The adage “When all you have is a hammer, everything starts to look like a nail” carries weight to all who have turned wrenches. When the bike in your garage is a Moto Guzzi V7 III Special, and you need to get from California to Maryland in two weeks for a wedding, the Guzzi is the hammer and the Interstate is the nail. While there are certainly restrictions when embarking on a journey like that on a bike that doesn’t have the word “wing” or the letters “GS” in the name, there are pleasures to be had.
My cousin sent out invites to her wedding, and my parents made me an offer, “You figure out how you’re getting there, and we’ll get you a hotel room.” I agreed. As we inched closer to the wedding date, my parents asked me if I had booked my airfare. I said no. They asked me if I was going to this wedding at all. I said yes. They asked me how. I half-jokingly replied, “I’ll take the Guzzi.”
In the remaining time between then and the wedding date, I almost expected myself to head out and purchase a plane ticket. Instead, I began making preparations for an adventure. I found a guru (Ultimate Motorcycling Associate Editor Jonathan Handler) to consult in matters related to this flavor of intensive touring, I upgraded the Moto Guzzi V7 III Special for the rigors of touring (barely), and I justified spending money on more gear (like I wasn’t going to anyway).
The Moto Guzzi V7 III is a highly capable bike—in context. It is a direct descendant of the V7 700 of 1964, down to its frame, pushrods, dry clutch, and distinctive V-twin engine layout. The engineers since then have blessed the bike with six forward gears, ABS, traction control, electronic ignition, and fuel injection. Thank you.
Some might call it ‘warmed-over’ for nearly 60 years and beholden to the limitations of mid-’60s frame and engine designs. Others would call it a masterpiece of iterative improvements, displaying over a half-century’s experience with that bike. I was drawn to the bike’s classic looks, the mechanical nature of the powertrain, the shaft jacking, the way it tweaks to the right when revved, and the rich history of the brand.
When I was preparing for the trip, the Guzzi’s lack of storage, wind protection, and cruise control, along with a low top speed, dearth of trained mechanics along the Interstate, and tube tires, began to take more of my attention. In response, I got a saddlebag and tail bag set from my guru, threw on a flyscreen, bought a Crampbuster, learned to love cruising, upgraded to AAA Platinum, and carried tubes with me. In my mind, that was all it would take to make my Moto Guzzi V7 III Special as capable as a Harley-Davidson Road Glide, though a Sena unit in my helmet would have to substitute for a fairing stereo.
Within the first ten days, the bags I had started out with began to rip. The first few hours told me my flyscreen was not doing much, and the Crampbuster was damn useless—I did not even make it past the Rio Grande before I threw it in the garbage. Cruising at highway speeds was loud. AAA Platinum would not help me through much of my trip. I was not able to carry tools to pull my wheels and tires off, even though I brought a set of tubes. I guess I hoped some good ol’ boy would have a big adjustable wrench to help me get my wheels off.
The first day was foolish. “Don’t go over 350 miles in a day,” my guru instructed me before I left. I nodded gleefully in his garage when he told me this. A few days later, I realized that I was going to start the trip in Santa Barbara and I didn’t know anyone until Santa Fe—almost 1000 miles away. That was definitely too far to ride in one stretch.
So, I dropped a pin in the middle and decided I would stop in Flagstaff. I didn’t think much of my 500-mile first day until I was passing through the Mojave Desert—I experienced my lowest temperature of the trip riding down the Santa Barbara coastline before the sun rose and the highest temperatures of the trip as the sun roasted me in the desert. I should have listened to him. Alas, you cannot make a journey like this if you are not at least a bit foolish. I managed to pull into Flagstaff before sunset with my sanity (mostly) intact, my rear not intact, and a strong desire for a libation.
The next morning, I pushed on through Arizona to Los Alamos at the western end of New Mexico. At nearly a mile and a half above sea level, my noble Goose was having trouble finding air to burn. I made it to the top, thankful for fuel injection, and thought about how many times I would have had to stop to swap jets and adjust carburetors on a first-year V7. Yuck. Some things are better left in the past.
The plains streamed in. I noticed that I no longer had to start my days in my warmest gear and stop to strip out layers. The West trades high seasonal temperature variation for high daily temperature variation. In one day in one spot in California, you may start off in shorts and need a coat by nightfall. It keeps you on your toes.
From the east end of The Land of Entrapment (New Mexico) through the worst part of the worst state (sorry, Texas Panhandle, you knew it was coming) and into the OK City, I experienced two straight days of riding at a 45-degree angle to compensate for the wind. This was bloody terrifying at first, but give it a couple hundred miles, and you’ll grow accustomed to it.
It was around this time that I really got into the rhythm of touring. Wake up. Load. Eat if I’m hungry, ride if I’m not. Breakfast. Ride. Rest. Ride. Lunch. Ride. Rest. Ride. Pull in. Grab a drink. Settle in for the night.
There was a calming Zen-like feeling to the repetition of the days. This came to a screeching H A L T when I was leaving Oklahoma City. One of the ladies who was in my Airbnb was from Mississippi. Us Yankee boys only hear the phrase, “Time runs a li’l different down there.” I was suited up, standing next to a loaded bike. This woman knew I needed to sleep in northwest Arkansas that night, and all she wanted to do was chain smoke and talk about her daughter. I was in awe.
It took an incredible amount of effort, but I set aside the rest of the world for a while. My Moto Guzzi V7 III Special sitting in a sketchy part of Oklahoma City. The need to get to Arkansas. The finite amount of daylight. I sat and listened to her, and I was probably the most present I have ever been or will be.
She talked about messing around with cars when she was younger, getting in trouble with her parents, and her daughter’s travels, and then she began to take an interest in mine.
“You have GOT to see Mississippi; it is so beautiful down there. I have friends all along the river from here to the delta; you have GOT to GO!” This pained me. The Deep South was lacking on my trip. I would have loved to go, but the paltry amount of time I had did not allow for a proper deltaic detour. Here it was, a golden opportunity to enjoy the South, hospitality included, friendly locals all along the way, and I had to refuse. Why? Time.
I explained to her that I had only so many days to get to Maryland and there were people that I needed to see along the way. Nonsense! She wasn’t having any of that. She insisted that I go.
At that moment, I realized that this woman completely and totally lacked any concept of time. What a blessing. Coastal types seldom get the opportunity to witness a true daughter of Mississippi engaged in the act of doing nothing.
In due time, I made my way out and got caught in a rainstorm on some old highway between the modern interstates. I ducked into a closed fruit stand for cover to put on my rain gear. Then I remembered why everyone was so friendly to strangers—everyone was packing heat. I threw on my rain gear as quickly as I could, hoping to not receive a trespasser’s welcome as I left Oklahoma.
The evening brought me into Fayetteville, and what a sight for sore eyes it was. I bombed up the dirt road to my family’s home at the top of the mountain. After a long day in the saddle, getting a hug from my relatives (after a much-needed shower) was quite the respite. A two-night rest in Fayetteville was ample balm for my sore joints. Hopping into my cousin’s car for a day trip reminded me how nice it can be to hurtle along the highway with climate control and insect protection. De-luxe.
As much as I would have loved to stay in Fayetteville for longer, I had a wedding to catch. I got to say, “See you soon,” instead of “Goodbye” as we were all about to witness the same ceremony. The race was on.
I thought that Arkansas would let me go easily. The next day seemed like a simple ride from northwest Arkansas to Memphis—a cool 300 or so miles, complete with good weather and easy-on-the-eyes scenery. Man plans, and God laughs.
The Hernando de Soto Bridge, which ordinarily carries traffic into Memphis across the mighty Mississippi River, had elected to take a break after a half-century of dutiful service. The gridlock getting in and out of Memphis from Arkansas was at Angelino levels. My simple 311-mile day turned into a 406-mile jaunt through the highways of The Magnolia State. This also meant I arrived in Memphis at nightfall and had to skip seeing the porcelain throne where Elvis left the building for the last time.
Off to Nashville! You notice a few changes when you cross the Mississippi River. Suddenly, trees are everywhere, and everyone is on the porch waving at you when you go by! Both of these things disturbed me after having lived most of my life in Southern California.
Leaving Central Time caused me to discover a damned electronic nanny on my motorbike. Not even la aquila d’ Mandello is immune to the ruthless onslaught of modernity. You cannot set your clock on a V7 III while the engine is running. On a cross-country run, when you have nothing better to stare at than the clock, that is particularly infuriating. Congress should really make that a legal mandate. If drivers get to text while they drive, we should get to fiddle with our clocks.
Pulling into Nashville presented me with a challenge—a deep gravel parking lot. While a deep gravel lot means slow going for car drivers, turning becomes a tense coaxing on a motorcycle with road tires to ensure your wheels don’t slide out from underneath you.
It also means that setting your bike on a kickstand comes with a risk. On any soft ground, a kickstand can easily sink into the earth. If you’re lucky, your bike’s shiny gas tank has an unscheduled encounter with terra firma. If you’re unlucky, it means embarrassment—a fate worse than death. After riding around the parking lot like a wheeled centaur in search of a scrap of wood, I found something to put under my sidestand.
Nashville, your hot chicken is h-o-t HOT. I thought an upbringing surrounded by authentic Mexican cuisine would have prepared me for a medium-heat order. I was so wrong. Tears streamed down my face as I sat in a gas station parking lot, trying to eat every delicious morsel I had bought from the roadside hut.
I managed to put down all the bird I had ordered, but was simply too exhausted to stomach the delicious fried okra—more’s the pity. Although I do think that it is important to dunk your head in local culture wherever you go, I am a sucker for tiki bars, and I found myself at one for the night. Don’t ask me what I ordered; I blissfully don’t remember.
I woke up in Nashville early with an upset stomach. Evidently, the hot chicken had gotten to me. After settling myself and trying to grab a few more winks of sleep, my departure to Atlanta was further delayed by rain.
Rain is the enemy of the motorcyclist. It lowers your ability to control the bike, gets you wet, and the drops can hurt at speed. My natural Californian instincts kicked in, forcing me back to sleep in a vain attempt to dream the rain away. I finally left Nashville just before 11 in the middle of a shower, yuck.
I resolved to make my first meal of the day lunch in Shelbyville, a town in Tennessee of about 20,000. Along the way, I noticed the system I had rigged up for charging my phone was beginning to malfunction, no doubt due to the evil wet droplets coming from the sky.
About 15 miles outside of Nashville, things began to take a turn for the nasty. The screen on my phone went black. I pulled over to blow on the magic box and slap it in some vain attempt to coax life out of it. I knew that only the screen had failed because I still had music streaming from my phone into my helmet (Carol King’s Tapestry is a good rain album). This was also how I heard the words “911. Do you need help?” coming from my phone.
As best I can tell, my vain button mashing caused the phone to dial 9-1-1 and hang up—A classic no-no. The operator’s voice I was hearing now was the post-hang-up check-in. What my now-rogue phone didn’t tell me was that it had put the operators in touch with my emergency contacts, my parents, who were beginning to assume the worst.
As I was sitting in the shade of an abandoned gas station fiddling with the magic box, I got another call, this one from my father asking if I was okay. After that, he passed the phone to my mother, who was extremely happy (not) to have been told by a 911 operator that her child was in distress outside of Nashville. The joys of motorcycling.
By some miracle, Siri was working and just awake enough to clue me into a phone repair shop. Luckily, the town name was on the highway signs, so it was easy enough for me to get there without assistance. I checked in and waited in my wet gear—internal liners are great until you stop moving—while everything got sorted out with the magic box.
Phone, fixed. Stomach, empty. Brain, tired. How tired? Tired enough that the grill man at the Waffle House down the street told me they were closed, and I believed him.
I was mentally exhausted. I had finally managed to eat breakfast at 2 p.m. and needed to stare down a hard truth—I was not going to make it to Atlanta that day. In fact, I barely made it 40 miles out of Nashville. I shelved the day’s riding and pulled into a crappy interstate-side motel with bulletproof glass in the lobby—welcoming. The final insult was that I was not able to ride my Goose into the room for safekeeping. While this was hardly necessary, I had been looking forward to taking advantage of that opportunity at some point on my adventure.
Things do not always go the way we want them to, especially when motorcycle touring. I am a firm believer that part of the charm of moto travel is all of the room that it leaves for things to go wrong. If you want to feel the wind on the Interstate, but still know that you’re getting to your destination on time, Mazda has a lovely little car they can sell you. For the rest of us, there are motorcycles.
The unenlightened are always so shocked to find out what happens on a bike when it rains—you get wet. On a motorcycle, you are exposed to the sun, the wind, and the rain. Even the little stones on the road, which are easily dulled out by the sound deadening in your mom’s Toyota, sting a little bit when they hit your exposed knees on a bike. You need to pack carefully, considering the importance of each item in your limited space, and plot out where things go for access and weight distribution.
Overall, a rider is vulnerable. That is what makes motorcycle touring so interesting. You are uniquely exposed to everything.
Enough waxing poetic on bikes, Pirsig already did enough in his unreadable treatise on the subject. Atlanta was to arrive the next day. I made a brief stop in the sprawling (not) metropolis (also not) of South Pittsburg, Tennessee.
Lodge Cast Iron has its own cookware factory and, more importantly, a factory seconds store in this pleasant little town. My detour was mostly me pondering the pros and cons of ratchet strapping a 12-pound cast-iron wok to the rear of my moto for the rest of the trip. I made a temporary concession to sanity and elected to leave my find for the next person.
Lunch that day happened in what was easily the most charming town on my trip—Chattanooga. There is nothing I can say here better or more completely that has not been written up elsewhere on the internet. Go, if you are able.
Two nights in Atlanta with a friend was a welcome break from some difficult adventuring. Atlanta is a lovely city, but it’s just not for me. After two days of walking The Beltline and drinking heavily, it was time to move on.
Hotlanta gave me a good send-off. On my way out, I was able to witness a real Southern sideshow! People on dirt bikes had blocked off a busy intersection so their friends could do donuts and pop wheelies in peace. While the legal motorists stuck on their evening commutes likely did not appreciate the routine, I was certainly enjoying the brash show of chaos.
I was rapidly approaching the finish line in Maryland; this meant I had the luxury of spending more time with people than I originally had planned. Another two-day stop with a buddy in Mooresville, North Carolina.
When you spend enough time on the Interstate, you begin to appreciate a good rest stop. While Love’s and Buc-ee’s are fantastic, there is something to be said for the scenic public rest stops that dot our interstates.
South Carolina had the loveliest little rest stop. It was Memorial Day, and it was packed with people not simply resting, but at their destination! They had come to this break in the forest at the side of the Interstate abutting a placid lake with benches and beauty. I never thought I would see a rest stop with people fishing.
Although owned by the sizeable Piaggio Group, Moto Guzzi is a small company, to put it lightly. If they build 10,000 bikes in a year, they will be celebrating a watershed year of good production. If Honda builds that few motorcycles in a shift, someone is getting fired.
Guzzisti, as we Guzzi riders refer to ourselves, not so jokingly call any conversation with another Guzzi rider a State Rally. I was lucky enough to participate in two such Rallies on my trip.
The first was my overnight stay in Raleigh. I had posted my trip to an internet Guzzi forum and received a private message from a stranger on the internet opening his home to me if I ever got out his way. Naturally, I said yes. I figured that if someone was going to abduct and sell a wayward motorcyclist, they were probably going to do it in a Honda forum since there are so many more riders. You meet the nicest people on a Guzzi.
We had a lovely time talking bikes, technology, politics, and humor. I learned there are few greater pleasures than taking a dip in a hot tub after a long day of riding. I also learned that there is no pleasure more foolish than having a beer in a hot tub after a long day of riding. Beer still firmly inside me, I took a turn for the horizontal and slept like a dead rock.
I woke up to rain, my sworn enemy. Geared up, I bid my fellow Guzzisto goodbye and headed north to Maryland.
This was it, the final stretch. The reason why I had left home. I was excited—excited to make it to the coast, excited to sit still for a few days, excited for the wedding, but mostly excited to see my family. A rather smooth day was in store for me, despite the rain. I had lost two of my three luggage rain covers to the wind, luckily late enough in the day that it did not matter too much.
As I pulled into Deale, Maryland, and cast my eyes on my family, an overwhelming sense of ease washed over me. As I hit the kill switch for the last time that day, I had hit the first big stop of this trip. The Moto Guzzi V7 III Special was going to sit for a while and grow some cobwebs. My boots would get a much-needed airing out. Maybe just maybe, my hands would stop vibrating.
Three days later, my cousin was wed, and I found myself donning my ever-familiar Rev’It Sand 3 everything—jacket, pants, and gloves—for what would be a string of hot and humid Northeast days.
Riding in the heat on a bike is strange. I find it not nearly as unpleasant as people say it is. There are a few important caveats to that statement:
- The humidity has to be lower than 100 percent. I don’t need bone-dry weather, but just give me somewhere for the sweat on my skin to evaporate.
- Ya gotta be moving. Doesn’t have to be much; anything above 30 will do it.
- Ventilated gear is a must. This is huge, as the ability to move hot air out of your jacket drastically improves your comfort.
The ride to Philly broke all three rules. I had a saturated atmosphere, stop-and-go traffic through Baltimore, and cicadas. What’s a cicada, you ask? Cicadas are small brown insects, not unlike a cockroach with wings. They hide underground for years at a time, then come out all at once for a summer of lovin’ fun. There were so many that I had to keep my faceshield shut to ensure I didn’t eat any.
I parked the Guzzi in Philly for a few days and spent some time with my friends. After about a week or two of ping-ponging around The City of Brotherly Love and the surrounding area, I started north again.
As my bags were failing me, I took the downtime to upgrade to a set of Hepco & Becker Xtravel bags—much coin, and much worth. Lesson learned, do not bother with universal-fit gear on a long trip. Just the ability to lock the bags to my existing saddlebag racks justified the spend. Add in the additional space and simpler waterproofing, and I was in love. The new bag excitement was tempered by crossing The Holland Tunnel on an air-cooled motorcycle during a heat wave. Crispy.
Riding in The Big Apple is odd. Every city has local driving characteristics that you need to get accustomed to. In Los Angeles, you drive without turn signals and in a manner that they should not be needed. In Memphis, you drive as though you are aiming for a high score in the video game Crazy Taxi.
In New York, I saw lots of box trucks and bicycles moving about, but not many motorcycles. This made it harder to ascertain the character of the locals. Those I did see seemed to be splitting lanes, riding on sidewalks, and generally making their own way to get from point A to point B. I took the hint—splitting is not legal in New York, but it is welcome.
I made my way east. I had a party in Amagansett to get to, and I’d be damned if I wasn’t going to take advantage of an invitation to lodge in The Hamptons. As I got farther out on Long Island, the urban heat islands faded away, and I got more and more of that cool Atlantic air. It was becoming almost comfortable, a luxury in moto touring.
I roosted my Goose in a small garden shed on the property, which made me the only person with covered parking for their vehicle. In a bid to shed some excess stuff, I took the day to ship some unneeded items back to my parents’ house. Simplify and add lightness.
After a few days in The Hamptons, it was time to head north to Boston. From there, I was to head west.
I took my Moto Guzzi V7 III Special on a ferry to Rhode Island, a unique experience, and saved myself a ride through NYC. The time on the ocean heading to New London from Orient Point was cool and tricked me into thinking I would get a break from the Northeast heat wave. I clocked 97 on my bike’s thermometer going through Rhode Island. The heat sapped so much of my energy that I popped into a rest stop for a much-needed siesta.
Now is as good a time as any to talk about how I dealt with the weather on the way. Every night before I went to bed, I checked the NWS Forecast Office webpage for the area I would be in the next day. That would keep me abreast of storms, heat, cold, smoke, and anything major to note.
When I woke up and was en route, I used Weather On The Way, an incredible little app. All I had to do was enter my destination, and it would compute the weather along the route, so I knew of any wind, rain, and other things to be aware of. The Doppler radar feature was killer, though it led me to make a poor judgment call.
The first soaking of the day was pleasant, and I was thankful for it. It quickly brought temperatures down to palatable levels and drenched me to the point that I was cool for some time. I wasn’t even uncomfortable. My only complaint was that I could not get the dead mosquito off my faceshield.
The second drenching was less fun. On a weather check while underway, I noted a severe thunderstorm watch on my route. I looked at the scary blob of clouds on my smartphone, and decided that I had found a course that would allow me to out-maneuver it.
Luckily, I noticed a sawmill along the way that I could turn back to when Mother Nature reminded me that she is indeed smarter. I rode in, soaking wet and in a downpour, and asked permission to wait it out in their covered storage. I was allowed in and sat, watching the water fall.
Although it was only a short storm, in that time, I had gotten my socks wet, my underwear wet, and my gloves so soaked that the black dye from them leached into my fingers. A young man working at the mill struck up a conversation with me as he ended his shift. He was shocked that I was coming across the country on such a machine. In moments like that, so was I.
When I left Columbus, the thought of maintenance started to intrude upon my mind. In a trip this long, it would have to happen sometime. For me, that meant somewhere in the Rust Belt or Midwest around the Fourth of July. This was not convenient. Guzzis need their valves done every 6000 miles. That means the service needs to start with a cold bike.
The dealers I called in the area were perfectly happy to take my Moto Guzzi V7 III Special in on Saturday and return it to me on Tuesday. Yuck. I started calling my contacts in the area, and by a stroke of luck, an old wrenching buddy was going to be in Grand Haven, Michigan, with his family for Independence Day. I had a driveway, an assistant, and good local connections.
On the to-do list were valves, engine oil, rear drive oil, and tires. I ordered the gaskets and filters online from a dealer in Texas. Because the goodies had to go two-day air to make it in time, I would have to source my oil and tires locally.
In a concession to luxury, I opted to find a shop that would take my wheels off for me. On a chain-drive motorcycle, this is no problem. On a shaftie, as all Guzzis are, the process is involved. A few miles out of town, I found a friendly local shop to order my tires. The juices blissfully were easy to get locally. Who knew 10W-60 automobile motor oil and 85W-140 gear oil would be available. Because the Goose uses a dry clutch, it uses commonly available motor oil.
The servicing was simple enough. I had done everything before, so I knew the ins and outs. I also had the foresight to equip the V7 III with a centerstand when I bought it. That made the going heaps easier.
With fresh oil, tight valves, and new spark plugs, I set off to the tire shop to get the rubber on. After calling ahead to confirm my shoes had arrived, I came into bad news. The mechanic had elected to extend his Fourth of July fishing trip. Good for him; I hope he caught the biggest one anyone had ever seen.
That left the old man and his wife in the shop. The old man said he would go to lunch with some motorcycle greybeards and plead my case. I planned to sleep in Chicago that night and needed some luck to pull it off. I simply had not bought the tools to remove my wheels.
On the way back to my friend’s house, I came upon what would become my second Guzzi State Rally of the trip. I saw a beautiful black Eldorado parked in a driveway just off the main street.
I knocked on the stranger’s door, and his wife brought him out. I explained my situation to him, and before I could ask to be pointed in the direction of a sympathetic shop, he told me that we would pull my wheels off in his driveway. I hopped in his car, and we went to his storage unit to retrieve the pit stand holding his other Goose—an Ambassador. Along the way, I got stories of his time in the commercial furniture business, street racing, wrenching, and autocross. Guzzi people are never boring.
I called the friend I was staying with over to this man’s house with the new plan. We are all set to work. Four pairs of hands pushed it forward off the center stand without wheels. Four pairs of hands made righting the wheel-less bike easy work.
After getting the wheels and tires off to yet another tire shop to get the tires changed, I was finally back on the road. A cool and relatively short day followed. I pulled into the suburbs of Chicago just before nightfall, in time for a slice of deep dish. I don’t care if John Stewart says it’s a casserole. The thing is absolutely decadent.
There is nothing wrong with the Midwest or Plains, but the next five days blended into a single blurry haze that repeated. Wake up, ride 300 miles in a straight line through corn fields, sleep. It made me understand why their car culture is all about mud and going fast in straight lines. That’s about all there is to do.
When I got to Montana, I finally began to feel as though things were wrapping up. Two major things happened here—the flora and fauna began to take a decidedly Western character, and everywhere I looked reminded me of the mountains around my Santa Barbara home. This definitely sped up my travels. I also set my clock for the last time. Something about being in Pacific Time made me feel like I was nearing the end.
The miles ticked on and my beard lengthened. I began to hit large forest fires in central Washington, which impeded my progress. I was popping into rural gas stations, trying to buy an N95 mask for the ash. No such luck. I was stuck enjoying the smell of burning brush for miles and miles.
Seattle was luckily far enough out that I could breathe easy before pointing my Moto Guzzi V7 III Special in the final cardinal direction—south. Now, I was truly starting to feel like I was getting close. Washington melted into Oregon oh so quickly.
Seattle, Lebanon, Medford, Berkeley, Santa Cruz, and Santa Barbara—I felt like some greater force was pushing me home. Two months on the road had been fun, though I was due to be stationary for a while. I arrived feeling content and accomplished.
While this story was not short, it only scratches the surface of what I did and the people I saw along the way. I wish I could thank everyone who put me up and put up with me individually here, but I cannot. If you would like to get a more complete sense of my adventures, my daily blog from the trip is still up at XC 1X2 and will remain so until Google decides I am not worth its time.
This cross-country ride is one of the coolest things I have ever done. I am so grateful for the opportunity and enjoyed the experience thoroughly. It understandably shocks people when I tell them I would never do it again.
For whatever reason, I particularly enjoy doing things for the first time. I love music, and every year Spotify tells me my most listened-to song has only a dozen spins. I love to read, and my shelf is full of books I have read once and only once. I love to cook, but I seldom make a dish twice. Motorcycling is just one way that I seek to conquer the unknown and push my boundaries. I am excited to find out what my nex
