Knowing that the afternoon temperatures in Kansas would approach the century mark, Jon, Mark and I were up at 5 a.m. and on the road an hour later, headed north on Arkansas Scenic Highway 7 and climbing quickly into the Arkansas mountains.  Thermometer readings in the upper 60s felt good as we guided our bikes on mostly deserted roads for the first two hours.

There’s something special about watching the sun come up over the mountains, breaking through the dark forest trees, and casting stark shadows on the road in front of you–especially if you’re on two wheels.  We made several rest and observation stops as we traced our way through the twisting mountain roads.  The brief stops gave us an opportunity to safely take in the grandeur of where we were.  Trying to peak through the trees to catch a glimpse of the valleys below or the sun rising above the horizon can be downright dangerous and there’s never enough time to fully appreciate what lies on either side of the road when you’re trying to keep your ride between the white and yellow lines.

We stopped at one of my favorite places in Arkansas–the Clifftop House Inn–but it didn’t open for breakfast until 8 a.m. and we arrived at 7:15.  The Clifftop House Inn has in the past provided extremely tasty pies as well as stunning views of the Grand Canyon of Arkansas, but this time we had to settle for the stunning views.

When I plotted this year’s route through Arkansas I made sure to include roads I hadn’t ridden on during several previous trips through the northwest part of the state.  I’m glad I did. As we worked our way west and north on a half-dozen triple-digit numbered state and county roads our meanderings treated us to ever-changing gorgeous views and the most challenging roads we’ve seen since we left the Tail of the Dragon in Tennessee.  Add in a spooked doe that bolted across the road in front of me as I charged up a mountainside that forced me to test my ABS brakes, and you have the recipe for an energetic morning ride.

By 11 a.m. we crossed into Missouri and two things happened:  the land began to flatten and the temperature returned to the 90+ range with 150 miles of hot straight Kansas asphalt waiting for us.  But we slogged on.

The journey across the Sunflower State to Wichita was marked by three things:  miles of orange-cone dotted construction zones, an enormous slice of peach pie and ice cream for lunch for each of us, and a singularly idiotic pilot of a four wheeler who decided it would be a good idea to pass three motorcycles on a two-lane road on the right shoulder of the road.  No harm was done, fortunately, but the event did pucker our posteriors as the moron motored by.

We made one final stop at an historic hotel and cafe in Beaumont, Kansas, that, beginning in the 19th century, had served stage coaches, steam railroad passengers and now motorcyclists and small plane pilots who land on the road next to the hotel.  Unfortunately, the place was closed on Mondays, so after a brief and dry look around at the historic site that included the original water tower for the steam locomotives, we climbed back on the bikes and finished the last of today’s 420 miles.  A cold beer at Jon’s house and a warm hug from my sister-in-law made for a good end of the ride.

Tomorrow is an off day and Mark and I will each have a rear tire replaced and I’ll have all the fluids changed on my bike.  The rear tire that will come off was added last year at the same Wichita Harley-Davidson dealer who will do tomorrow’s work.

Early morning starts make for tired riders, so a drink with my brother and I’m done for the day.

By 3:30 when we reached our Russellville, AR, destination the official temperatures had climbed into the mid 90s, but our unofficial thermometers on our Harleys were reading well over 100 degrees.  A dip in the tepid motel pool and a couple properly chilled Coronas helped bring things into a livable equilibrium and restore our failing senses.

For the first two hours this morning from 7-9 as we rolled westward on Tennessee back roads, we both remarked repeatedly on what a great ride it was.  Temps in the upper 60s and low 70s, almost completely empty roads as saints and sinners alike slept in this Sunday morning, and the occasional turkey, doe and buck by the roadside made for a memorable ride.  If we had only stopped after 100 miles, it would have been perfect.

But, alas, by 10 o’clock a blazing sun beat down and began to heat up the roads and the increasingly weary travelers thereon.  And, to make matters worse, steely-eyed and determined church people began arriving by the hundreds at the hundreds of small churches dotting the Tennessee countryside. I’m sure they’re all basically nice people, but I’m always afraid one of them might be awash in the throes of religious ecstasy, not paying attention to heathens on motorcycles, and inadvertently pull out in front of us.  Seriously, I do watch carefully as church parking lots fill up and then empty on Sunday mornings because automobiles with drivers nearing rapture pose a great hazard to two-wheel wayfarers.

Cardboard pie in a cardboard container.

I was afraid finding pie today might be difficult since many Mom and Pop cafes close on Sundays.  Consequently, when a piece of apple pie made an unexpected appearance at a Burger King attached to the gas station where we refueled at 9 a.m., I broke down and got one.  I know, I know.  Burger King pie is to pie what a shopping catalog is to great literature, but desperate times call for desperate measures.  As it turned out, it was the only pie I would see all day.

We crossed from upper west Tennessee into the Missouri boot heel about 11 a.m. and what few rolling hills had engaged our ride in the morning were now behind us and before us were straight roads and flat, green fields of soybeans, corn and, ultimately, rice.  And heat.  By 11:30 the temperature was at 90 degrees and all the small towns we went through seemed to have gone on a shopping spree at the end of the fiscal year using left-over tax funds to buy unnecessary traffic lights that turn red at the barest hint of approaching motorcycle traffic.

A Dairy Queen and a ride to Alaska.  Who could ask for more.

After about the 10th red light in Jonesboro, Arkansas, I’d had enough and pulled my hot bike and frazzled self into the first Dairy Queen I saw for a badly needed cool down. The frozen alabaster delicacy, which I learned was first made available at a DQ store in Joliet, Illinois, (my Dad’s hometown) in 1940, slaked my parched throat and provided sufficient energy to get me through the rest of the broiling ride to Russellville.

Mark and I left Dickson at 6:50, nearly an hour after my brother Jon left Wichita this morning.  But the timing was perfect since we pulled into our hotel within five minutes of each other.  A dip in the pool for Mark and me, Jack on ice for Jon, and then off to the steakhouse next door.  The food was adequate, the service marginally better, but the Coronas–oh, the Coronas–were just as kindly Hispanic brewmasters south of the border had created them to be.  Even without a lime (which the waitress embarrassingly admitted they were bereft of), the Coronas made the meal a satisfactory ending to a very hot day.

Tomorrow?  Probably hotter than today, but at least we’ll spend the first four hours going through the mountains and traversing the long and winding roads of northwest Arkansas before running the fiery gauntlet that will be the Kansas highways leading us to Wichita.

My return to Alaska officially began this morning with a parade lap around Raven Ridge, to the cheers and well wishes of a dozen neighbors who emerged in the rain on their porches in various states of dress at 8 a.m. to wave flags and cheer loudly.  I’m pretty sure the message was “good luck” not good riddance though I couldn’t hear specific words over the two-cylinder thunder.  At any rate, they were all smiling and in good spirits, which matched Mark’s and my pent-up exuberance.

As we packed the bikes at the bottom of the driveway, clouds began to build and at five minutes before KSU, the heavens opened up.  We quickly donned recently-patched and untested rain gear and made our 8 a.m. departure on time.  After one lap around the neighborhood, we turned onto the road in the rain.  The good news was the rain only lasted for the first 20 minutes, though the roads were wet and slick for the first hour and a half as we motored west and south to today’s first mini-destination:  Deals Gap and the Tail of the Dragon.
For those not familiar with the Dragon, it’s U.S. Highway 129 from North Carolina into Tennessee.  318 curves in 11 miles.  I’ve ridden it a dozen times or more, including the first day of last year’s Great Rocky Mountain Adventure.  But Mark was a novice at Dragon slaying.

After a short stop at Deals Gap (the end or the beginning of the Dragon depending on which direction you’re going) where we paid homage to fallen dragon slayers at the Tree of Shame, we headed up the North Carolina side, leaning hard into curves and taming the fearsome Dragon.

The Tree of Shame: Failure on the Tail of the Dragon lies in wait around each of the 318 curves.

My floorboards kissed the dragon’s lair a dozen times on the ride; not enough to constitute an aggressive ride but enough to get some early morning adrenaline flowing to mix with the obligatory pre-ride caffeine.  Loaded with full packs, Mark asserted his authority over the Dragon but admitted later, after only a little thought, that he’d like to try it again with a lighter load and the experience of today’s ride under his belt.  Still, he earned his dragon sticker, which is now dutifully and proudly affixed to the windshield of his beautiful Ultra Classic.

Good weather held as we rolled across the valley separating the Great Smoky Mountains from the Cumberland Plateau.  Visions of freshly baked pie for lunch at Sweet Thang’s Cafe in Spring City, TN, danced in my helmeted head, but the vision was dashed when we parked in front of a darkened Cafe and read the “Closed” sign.  This was the same Cafe I stopped at last year after my Tail of the Dragon Start to begin the first day with pie.

Menacing clouds and flashes of lightning, along with a check of internet weather radar, drove us to another eatery for lunch, but despite a menu that promised home-made pie, they had none.  Still, we needed to kill an hour and wait for the drenching noon deluge to pass through, so we ate a filling but pieless lunch.

Then we immediately began a climb of several thousand feet to the rain-soaked roads at the top of the Cumberland Plateau as we made our way across the hilly part of Middle Tennessee.  When we rolled down off the Plateau, the gray clouds turned to blue sky dotted with soaring thunderheads, the damp pavement dried and what had been a comfortable, high-elevation temperature increased about 30 degrees until it reached the mid-90s as we passed through Murfreesboro, home of my long-ago alma mater.

Nine and a half hours after splashing down the drive at Raven Ridge, we pulled into our night-time destination in Dickson, Tennessee, where we enjoyed a cool room at the hotel, a cool beer at a steak house, and, at this very minute, a cool glass of Jack Daniel’s.  Life is good.

Tomorrow, another repeat ride for me as we race across the flatlands of west Tennessee and east Arkansas on the way to meet brother Jon who will join us on the road for a day.  Nothing particular planned for tomorrow’s ride, but you never know what you’ll see on a two-wheel adventure.

Today, like all “final” days before the start of a Great Adventure ride, was mostly spent waiting impatiently for tomorrow’s sunrise, the throaty roar of the v-twin as it powers up, and the spring-powered snap of “kickstand up” that sounds like what a green flag looks like to a Nascar driver.  I’ve been ready for weeks and Mark was on the road yesterday from Florida via South Carolina, so he was also ready.

Loaded and ready to go in Orange Park.

He had a mostly uneventful four-hour ride from the flatlands of eastern South Carolina to the misty mountains of western North Carolina today, coasting down our driveway about 1 p.m. this afternoon.  The flatlands didn’t heat up until after he was out of them, but by the time he started his climb into the Smoky Mountains the 10 degree drop in temperature was welcomed.  Tomorrow we’ll start in the cool mountains, but by the time we finish in middle Tennessee we expect temperatures registering in the mid-90s.

While he enjoyed his morning ride I was smoking ribs on the grill–one final try at perfect baby backs.  (Close but no cigar.)  Marilyn did her part to make sure the 2016 Great Alaska Adventure got off to an appropriately tasty start by baking a beautiful cherry pie–a 10 on a 10-point pie scale.  Add a little Jack Daniel’s in a chilled glass with two cubes and the result was a culinary delight.

In the past, friends and neighbors in Maggie Valley have gathered to send me off with best wishes and today’s happy hour at the neighborhood pavilion was another example of the caring people at Raven Ridge.  Mark and I appreciated their interest in our crazy adventure and their best wishes for an adventuresome but SAFE ride.  Tomorrow morning we’ll make a parade lap around the neighborhood and many of them will drag themselves out of bed early to be on their porches urging us onward and northward.

I made some final adjustments to my bike this afternoon, adding some badly needed air to the adjustable air shocks (they’re supposed to have 30-40 lbs and mine had 5 lbs) to better carry the 50-60 pounds of gear stashed in saddlebags, the tour pack and the rear seat pack.  I plan to add a new rear tire and replace all the fluids in a few days during our Wichita stop, but neither the rubber nor the oil needed to be serviced before we left.  I’m trying to squeeze as much value out of replaceable parts as I safely can.

After 10 years of doing long-distance motorcycle trips, some things begin to be routine.  I know how to plan.  I know what to pack.  I know how to pack.  The tightly-packed packs are scattered on the floor and the furniture, waiting to be loaded in the morning in about five minutes.  But still, the night before the Alaska redux journey begins, a tingle of anticipation, an itch of impatience, a hint of expectancy fills the final hours.

Yes, once again it bears repeating:  I’m ready to get “on the road again.”

Welcome to hdriderblog.com 2016.  Once again the siren song (not related to the annoying wail produced by pursuing Law Enforcement Officers) of the open road  calls and in two days I’ll be “on the road again.”  The 2016 six-week, two-wheel Great Adventure will return me to Alaska, this time riding with a new accomplice in adventure–the recently retired Mark Stevens.

For readers joining in for the first time, I’m glad you’re going to follow along.  I’ll try to offer something each day to read with your A.M. java that’ll put a smile on your face and envy in your soul.  For returning readers, it’ll be more of the same– great roads, awesome pies, amazing views, new pies, interesting people, perfect pies, wondrous wildlife, and, of course, pie.  As always, please feel free to comment, to leave your mark on the blog.  It’s nice to know someone’s actually reading my digital scribbles.

Mark has been one of the most faithful followers of my blog for the past four years. Our riding history together, though, goes back 10 years when I first joined a HOG club in Jacksonville.  Mark has done long-distance riding on his own, but this 12,000-mile jaunt to the 49th State will be a new experience for him.  I suspect he’ll enjoy six weeks on the road as much as I have.  At least I hope so.

Three years ago when Marilyn and I rode to Alaska, we started by going first to Key West and then heading north.  Mark thought that would be a good way to start this trip, so at the end of March he and I made a three-day quick trip to the southernmost point in the United States and back to Orange Park.  It was a good precursor to the (much) longer leg of the ride destined for Fairbanks and back.  We had rain part of the time; we had hot sunshine part of the time; we had great ocean views; we saw some local Key West sights; we made lists of what we forgot to pack; and we had pie.  Key Lime pie, of course, at Sloppy Joe’s in Key West.  Best of all, we confirmed our compatibility as riding associates.

As I post this, Mark has begun his ride from Orange Park, stopping overnight at our mutual and envious friend John’s house in South Carolina before finishing his two-day ride to our Maggie Valley cabin tomorrow.  Saturday, we’ll load up and hit the road for 43 adventuresome days.

Adventuresome?  What’s in store?  Can’t say for certain, but we’ll be on great mountain roads in Wyoming, Montana, British Columbia and Alberta, before heading up the Alaska Highway beginning at Mile Marker 0 in Dawson Creek.  Once we get to Alaska, we’ll cover more than 2,000 miles on our Harleys, we’ll see some of that beautiful country by air and some of it by sea as we fly across Cook Inlet in search of Silver Salmon one day and try our luck with Atlantic Halibut sailing out of Soldotna another day.  I’ll return to places I’ve visited before, but I’ll also add new ones to my cruising catalog of motorcycle destinations. Not everything is or should be planned on a Great Adventure and the unplanned parts often seem to make the most memorable memories.  There’s usually something interesting around the next bend in the road–maybe a moose, maybe a museum, maybe a mountain, maybe a mystery.

Three years ago, when I blogged the Great Alaska Adventure, I said repeatedly I would return to the Land of the Midnight Sun.  I even thought it might have been the very next year.  But I’m fulfilling my pledge this year for Alaska redux.  Alaska year-round is not for everyone, including me.  But Alaska during the summer should be on everyone’s to do list, especially if natural wonders, multiple cultures, amazing wildlife, and a peak at the last frontier hold any interest.  I don’t subscribe to the idea that it was “folly” when Secretary of State William Seward purchased Alaska for 2¢ an acre in 1867.

We’ve planned and plotted, purchased and packed, and now we’re primed. One final check of our gear tomorrow, a toast or two with our good friend Jack Daniel, a few more goodbyes and the Alaska Redux Adventure that’s been a year in the making begins in earnest.  If you’re on two wheels, stay alert.  We will.

I can’t wait to get on the road again.

My annual fit of wanderlust has been satisfied again after nearly six weeks on the road, most of which was spent traveling through some of the greatest scenery North America has to offer.  The Great Rocky Mountain Adventure, as everyone who followed this blog knows, succeeded in circumnavigating the most prominent and best known mountain range in North America.  I am the Magellan of the Mountains (but better since he was killed by island natives halfway through his 1519 trip).

I hiked, I kayaked, I fished, I ate pie, I met kind and caring people, I saw and photographed gorgeous scenes and amazing wildlife, and I rode my motorcycle.  Yes, by any definition, this was a good trip.  

Nearly everything went my way on this trip.  Although I donned rain gear on the first day, the last day, and several days in between, the weather mostly cooperated, allowing me to see and experience the mountains in all their grandeur.  No serious mechanical motorcycle issues marred the ride, and I stayed healthy the entire trip (except for the time I battled The Ferocious Giant Trout and smacked my head on the rocks in Wyoming). Even the economy was on my side as gas prices were lower than expected and the U.S./Canadian exchange rate extended my spending power in the land of Loonies and Toonies. 

Did I learn anything on this Great Adventure?  When I first started planning this trip I thought I would use it to learn about the geology of the mountains.  I certainly returned with more geological knowledge than I started with, though somewhere along the road the trip morphed from a journey though a geology classroom into a scenic and wildlife photographic adventure, including some useful tips and instructions from a fine amateur wildlife photographer who happened to share the same shooting spot with me in Hyder, Alaska.

I find on these trips–Alaska, Newfoundland, the Rockies–that I always meet friendly, interesting people who, added to the sights and scenery, make the sum of the Adventure greater than its parts.  These are not people I expect to meet again or with whom I will develop life-long friendships, yet their brief appearance in my life makes it better, fuller, richer.  Maybe that’s one of the primary reasons I go on these Adventures.  The unplanned, unscripted, unscheduled chance encounters make the most lasting memories that I turn to when I pull stories of these trips from my cache of travel tales.

These yearly extended excursions also afford me an opportunity to do something I like to do though I claim no expertise in its art:  Write.  I’ve written academic articles, journalistic tripe, various marketing and business plans, and web site text for several sites.  But nothing has given me greater pleasure than writing this blog and sharing my travel experiences with friends, family and fellow travelers (the latter in the literal sense, not the political sense).  The feedback I get–verbally and in written comments–is unfailingly kind and uncritical.  Thanks for that.  I’m fortunate, I know, to be able to travel to semi-exotic places and meet uniquely interesting people, the uncommon common man.  I’m also fortunate to have the time and the resources and the support that allow me to do what many others dream about and envy me for doing.  And I plan on taking full advantage of my good fortune, as long as it lasts.

When I came of age in the 1960s this cultural mantra was the rage:  “If it feels good, do it.”  Well, what I do every year on a motorcycle feels good, really good.  And I’m going to continue to do it.  And I’m going to continue to urge others to do it as well.  Find something that feels good and do it.  (Hint:  It’s usually not spelled w-o-r-k.)

With all sincerity, I hope blog readers and their friends join me again next year, either on the road or online.  Until then, be safe and be happy.

After 40 days and 11,023 miles, I’m back where I started in Maggie Valley, looking out my cabin window as a bright sunset paints the clouds a pale orange and heightens the contrasting greens on the mountains.  It’s good to be back.

Staying off the Interstate for the final 300 miles was also good.  I rode several hours across the Cumberland Plateau until I came to its eastern edge and could see the wide valleys opening up before me and separating the plateau from the Appalachian Mountains to the east.  I crossed a valley which featured a large lake and found myself at the Tennessee end of the Tail of the Dragon.  I made a run of those “318 curves in 11 miles” at a more sedate pace than 40 days ago when this adventure began, perhaps because I was trying to extend the ride by a few minutes more.  As I leaned into the curves, the bike seemed to kiss the mountain road as the chrome floorboards caressed the rough asphalt below me.  Each time the floorboards scraped the road, I said a heartfelt thanks to all the magnificent mountains that made this ride so special.

The Tail of the Dragon was busy this Saturday as bikes and cars of all sorts made their runs back and forth over the mountain and the drivers paused at Deals Gap to compare notes and talk about how reckless the OTHER riders were.  It’s a great road and I like to ride it, but I’ve been on the Million Dollar Highway in Colorado, the Beartooth Highway in Montana and Wyoming, and the Icefields Parkway in Alberta.  I’m spoiled.

 As I finished the Dragon and headed to Maggie Valley, the clouds which had been hovering above me all day grew darker and heavier and the rain gear came out of the saddlebags for a final time on this trip.  For the last 40 miles of the ride I was pelted by moderate rains that kept the roads slick and the face shield difficult to see through.  But the road was familiar and I probably could have ridden that final 40 miles with my eyes closed.

As I rode into our cabin community, several neighbors were on their porches to wish me Welcome Home, just as they had been 40 days ago to wish me Bon Voyage.  It’s good to be back among friends.  A Welcome Home sign on our front porch was the perfect finishing touch for the ride.

All that was left was to unpack the bike, put gear away to be used again on another ride, and perform the ritual Trimmin’ Of The Beard.  Eight months of hair-growing effort was wacked off in a matter of minutes, transforming a grizzled old biker into——well, a less grizzled old biker with a handful of grey beard.

Tomorrow I’ll write one final post for this Adventure and summarize the ride and reflect on why I love to spend weeks on the road.

I noted on yesterday’s blog (which, apologies, didn’t get posted until this morning) that my plan was to ride Interstate 40 all day today and then reward myself with another trip through the Cumberland Plateau and the Smokey Mountains tomorrow.  That’s still the plan since today I spent nine boring and somewhat wet hours on the long asphalt ribbon.  More than 500 miles on cruise control at 70 miles per hour when the “road construction” sign weren’t commanding me to slow down.  Blah!

I did, however, have plenty of time to think about future rides, something I usually do at the end of each Great Adventure.  Next year’s ride is pretty much set.  I’m going back to Alaska.  The trip two years ago only covered a part of that awesome 49th state and there are several new places I want to go there.  When I went to Hyder, Alaska, this year looking for bears, I mentioned that I met a couple from Grand Cache, Alberta.  I heard from them a couple days ago via email and they had a great time in Haines, Alaska, where Jennifer, the photographer of the pair, got some really great shots of a mama griz and two cubs at a river.  I definitely want to go to Haines and Valdez next year and do some fishing and maybe some flying too.

Beyond the Alaska trip, I’m thinking very strongly about a cross-Canada trip from St. Johns, Newfoundland, to Victoria on Vancouver Island, British Columbia.  I’m obviously drawn to Canada for motorcycle riding.  The Trans-Canada Highway trip would probably be another six-to-eight week adventure.  I’ve also mentioned several times an interest in the Lewis & Clark Historic Trail from St. Louis to the Oregon Coast and back.  I thought about that again today and I think that history-based ride is definitely in my future.  It would be shorter, probably only five weeks unless I find a way to stretch it out a little.  If I did it in the winter like they did, that would certainly stretch it out.  Nah.  I’ll stick with the summer months.

I met three guys in Watson Lake, Yukon Territory, who were in the middle of a five-month, 49-state tour.  While I’ve ridden in all 49 states in North America, I haven’t done them all in a single ride (though I did all the states east of the Mississippi River plus seven more during a four-week ride in 2005), so a 49-state ride looms as another potential adventure.  

I have a quote on my “business” card and the blog that says: “So much asphalt, so little time.”  I’m going to do the best I can to cover as much of that asphalt (especially the non-interstate kind) before my time is up.  If anyone can think of an Adventure that would keep me occupied for several months, let me know.

Tomorrow is the final ride of the 2015 Great Rocky Mountain Adventure and I’m going to finish it the way I began it with a run on the Tail of the Dragon between Tennessee and North Carolina before heading home.  I’ll write another short blog tomorrow night then Sunday will post a longer, final blog for this year that will wrap up the GRMA.  Thanks again to everyone for coming along for the ride.

My short family visit ended this morning as I left Wichita and headed into a blinding sun across eastern Kansas.  Brother Jon extended my family time a little by riding along for about an hour and a half before turning back at a coffee break in Fredonia, Kansas.  Nice to have him with me, at least for a while.  He talked about joining me for a trip in the future even if he’s not able to make it for the entire 4-6 weeks I like to be on the road.

Jon, as I mentioned yesterday, is still riding my 2007 Ultra Classic, which I sold to him in 2011.  He’s not able to put a lot of miles on it, but he and his wife Ulla ride it when they can, even if its just in Kansas.

The first three hours of today’s ride was through Sunflower State, so it was pretty unremarkable, except for the early morning smells that always remind me how much we miss riding in cars with the windows up.  Huge fields of growing things have a fresh smell like nothing else that awaken the senses with every deep breath. 

The real fun today began when Jon left after I rolled into Missouri and worked my way through the Ozarks’ rollercoaster hills and valleys and lakes.  This county doesn’t have the incredible scenery of the Rockies (am I spoiled?) but it has a beauty of its own.  I think I spent as much time on the sides of my tires as I did on the centers once I started working my way south and east into Arkansas. The back roads here have very road cuts; they just spread two lanes of asphalt on whatevery terrain happens to be there, a condition that makes it difficult to see what may be coming at you or, worse, parked in your lane.  

Occasionally I could see the taller peaks of the Boston Mountains through the dense trees blanketing the hillsides in dark green, but most of the time, especially in the Ozark National Forest, my view extended only to the edge of the road where the trees began.  It made for a great ride, though, and I decided not to compete photographically with the Rockies and kept the camera in its bag.  Rather, I focussed on challenging the many twists and turns 10-20 mph above the speed recommended by the Missouri and Arkansas highway engineers.  Once I separated myself from the tourists in the bigger towns like Eureka Springs,  the near absence of traffic on the roads meant I could pickup the pace a notch or two and put my new front tire to good use.  The only wildlife I saw was a lone doe in the national forest who seemed confused as to which side of the road she preferred; her indecision brought me nearly to a halt before she finally moved off the road to my left and bounded into the trees.

I didn’t even mind the “road closed” detour that added about 30 miles to my ride on a road I had thought about taking and, initially, had rejected.  I think it was a better motorcycle road than the one that would have taken me to the Interstate 30 minutes faster.

With my orange “low fuel” light glaring at me from the gauge cluster, I finally ended the ride in Russellville, found a motorcycle friendly motel that charged me even less than my AARP discount would have provided, and parked the bike for the night.  I’ve decided to make an Interstate only run tomorrow that will be boring but will bring me a little closer to home for the final push.  I’ll be rewarded for tomorrow’s Interstate ride with a shorter final day that will allow me to take a celebratory spin through the Smokies before the Adventure ends at the cabin in Maggie Valley.

As I sit in the customer lounge of Alef’s Harley-Davidson in Wichita waiting for a new front tire and front brakes to be installed on my Ultra Classic and with nothing particularly important to write about relative to my travels, I thought it might be appropriate for the traveler who writes hdriderblog.com to write about the hd part.

Why Harley-Davidson?  Other bikes cruising the highways and byways go faster, ride smoother, last longer and have great reputations.  So why do I ride a Harley?  Riding a motorcycle isn’t just about speed (well, not all the time, anyway) or about comfort or about durability.  It is about those things, of course, but it’s more than that.  Those elements are part of a package that make up the total riding experience.  

My Harley goes fast enough for me (more than 100 miles per hour according to my Zumo GPS and the bike’s speedometer).   The Ultra’s saddle and suspension are comfortable enough to roll down roads that are in various states of repair and disrepair for 10-12 hours a day when I need to.  Durable?  I put 100,000 miles on my last Ultra-Classic and then sold it to my brother who’s going to join me for a few hours tomorrow as I head east toward home on my bike that has 62,000 miles on it.  In the past 10 years I’ve ridden nearly 250,000 miles on Harley-Davidsons with no major mechanical problems and I’ve never been stranded on the road.

But in addition to evaluating a motorcycle on these criteria–speed, comfort, durability–riding a Harley makes me part of a very big family of riders, many of whom have been astride nothing but Harleys for 30, 40, 50 years and more.  Harleys are everywhere, and so too are Harley riders.  Wealthy riders and financially struggling riders.  Working class riders and professionals of all stripes. 1%ers and Bikers for Jesus.  Republicans and Democrats and probably a whole lot of Independents.  Men and women.  Young and old.  Even some BMW and Honda riders are also Harley riders.  We’re all attracted to Harley-Davidsons for different reasons and yet ultimately the same basic reason.

There’s a mystic about this 112 year-old American union-made iron horse, this icon of American industry, that keeps riders coming back year after year, bike after bike.  Is it the sound of the flathead, the panhead, the knucklehead, the shovelhead, the evolution V-Twin engines?  Is it the feel of  a powerful bike hugging the corners, leaning into the twisties and flying down the straights?  Is it the opportunity to ride with like-minded riders and then stop for coffee to talk endlessly about Harleys?  Is it the ability to customize a bike in a thousand different ways so it is unlike any other but still a Harley at heart? Is it a history big enough to fill a state-of-the-art museum in Milwaukee?  Is it the unique and clearly identifiable styling other brands try to copy but never can.  Is it the looks of admiration and envy drivers in passing cars throw your way?  Is it the 50 t-shirts from various Harley dealers and rallies hanging in the closet giving sartorial choices for a year’s worth of riding?  Is it the ubiquitous bar and shield logo stamped in, sewn on or attached to just about everything Harley riders touch?  Yes, it is.  It’s all of these.   They’re all part of the package.

Sometimes I think about buying a faster, smoother, longer-lasting bike when it comes time to replace my 2013 Ultra Classic.  And I probably will.  Because my next Harley Davidson will be faster, smoother and longer lasting than the one that’s taken me to Alaska and back, to Newfoundland and Labrador and back, to the Rocky Mountains (all of them) and back.

Why ride a Harley-Davidson?  Because it’s a Harley.  And because I couldn’t write hdriderblog.com if I rode anything else.  Besides, even my mother rolls (walks?) with a Harley-Davidson.