive.

So there you have it: Córdoba. I didn’t see Fernando Llamas nor did I encounter any fine Corinthian leather. But it was still fun, the city’s dark and inhumane history notwithstanding.

Our other Spain and Portugal posts are here:

Spain and Portugal
A Portuguese Norton
Lisbon
Coimbra, Portugal
Granada and the Alhambra
A Spanish Olive Oil Plantation
The Sportster of Seville
Évora

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Rev’d Up Coffee in Claremont, California

By Joe Berk

Wow, did I get lucky with this…a coffee and motorcycle spot just a few miles from home. It used to be that I had to ride all the way up Angeles Crest Highway to Newcomb’s so I could hang out at a motorcycle destination where like-minded people stopped for something to eat and to admire other motorcycles. Then Newcomb’s closed, a victim of the down economy and the pandemic. There was another cool spot Gresh and I spent an evening at in Chongqing, but the chances of me riding the Enfield across the Pacific to get there are slim. And then, I noticed Rev’d Up Coffee and Classics in Claremont. Claremont is the next town over from where I live. I’d seen Rev’d Up before, but I figured it was just another Gen X or Millennial (or whatever they’re calling themselves these day) Starbucks refugee trying to cash in on the coffee craze with a little moto mystique thrown in as sort of an artificial sweetener. Boy, was I ever wrong; there’s nothing artificial about Rev’d Up or its owner.

Steve Solis, motorcyclist and Rev’d Up proprietor, taking a break from Bike Night cooking duties.

Steve Solis is the guy who owns and runs Rev’d Up. He’s a good guy, a lifelong area resident, and a rider. Steve’s personal ride, a Sportster, is usually parked inside the restaurant seating area during normal business hours, but he brings it outside during bike night.

Steve’s personal ride – a Harley Sportster with an extended front end and apehangers.

The theme of Rev’d Up is bikes, classic cars, and hot rods. Steve has a couple of vintage bikes on display in the restaurant windows, and there are cool moto things throughout the dining and coffee sipping area.

A Honda Dream on display in one of the Rev’d Up windows.

Another vintage Honda on display at Rev’d Up.

Older motorcycle helmets. I wore one of the Peter Fonda Captain America helmets in the ’70s.

In keeping with the Rev’d Up theme, the menus are displayed on car hoods suspended from the ceiling. One is from a Camaro, the other is from a Datsun.

The breakfast and lunch menu. On Bike Nights, Steve is out front making Philadelphia cheesesteak sandwiches. They sure smelled good.

The coffee and other specialty drink menu. I have to try the Easy Rider.

I asked Steve what the best kept secret was. His answer? The Easy Rider espresso. He said it was his favorite drink. Next time I’ll try it.

The best part of any of these gatherings is always wandering around in the parking lot, taking in the bikes, and talking to the riders. There’s no set theme regarding the bikes. Harleys, choppers, Ducatis, KTMs, BMWs, Triumphs, and more. They were all there.

Check out the SU carb and the velocity stack on this Shovelhead chopper. Where does the rider’s leg go?

The Harley Panhead engine, one of the two best-looking Harley engines ever made. The other one is the EVO motor. Those Panhead valve covers are impressive.

Bike night is not all about choppers. The colors on this helmet and motorcycle stood out.

Another classic and beautiful motorcycle. The 748 was a later version of Ducati’s 916. They look good.

There are no better colors for a classic BMW boxer twin than gloss black with white pinstripes.

As we were leaving, this Triumph pulled into the parking lot. All marques are welcome at Rev’d Up. It’s a cool place.

Rev’d Up Coffee and Classics is located at 212 West Foothill Boulevard (that’s Route 66) in Claremont, California. It’s definitely worth a stop, and I’d say it’s a worthwhile place to take a ride. Maybe I’ll see you there. Look for the orange Enfield in the parking lot; if it’s there, I will be, too.

My Solo Motorcycle Journey from Sedona to Canada: Part II

By Bobbie Surber

Welcome back to the next chapter of my solo motorcycle journey from my hometown of Sedona, Arizona, to the captivating landscapes of Canada. In Part One, I shared the exhilarating start of my adventure, from Sedona to the awe-inspiring beauty of the Grand Canyon and the mesmerizing Zion National Park. Now, as I continue northward on my trusty Triumph Tiger 900 GT Pro, lovingly named Tippi, join me in experiencing the next leg of this epic ride.

As I left the captivating beauty of Zion National Park behind, I couldn’t help but marvel at the magic of solo travel. The open road stretched out before me, promising new adventures and the opportunity to connect with the world in ways that only solo exploration allows. My heart swelled with anticipation as I headed north into Utah, a state known for its stunning natural landscapes.

A Return to Bryce Canyon

My next destination was my beloved Bryce Canyon National Park. The ride to Bryce Canyon was a scenic marvel in itself. Utah’s highway 89 to Route 12 made its way through crimson canyons, past towering rock formations, and into high-altitude forests. Every twist and turn of the road revealed a new panorama of breathtaking beauty.

Arriving at Bryce Canyon, I was greeted by a surreal landscape of hoodoos—towering, otherworldly rock spires that seemed to defy gravity. I hiked once again the trails that wound through the park, taking in the views from vantage points like Sunrise Point and Inspiration Point. Wall Street trail was closed for repairs, but trusty old favorites satisfied my need for a day of hiking. My camp spot at Sunset Campground gave me the chance at an early morning sunrise the next morning. A predawn wakeup found me walking to the rims edge to watch the sun slowly rise below the horizon, the hoodoos took on a fiery glow, casting long, dramatic shadows that danced across the amphitheater-like terrain. Bryce Canyon’s mystical allure left an indelible mark on my soul, reminding me why I embarked on this journey in the first place. After a second night at Bryce, I was ready to tackle another epic day of riding Route 12 through Escalante to the sweetest underrated Capital Reef National Park.

Exploring Route 12 and Capitol Reef

Continuing my adventure, the following morning, I eagerly resumed my route on Highway 12, heading towards my favorite section of the road, high above the captivating Grand Staircase-Escalante National Monument. This expansive and remote region boasts rugged canyons, vibrant cliffs, and extraordinary geological formations. The landscape, with its impossible rock formations, treated me to endless twisties, creating a sense of otherworldliness. My Tiger 900 was as happy as I was as I relaxed into the ride and allowed her to remind me again what her three cylinders can do. Both of us were in sync as we leaned into curve after curve as we blasted down to the bottom of the canyon.

As I reluctantly approached the tiny town of Boulder, Utah, I realized I had made short order through the endless twisties of this section of Route 12. However, I was unexpectedly greeted by an old-school cattle round-up, complete with cowgirls and boys herding a large herd down Highway 12! After a brief turnaround, I found solace in my favorite restaurant, the Burr Trail Grill. Their farm-fresh ingredients delighted my taste buds, whether it was their fresh arugula salad topped with local goat cheese or their beastly-sized burgers that proved a challenge to conquer.

Resuming my journey on Highway 12, I found myself in an unexpected predicament. The cattle herd’s progress was slow, and I crawled along, clutching endlessly as I felt my left hand about to begin a serious complaint! Amidst the frustration, two memorable moments emerged. Firstly, a passerby exclaimed, “Dude, you have the sweetest bike and setup!” We shared a laugh as he realized I was indeed “dudeless.” Secondly, after navigating my way to the front of the line, I convinced the lead cowboy to move the herd slightly to the right, allowing me to pass. Maneuvering my bike through the cows became a comical adventure, with prayers that the sound of my motor wouldn’t startle them. Experiencing this traditional cattle drive in 2023 felt like a slice of Americana and added yet another reason to love Utah.

Leaving the cattle behind, I ascended Boulder Mountain, where endless views revealed the backside of Capitol Reef on the right and scenic meadows with clusters of aspen, fir, and spruce trees on the left. Surprisingly, the mountain still boasted more snow than expected for June. Camping, fishing, and wildlife viewing opportunities abound in this mountainous region, with numerous campgrounds and dispersed campsites available. I’ve personally spent nights here, savoring the breathtaking vista overlooking Capitol Reef and the sprawling valley floor. Soon enough I was descending Boulder Mountain and into the small town of Torrey, UT, and just a short few miles away from Capitol Reef National Park for two more nights of camping. A quick setup of my camp, and I was off to town for a much-needed shower and a cold beer! Later that day, a lovely couple I met in Zion joined me at my campsite and I was treated to a homecooked Korean chicken dinner, which was a far cry from the instant ramen I was planning for dinner. A lovely couple who reminded me that the gift of travel is the unexpected friends we make along the way.

The next morning found me out on the trail a hump up to the top of the mesa for a panoramic view of the park. The air was crisp with hints of the heat to follow. The trail descends into a slot canyon then an arroyo wash to the other side of the park and beyond. Reluctantly heading back, I got on Tippi and explored the nearby petroglyphs. All in all, my short stay was a rewarding two nights and now headed to the not-so-famous outside of crazy riders who seek out remote roads Highway 50, billed as the loneliest highway in America!

Highway 50: The Loneliest Highway with a Detour to Great Basin National Park

I made a short order of breaking camp, and in no time Tippi and I were on highway 24 with the goal of making it to my 5th National Park, Great Basin. Following Route 24 goes through a rural farming section of the state with many small Mormon communities and opportunity for a breaks, food, and gas. I was eager to blow through this well-familiar route to get to Highway 50 and cut my teeth on a section of road I had been warned NOT to ride.

As I picked up Highway 50 off Interstate 15, I soon hit the famous first road sign and stopped to document my ride on her with a pic. With once again threatening storms, I glanced at the mountain ahead and thought how bad could it be? It was bad, I was wrong once again guessing the threat of a storm. A short very wet ride later, I left behind Highway 50 for a few days to visit the park. As a first timer to Great Basin NP, I was truly blown away! You enter the tiny town of Baker on the desert floor then 20 minutes later you are in the mountains with thick forest and views overlooking the high desert plains that seem to go on forever. Not to be missed is a guided tour of Lehman Caves. Truly the highlight of my stay. I selected one of the higher small campgrounds and was rewarded with a huge site surrounded by trees and brush with the river roaring behind me.

Reluctantly bidding farewell to Baker, I rejoined Highway 50, heading towards my next destination, South Lake Tahoe. Contrary to the dire warnings of scarce gas stations, I discovered that this notion was unfounded. Approximately 70 miles down the road, I arrived at Ely, another small mining town with plenty of services. After a quick refuel, I resumed my journey, realizing that the otherwise flat stretches of road were intermittently punctuated by mountain passes exceeding 7000 feet in elevation. These segments offered breathtaking vistas and enough twists and turns to satisfy both Tippi and me.

My first mountain pass, before descending into Ely, Nevada, presented an exhilarating ordeal with rain, lightning, and a brief ten-minute ride through hail. Eighty miles further, I found myself in the town of Eureka, where the threatening skies curtailed my exploration time. Nevertheless, I managed to visit a few must-see attractions, including the Opera House, built in 1879, the still-functional Courthouse of the same vintage, and a brief excursion to the town’s cemetery, where a variety of burial sites represented different social organizations, religious groups, and ethnicities. This walk-through history provided a fascinating glimpse into the town’s past.

Continuing on Highway 50, with the ominous skies in my rearview mirrors, I was reminded of the urgency to press on towards my next stop—Austin, Nevada. This old mining camp retains its rustic charm and has evolved into a haven for camping, hiking, and mountain biking, thanks to its proximity to the towering Toiyabe Mountains. During a pit stop, I encountered a large group of riders following the Pony Express Trail, who praised my adventure, while I vowed to return in the near future to explore that historic route.

Reluctantly bidding farewell to this enchanting mountain town, I embarked on another 112-mile stretch to Fallon, Nevada. This promised a well-deserved lunch break and refueling opportunity before the final leg of my journey to Lake Tahoe. As hunger pangs intensified, I hurriedly pulled into the first gas station I encountered. Curiously, the ground appeared slanted, making it impossible to safely park my bike with its kickstand without an extreme lean. Oddly, as my kickstand tends to be a bit high, I often worry about Tippi toppling over. Trying another station, I realized that my kickstand was not misaligned but broken—a sudden and unfortunate realization. With every ounce of strength, I fought to prevent Tippi’s full weight from pinning me between the gas pump curb and the engine crash bar. As I cried out for help, a kind soul named Caleb rushed to my aid, assisting me in righting Tippi. Examining the kickstand, I conceded that my lunch break was a lost cause. I refueled while seated on my bike and came to terms with the fact that I would have to ride the rest of the way without lunch and with a dangling kickstand, just inches off the ground.

Continuing Towards Lake Tahoe

Arriving in Lake Tahoe was like reaching an oasis after a day filled with challenges and stunning scenery. The sight of the crystal-clear waters surrounded by towering pine trees was simply breathtaking. I met up with Mike Huber, a fellow adventure rider, as we eagerly exchanged stories of our respective journeys over drinks and pizza. Mike is a seasoned rider with an incredible collection of travel stories and insights, and this blog, which is a treasure trove of motorcycle adventures.

We decided to make the most of our time in Lake Tahoe by exploring the area together and spending time with our dear friend Yvette who had left Sedona for the mountains and lakes surrounding Tahoe. Two up on Tippi, our first stop was a visit to Emerald Bay State Park, a gem nestled on the lake’s southwest shore. A short hike up a roadside trail took us to a stunning vista overlooking Emerald Bay below. The clear blue waters and Fannette Island in the middle of the bay made for a postcard-perfect scene. At sunset we were even rewarded with a surprise pop up of a brown bear who a few feet away provided us with a pose straight up worthy of National Geographic!

Lake Tahoe, with its stunning shoreline, pristine waters, and surrounding mountains, offers many outdoor activities. We decided to spend the next afternoon cruising around the lake, taking in the panoramic views and stopping at scenic overlooks. Riding around Lake Tahoe was a highlight of my journey, and I couldn’t have asked for better company.

Conclusions

As I reflect on the second part of my solo motorcycle journey from Sedona to Canada, I’m filled with deep gratitude for the experiences and sights that have unfolded before me. From the awe-inspiring beauty of Bryce Canyon to the challenging twisties of Route 12, from the serene landscapes of Great Basin, this adventure has been a testament to the power of the open road and the indomitable spirit of solo travel.

Every mile has been a lesson in self-discovery, a reminder of the world’s beauty, and a celebration of the freedom that comes with embracing the unknown. The road has been my companion, and the landscapes have been my muse. And as I continue to ride north into Canada, I know the journey is far from over. There are more roads to explore, adventures to embrace, and stories to tell.

Stay tuned for the next chapter of this solo ride from Sedona to Canada. The open road beckons, and I’m eager to see where it will lead me on this journey of a lifetime.

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Life as a Digital Nomad: Peru Part 4 (It’s Probably Time to Head Back)

By Mike Huber

Balancing life is rarely easy. It seems there is something almost always out of sync, be it work, health, or a loved one in need of help. Peru is one of those rare times in my life where I and everything surrounding me seemed to be in perfect harmony. I was coming up on six weeks living in Cusco and the adventures seemed endless from my home base there. I was making a ton of new friends, but with Cusco being so much more of a tourist town these new connections were always short lived. Surely now it’s different with so many Westerners living abroad and working remotely, but being a pioneer of this lifestyle in 2012, missing a community began to set in. Not so much on the weekends as I was too busy, but during the weekdays a void began to drain me.

The decision to make the long journey back to the United States was not an easy one. It took so long to get to where I was and had built connections for my next planned move to La Paz, Bolivia. I was running very low on vacation time and everything I wanted to see in Bolivia was a multiple day bus ride. Buffering in unknowns (such as a bus breaking down in the middle of nowhere) was necessary. I would be city bound in La Paz, and I don’t think they had as many baby llamas to pet, so Bolivia just didn’t feel right on any level.

The last week in Peru was a much deeper experience (I didn’t even know it could get deeper than where I had been). Every moment I was out felt much more special knowing that time was short in this magical place. There was a lot to do in my Cusco backyard that hadn’t been explored. My focus had been on visiting remote areas such as Lake Titicaca (I had to say it again), rather than exploring the wonders closer to my home.

My final week in Peru was filled with exploring local points of interest such as the San Pedro market where there were all kinds of foods, drinks, and potions that most Westerners will never see or smell (be thankful you are missing the smell part). The market consisted of endless types of foods. Many of these foods seemed to be pulled straight out of an Indiana Jones movie. It wasn’t strange to see Guinea pig’s necks being snapped, and then the animal being tossed into a boiling pot, gutted, and grilled. Other items included horse heads, pig heads, and snakes in water jars. This market was a plethora of sensory overload. Normally I would just visit it to pick up a bag of coca leaves for about 30 cents and some of my “special” tea mix.

Somehow, I still managed to find time to do silly things with downtime during the weekdays. The last Sunday I was there it poured, and being bored, I was searching the apartment for something to eat while watching TV. I found in the back of the refrigerator a beer pitcher that I had filled with coca leaves a week or so prior and added a bottle of white wine. Well, it seems the wine had absorbed the coca leaves and turned the wine into a dark yellow. Being that this chapter was coming to an end I thought it would be the perfect day to partake in this concoction. Who knows, maybe it would have similar effects to the coca beer. I drank the entire pitcher. The coca-infused wine just had this bitter earthy taste that I really enjoyed. Like the coca beer it provided a jolt of energy with a nice light buzz that assisted me in packing and wrapping up my life in the Andean city of Cusco.

With the coca wine buzzing inside my head, a bigger question emerged: Where was I to live upon returning to the United States? My Boston condo was rented for another five months, so that option was out. I was not sure if it was the wine or the fact that this change may not be as simple as I had anticipated. Throughout my travels around Central and South America, it always seemed that if things went south, I could just return to the United States. Being so preoccupied in the moment during my travels, however, I never designed a fallback plan aside from boarding a return flight.

As the week came to an end, I was now boarding that flight. I was not, however, in too big a rush. It felt right to instead return to Nicaragua for a couple weeks and ease my way north and see my dogs. While I was there, Hurricane Sandy hit and knocked out power throughout the Northeast. That morning as I watched the news, I had a decision to make: Do I power up the laptop and be the only person in the Northeast who showed up for work, or do I continue with the “I am in Boston” charade?

I chose Option A, deciding that I was on my way back and had been outperforming most my peers for six months in five countries. Owning my choices and riding it in felt like the correct decision. My coworkers immediately questioned how I had internet, and my answer was simply “I saw there was a hurricane, so being remote I chose to go south to avoid it.” Not a lie, but not totally forthcoming. If I had replied with “I am working in the jungles of Nicaragua” no one would have believed me (this came up months later and no one did).

After the two weeks it was time to fully return to Boston to regroup. It was a rainy November day when I touched down at Logan. I weighed 30 pounds less and mentally I was even lighter. I still had no plan regarding what to do once I left the aircraft in Logan. My car was at a friend’s house. My Ducati was at my parent’s home in Maine. Before I had even cleared through Customs and Immigration, though, I knew this was no longer the place that called to me. The reentry shock into the United States was too much. I was swelling up with tears knowing It was now time to make the hard decision to leave New England, but where would I go as winter was just beginning?

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